Chapter VII: The Unemployed

Mrs. Lowther’s remark was not without foundation. The Earl, despite the fact that he was patron of more than one living in the country, had severed his connection with the Established Church some years ago, and now professed no religion, save that of Agnosticism. His son—a youth at Sandhurst—followed in his wake, talked grandiosely of the First Cause, and pinned his faith on Huxley. Patricia saved the reputation of the family—in the eyes of her father’s tenants, at least—by attending the Parish Church regularly when she was in the country; but as Patricia’s religion had never been properly moulded, it was liable to variation. Her first finishing governess being a Roman Catholic, her youthful mind had been filled with the mystic saint-lore of the Roman Church, and she fell deeply in love with St. Patrick, her patron saint. As Patricia had always been deeply in love with somebody or other since the days of her swaddling clothes, however, her father was not greatly concerned, and expressed no surprise when she told him one morning that she found Mariolatry and Saintolatry detestable, and asked to have the Roman Catholic governess sent away. Good St. Patrick was dislodged from the little niche she had accorded him, his image was shattered into a hundred pieces, and Patricia was heart-whole once more. The next phase through which she passed was that of admiration for Comte and Swedenborg, but as the ethics of both were beyond her comprehension, she was little influenced by either. From Positivism she found her way into Unitarianism, and with her usual craving for some great teacher whom she delighted to honour, she made Ralph Waldo Emerson—or rather his writings—her oracle. It was somewhat curious that Patricia’s religion always concentrated itself around some _person_, yet she did not seek to render her homage to a personal God. Her only experience of Christianity other than Romanism was the stern Evangelicism of her old nurse, and this creed, with its narrow interpretations and material heaven, she found equally as repellent as the former. Although not lacking in spiritual perception, she had not yet rightly understood the divine personality of the Incarnate Deity; she admired Christ, it is true, but in the same way she admired Gautama—the founder of Buddhism—and Confucius. To her, the heaven of the Christian and the Nirvana of the Buddhist were almost synonymous terms; and the gospel of right living the only one that was necessary. So that when her lover suggested with much diffidence that she should become a member of his own faith, she did not meet his proposal with the firm refusal he had anticipated.

They were sitting under the trees in one of the quietest spots in Kensington Gardens, glad to escape for the moment from the din and roar of the traffic. Although late autumn, the air was mild and dry, and Patricia allowed her sables to fall from her shoulders and to rest on the back of the chair. She listened to her lover’s words with animation in her face, and wonder in her eyes; she could not make an immediate reply.

“The idea is so curious, so difficult to grasp,” she said, when he had finished. “Judaism seems so formidable to the uninitiated. I am afraid I should break the laws a hundred times a day.”

“I do not think you would. Judaism does not demand so much from a woman as from a man. All a Jewess has to do is to see that her mènage is ordered in accordance with Jewish law, and to bring up her children in the Jewish faith. More will not be expected of you than that; and as we can have a Jewish housekeeper, you need not be worried with the details of the dietary and other laws.”

“But what of my own personal religion?”

“As long as you keep to Theism—the absolute Unity—you can believe what you please,” Montella replied. “So you see your Judaism need not be so difficult after all.”

Patricia’s eyes waxed thoughtful.

“You must give me a few days to think it over,” she said, after a short pause. “You are not in a hurry, dear?”

“Not at all. I promised the mater I would ask you. She is such an enthusiastic Jewess.”

“Yes; I admire her for it. It is a wonder she does not live in the Holy Land.”

Lionel smiled.

“I really believe she would, if Palestine were a Jewish country,” he replied. “She cherishes a grudge against the Sultan for shilly-shallying over the affair all these years. She is, like myself, an ardent Zionist.”

They rose from their chairs, and made their way towards the Albert Gate. Patricia was unusually vivacious, and giving a truce to serious subjects, chatted in lighter vein. When they reached the main road, however, they were abruptly silenced. The smile faded from the young Member’s face, and the girl looked on with equal gravity.

The traffic was being stopped by a procession—a procession characterised by sordidness, for those who took part constituted the great body of the unemployed in the metropolis. Four abreast they walked, dirty, unkempt men, with ragged clothes and emaciated faces. They had turned out in hundreds, organised presumably by a trade-union, in order to enlist the sympathy of a good-natured public. Here and there banners were displayed, bearing the legend:—“_Unemployed and starving_”; “_British workmen thrown out by aliens_”; “_Employ British labour_”; “_Boycott alien labour_”; “_Boycott foreign Jews_,” and other numerous inscriptions. Along the route, which was guarded by the police, men were collecting money from the passers-by. It was indeed a sight to move the most phlegmatic.

Patricia almost involuntarily tightened her grasp on her lover’s arm. A more depraved-looking set of human beings she had never seen. Some, it is true, were stalwart Britons, or had been before the starvation process had set in; but the majority of them were unable to hold themselves erect from sheer weakness, and the dogged expression of misery was on all faces alike. The expression haunted the girl for weeks; it suggested to her naught else but the faces of lost spirits in Hades. She turned away with a shudder.

