Читать книгу A Daughter Of Israel - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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Though Speedwell's exhortation to silence was conceived in best intent, it proved to be of no avail. And as he lay through the night, watching the pallid stars fade from the infinite scroll of heaven, till morn came up from the east, like the outstretched wings of a bird, and the mast needles 'gan to line the morning mists, he travelled in imagination the old weary journey. The Jewish blood ran in his veins. That was the barrier between him and the Christian race. Moreover, Abraham's words had made a deep impression upon him. He, too, felt the mysterious tie of consanguinity which binds the chosen people together. And his mother had received the greatest wrong of all from a Gentile. Henceforth he was a Jew.

Idle Westport, standing out of doors in the morning sun—listless, sullen, discontented, with brooding hate lurking in every hollow eye and haggard cheek—heard the news. Some had gathered round the police court, that magnetic focus of attraction for the unemployed, deriving some scant comfort, as Rochefoucauld says, from the contemplation of other's misfortunes. Presently, passing through the idlers to the Magistrate's room, came Sir Percival Decie. Haughty and listless; clean, spotless, immaculate; as different to the common clay as man could be—and as he passed a murmur ran round, for the county magnate was far from popular; a common thing for a country gentleman who has a profound contempt for the masses and a passion for preserving game. A deadly foe of poachers, therefore.

There was not much business upon the paper, Presently Saul Abraham was placed in the dock. Calmly he looked round the rugged assembly, then fixed his glittering eyes upon the chairman, with a glance of bitterest hate and enmity.

"I merely ask for a remand, your worship," said the chief of police, after the preliminaries had been gone through. "The prisoner is arrested on suspicion of being one Saul Abrahams, who has been missing from Portland Gaol for the past few weeks."

Sir Percival looked at the prisoner through his gold-rimmed spectacles. The name seemed to strike him in some vague way as a familiar one. But he folded his white hands judicially, waiting for the witness to continue.

In the background Miriam and Speedwell stood together. The lad was watching the proceedings with languid interest, like one who has witnessed kindred sights before. Miriam remained quietly by, her face pale as marble, though no sign of inward emotion escaped her; it was too terribly real; so hideously patent for anything but dumb fascination.

The prisoner there was her father—that rugged, haunted-looking wretch, with the wild eyes and dark, evil face. Once he turned towards her with a scowl, their eyes meeting. In spite of her natural courage, her limbs trembled, and she sank back into the listless, patient crowd.

"What will they do with him?" she whispered, at length.

Speedwell turned to her, striving to recollect the small amount of criminal lore, most of which he had learnt by experience, but any answer of his was rendered unnecessary. Abrahams spoke for himself. The charge had been read over to him. The angry multitude waited in dreary anticipation for him to speak.

"No use denying it," he said; "I am the man, Sir Percival Decie." He folded his arms, looking defiantly before him. "You ought to know me."

Sir Percival looked over his gold spectacles in haughty amazement. For a moment the sheer audacity of the words amazed him.

"Don't you know me?" he screamed in a passion of despair. "Don't you know the man you persecuted? Saul Abraham, the thief, the gaol-bird, the man who robbed you."

The indifferent audience were aroused now. An electric thrill seemed to go through them, as they bent together, whispering to one another. Scarcely had they time to bring recollection to bear, for most of them remembered the convict now, before he had disappeared from the dock. Sir Percival, red and hot, was smoothing his ruffled dignity by a liberal use of handkerchief, and wearing his severest judicial aspect. To his mind the majesty of the law had been most grossly outraged.

Miriam fought her way through the throng, her eyes glittering, her face aflame. She heard nothing of the jeers and mocking laughs which followed her. So fast did she go that Speedwell, struggling behind, was barely emerging from the court before she was half way down the street. With a few rapid strides he was by her side.

"Don't take on!" he whispered. "Don't let them see you feel it!" There was something stirring his pulses—a reckless courage which cast out fear. "Try and smile, Miriam! You cowardly wretches!"

But had the whole world been laid at Miriam's feet she could not have uttered a single word. Shame and indignation choked her; the reckless laughter of the crowd sounded in her ears like a horrid nightmare. To the spectators in their misery it was good to see a fellow-creature in distress, and a new zest was added to their sport by the fact of her being one of the hated Jews. But, reckless as they were, there was something in her manner which protected her from bodily hurt.

"I can't understand it!" she gasped, at length. "How—how do they know——"

"That he is your father? Easily enough. Many of them remember now who had forgotten; besides, disgrace travels quickly. What is that?"

The crowd became more dense, there was a tramp of heavy footsteps, and suddenly Miriam and her champion found themselves forgotten. The girl began to recover herself, and, looking round, saw that Sir Percival Decie himself standing by her side, holding a boy by the hand. His face had lost its judicial severity; he looked somewhat anxious, and glanced uneasily at the lad by his side.

Miriam drew herself away, as if afraid of contact with some unclean thing. But Sir Percival did not notice this, for his glance was riveted on the procession coming along the street.

First came some score of workmen walking in military order, and carrying stout sticks gaily decorated with ribbons; then followed a cart, and seated therein were four men, evidently conscious of their own celebrity, for they assumed a ludicrous air of importance, which ill-accorded with their grimy garments and coarse, repulsive countenances.

They were drawn along amidst cheers and tumult, which waxed hotter as the crowd passed along, gathering like a snowball. Miriam turned a white, scared face to Sir Percival, who was pale as herself.

"What is it?" Speedwell asked, listlessly. "Fortunate for us, anyway."

"Poachers!" Miriam whispered. "Ah! I forgot you can't understand. These men were sentenced to four months' imprisonment for poaching on Sir Percival Decie's land. The hands made a great deal of it at the time, for it seems some of them were starving. They will kill him if they see him."