“Terrible!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “It makes me feel quite ill.”

“Do not look, dear,” Montella advised, with solicitude. “Such sights are not for you.”

“Oh, but I must look.” She turned back again. “One cannot shirk such a grim reality. I knew that while we were living in luxury there existed thousands who had not the bare necessities of life, but I have never had the fact pressed home so forcibly before. I feel as if I had no right to wear these expensive sables—which I could so easily do without—when these poor creatures have nothing to eat. The look in their eyes condemns me. Cannot we do something to help them, Lionel? Surely there must be something terribly wrong somewhere, or else we should never see such a degrading sight as this.”

She unfastened the magnificent diamond brooch she wore beneath her jacket, and impulsively cast it into the collecting-box; her tiny gold purse with its contents followed suit. Her lover, even if he thought her proceeding rash, did not remonstrate; he too divested himself of all the gold in his possession.

“The condition of these people is not exactly the fault of the Government,” he replied thoughtfully, as they moved on towards Knightsbridge. “It is always disastrous to trade when the supply exceeds the demand. It makes labour so cheap that the men cannot ask more than a starvation wage.”

“But what is the reason?” she asked, with eagerness. “It seems almost incredible that all these hundreds should be thrown out of employment.”

“Have you not noticed the banners?” he returned. “‘Alien labour’—that is at the root of their distress. It is hateful to me to have to acknowledge it—nevertheless the fact remains that the influx of pauper Jews from the Continent has been enormous during the past few years. Athelstan Moore once introduced a Bill in Parliament for the suppression of alien immigration; but there was some flaw in it, and it was thrown out.”

“Did you vote for or against?”

“Against. You see, whatever my private opinion may be, I am tied down in this matter. I cannot vote against my own people, especially when I am told that owing to the persecution abroad they come here to try and regain their self-respect, and to develop into worthy British subjects.”

“And what is your private opinion?”

“That when they do develop into worthy British subjects, the result is satisfactory, but when they persist in being clannish and in refusing to conform to the exigencies of modern civilisation, they are a clog on the wheel of national progress. I do not consider it politic on the part of our country to continue to receive them in such great numbers. The consequence you have just seen.”

Patricia was silent for a moment, but she was not yet satisfied.

“Why do the employers prefer to engage foreigners to work for them?” she asked, after a short pause.

“Because the pauper aliens require less wages. They are so anxious to get work of some kind that they will accept the lowest wage possible; and they can live on next to nothing. Then when they have learnt their respective trades, they become sweaters on their own account. The whole system is most deplorable.”

“And the legitimate British workman goes to the wall?”

“Yes.”

“It is a great shame.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “And yet where would the poor Jews go if they are expelled from the Continent and we forbid them to come here? They must go somewhere.”

“Ah, that is the great question.” He sighed. “If America closes her doors to them as South Africa has done, there seems to be only Australia left, and in Australia their company will be as little desired as it is here.”

“It reminds me of the Wandering Jew—the one who insulted the Christ when He was on the way to His crucifixion, and was condemned to live and wander through the ages until the Day of Judgment,” the girl said musingly. “Only in this case the wandering Jew has been multiplied into a whole horde of wandering Jews. Do you think there is any truth in the legend, Lionel?”

Her lover smiled.

“I do not know, dear,” he replied. “I dare say it is the same as other legends—a tenth part of truth, and nine-tenths superstition.”

“Yes, but it is a very fascinating legend. Do you know, Lionel, the condition of the Jews in modern days has always been to me one of the strongest arguments in favour of Christianity. It is such an exact fulfilment of prophecy. I wonder if they will ever fulfil the other part of the prophecy and eventually make Palestine their home?”

“If the Zionists have anything to do with it they will; but it is scarcely likely to happen in our time. What an interest you take in Jewish affairs, Patricia! You might be a Jewess yourself.”

The girl smiled, knowing that her interest was only on her lover’s account, and that had he not been a Jew, that interest would never have been aroused. Truth to tell, Mrs. Lowther and Lady Chesterwood were frightfully bored by what they termed Patricia’s Jewish hobby. The Countess had forbidden the subject to be mentioned in her presence.

She was there waiting for them when they arrived at Earl Torrens’ mansion, and received them with a sigh of relief. Ten minutes of the Earl’s society was to her an amplitude, and she had listened to his dissertation on the triumph of colour photography for twenty minutes by the clock. Perhaps the Earl was equally glad to be released from his arduous duty; for he retired as soon as the lovers made their appearance. Lionel, having an appointment elsewhere was obliged to take his departure; so, promising to look in again later, he left the ladies to themselves.

“Mrs. Lowther is out,” Patricia remarked, as she took off her things, and rang for her maid. “Will you stay to lunch?”