Speedwell glanced at the Baronet in his turn, feeling a perfect callousness as to his fate.

"It will do him good to be hustled about a bit," he said. "I suppose he has feelings like us common people."

"You don't know what you are saying," cried Miriam. "You don't know these men—I do. Oh, pray that they do not see him!"

As if in answer to this outspoken prayer, a hoarse murmur suddenly shot up to the silent sky, like the roar of surf upon a rock-bound shore. Like the waves thereon, the multitude swayed and broke, as they surged towards Sir Percival and his youthful companion. The sense of wrong and misery had fired their blood like wine; they were mad for vengeance now, mad and ruthless as the mob which bore Louis Capet to the scaffold.

Sir Percival's hat had fallen off in the first rush, so he stood facing his wild antagonists bareheaded, his gray hair shining in the bright sunlight. He had stepped back against a high factory wall, and almost unconsciously Miriam and Speedwell had retreated with him. Then they seemed to feel, as the mob felt, that there was a common cause between them.

He is a bold man who in the broad light of day first sets hands upon a fellow creature. There was a certain hesitation now, an ominous lull in the tumult, each waiting for the other to lead the attack. The little group were pale and breathless, but they were not afraid. Perhaps it was this and Sir Percival's haughty look which tamed the fiery passions for awhile. Then someone in the crowd threw a stone, which struck Miriam on the lip and cut the tender flesh, leaving a red stain trickling down her chin.

She scarcely seemed to feel the pain. The blood running in her veins was the life's fluid of a race inured to insult and pain. She took the stone in her hand and cast it back into the crowd with all the strength of her firm right arm. A roar went up again, not wholly anger, for the action was a superbly disdainful one, and commanded admiration. Then almost before the mob could recover, a huge door was opened in the wall, and, as if by magic, their victims disappeared from their gaze.

It was to Speedwell's nimble wit that they owed their safety. While they had been facing the mob he had been casting about for some means of escape. He had climbed to the top of the wall, and, to his delight found they were only a few yards from the folding doors, bolted now since the factory was closed. To slip down and draw the bolts, leaving the door to be pushed open, was the work of a moment, and almost before he was missed he was back again. Inch by inch he had edged the little party, till they stood against the door. Suddenly pushing it back, he quickly got them through. When the mob rushed for the door it was fast as bolts and bars could bind it.

It was a large factory-yard they found themselves in, silent as the grave, save for the murmurs from behind the wall. Sir Percival turned to his companions with unruffled dignity.

"I have to thank you," he said. "Had it not been for your ready wit I might have been seriously discomposed."

"There is no time to lose!" Miriam cried, cutting short what promised to be a long tirade of courtly thanks. "Some of them will scale the wall, and then we shall be in a worse plight still. Make for the other door before they can get round. Come this way—quick!"

There was no time to lose. Already several grimy, evil faces began to show over the gate. Opposite was another entrance, barred in a similar manner, and to this the fugitives made, fortunately reaching it before the first pursuer found his way into the foundry-yard. Turning into the street again, they saw part of the mob had come round to meet them.

"We must run!" Miriam cried. "There is no help for it. Come!"

Sir Percival groaned. The idea of a magnate of his position and standing running bareheaded down the purlieus of Westport was by no means inviting; but, deeming discretion to be the better part of valour, he joined the others as swiftly as his dignity and weight would allow.

They were barely in time, but Miriam knew her way. A few moments later they found themselves safe from pursuit in the little dingy shop, into which not the most daring of the mob cared to penetrate.

"To whom am I indebted to this kindness?" Sir Percival inquired, as soon as he had sufficient breath to speak. "Really, had it not been for you, I think—I actually think—they would have laid hands upon me."

Speedwell, no respector of persons, laughed aloud; but Miriam turned away and was silent. For the first time she realised what she had done—how she had risked life perhaps for the deadliest enemy.

"I will tell you, Sir Percival Decie. This is Saul Abraham's house; the child you are speaking to is his daughter. Explain this, sir. Tell me why you bring your hated presence here?"

Rebecca was speaking. Her face was stern and set, her eyes hard and merciless.

The hatred of a decade of years trembled in her voice, for the old wound had been reopened. It was easy to see that she had heard. Sir Percival would have spoken, but Miriam waved him back with a gesture, before which even he was fain to stand aside. In a few words she told the story. The silence became painful, for the voices in the distance had died away.

"So you had to beg your life at the hands of my child," Rebecca said. "It is well, Sir Percival. That should hurt your proud soul. But the time will come when you shall ask for it again and be refused. You have seen my husband this morning. I am told you are master now."

"Really this dramatic display is quite unnecessary," Sir Percival replied, laying some gold upon the counter. "If it is a matter of payment——"

Rebecca swept the coins upon the floor with a disdainful gesture.

"Payment," she cried—"payment for a broken heart, a disgraced home! Rather would we have had a little of your so-called Christian charity."

They stood looking at each other in puzzled silence, the only sound to break the stillness being the tap of Abishai's crutch as he moved about, picking up the glittering coins.

"I see no need to prolong this interview," Sir Percival replied. "You will take neither thanks or money. I can only tender them again. Come, Victor."

The boy, who had been watching the scene intently, turned towards his father.

For a moment he hesitated, then held out his hand to Miriam. Her eyes were moist, her lips quivering. In a sudden impulse she put up her mouth, which he kissed tenderly. To him it was nothing; to her an evidence of friendship and sincerity, destined to bear good fruit after many days. A moment later they were gone.

"Miriam," said Rebecca, "is that how you show your hatred?"

"Perhaps I have none to show; perhaps I am wrong to think the disgrace was of our own making," she answered. "You bid me hate Sir Percival and all his kith and kin, but if you had asked me to love the lad it would have been a far easier task."