“I should like to very much. I made up my mind to do so directly your respected father informed me that the she-dragon was off duty. I really cannot understand how you can tolerate her, Pat.”

“Mrs. Lowther? Oh, she is a well-meaning soul; a little trying sometimes, I must admit, but I do not see much of her just now. I go out a great deal, you know. Lionel is a most attentive lover.”

“But I thought you told me you were obliged to be very quiet on account of his mourning?”

“Yes; we do not attend any society functions unless they are political; but we go for long walks and drives together, and we spend a good deal of our time with Lady Montella, who is one of the sweetest women in the world.”

The Countess regarded her contemplatively.

“So you are in love, and flourishing,” she observed, with a smile. “Well, I am very glad. Long may it last. Presently I may tell you my news; but it is such a great secret that I hardly know if I am justified in trusting you.”

Patricia looked up with curiosity.

“Which means that you will tell me, nevertheless,” she rejoined. “What is it, Mamie? Something new?”

The little Countess nodded.

“Something very new; but I am not going to divulge until after lunch. I am too hungry to talk secrets.”

Lunch was a somewhat dreary affair. The Earl seemed to consider it his duty to lead the conversation; and as he was a peculiarly absent-minded man, his efforts were not entirely successful. The Countess, having started her host on the subject of one of his hobbies, confined her attention to her favourite mayonnaise, whilst Patricia, like a dutiful daughter, supplemented her father’s disquisitions by the most intelligent questions she could muster. When it was over, the ladies adjourned to Patricia’s boudoir, which was the cosiest room in the house. It was decorated in the style of the Renaissance, and the few pictures on the walls were of the choicest. Patricia loved to surround herself with pretty things but she also possessed a leaning towards the antique. There was on her little table—itself of ancient origin—a gold snuff-box, which belonged originally to George I.; an old Roman coin, said to be one of the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas Iscariot sold our Lord; the quill pen with which the sentence of Lady Jane Grey was signed; and various other articles of vertu. There was also a small oaken prie-dieu, with the inscription which St. Paul found at Athens displayed above it: “_To the Unknown God_”; and there was an exquisite marble bust of the late Countess Torrens, Patricia’s mother. There were _editions de luxe_ of the works of Patricia’s favourite poets, and as many photographs of the said poets as could be obtained. In the bow window, which overlooked the square, an old-fashioned harpsichord was placed; here Lady Chesterwood seated herself, and began to play.

The tone of the instrument was mellow, but the fingers of the Countess were stiff. Pianoforte-playing had quite gone out of fashion, for the mechanisms for automatic pianoforte-playing—by means of an attachment to the instrument—were so perfect and in such general use that it was really a waste of energy for a person to manipulate the keys in the old way. This ancient harpsichord, however, was spared the indignity of a mechanical addition. Patricia was too deeply imbued with the sense of the fitness of things to have allowed it, even had it been possible.

“Have you given up wearing a brooch, or have you lost it, Pat?” Lady Chesterwood asked suddenly. She was watching her all the time she played.

Patricia involuntarily put up her hand to her collar.

“Neither,” she answered promptly. “I have given it away.”

“Given it away? You foolish girl!” The Countess ceased playing, whilst a look of astonishment crossed her face. “You don’t mean to say it was the diamond spray you always wear?”

“Yes; the one father gave me after I was ill two years ago. I gave it to the Unemployed.”

“Patricia! Are you mad? Please explain yourself.”

Patricia blushed. “There is not much to explain,” she rejoined. “Lionel and I happened to come across the procession of the Unemployed—perhaps you have seen it yourself? Yes? Then you know how it makes one’s blood run cold to see the misery on their faces. I had only a little money to put in the collecting-box, so I gave my brooch. If they can sell it, it will do them more good than myself.”

“Preposterous!” the Countess exclaimed. “Why, it was worth at least two hundred pounds.”

“So much the better; even if they get only a hundred, it will go towards buying bread. And I shall not even miss it—I have so many trinkets.”

Her cousin shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, I won’t say any more,” she said. “You always were one of the most absurdly quixotic creatures of my acquaintance. I should not be at all surprised if you ended by beggaring yourself.”

“In that case, I shall appeal to you for assistance,” Patricia answered, with a smile. “But do not let us talk about myself. Tell me your great secret, Mamie.”

“Presently. There is plenty of time.”

Patricia glanced at her with curiosity.

“You are making a great mystery of it,” she remarked. “Whom does it concern?”

Lady Chesterwood’s fingers pressed the keys once more. There was a peculiar expression on her face, and a new gleam seemed to come into her eyes. She was a pretty woman, and possessed the indefinable charm which generally associates itself with young widows. She turned round slowly on the music-stool, and faced Patricia with a glance which almost betrayed a touch of defiance.

“The secret concerns myself and a man,” she replied slowly. “A great man.”