“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Lowther said, half-apologetically. “I had thought—had made sure—that you would bring your little boy.” And she wished she had had the tact not to allow the young mother to enter the room just then, for the sight of the childish appurtenances evidently called up an emotion of pain.
But Patricia begged her not to be concerned.
“It was very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, going to the window and looking at the tiny lawn without. “Oh, how I wish we could have Julian here! He is such a lovely boy, Lowthy, and so wonderfully intelligent. It nearly broke my heart to have to leave him behind.”
“I don’t know how you could,” her companion returned, almost severely. “It seems unnatural to part a mother from her child. If I had been you—”
Patricia put up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Yes, I know,” she put in hastily. “Don’t hurt me, dear. If you had been in my place you would have acted just the same. You don’t understand what Judaism is—how it used to rise up between the Montellas and myself like a wall. They would not let me bring baby away for fear I should make a Christian of him, which of course I should do; for I could not help wanting to consecrate his little life to Christ. Oh, I don’t wish to go over the whole story again; it is too painful. The Montellas are quite right from their point of view, and I am quite right from mine. We must all do what seems to be our duty according to our own conscience, even if it seems hard at the time.”
Mrs. Lowther regarded her contemplatively.
“How you have changed, Patricia,” she observed, placing her hand on the rough mane of the horse. “At the time of your marriage none of these considerations seemed to trouble you. Did I not warn you during your engagement that although you might attempt to enter their Jewish world, you must for ever remain an outsider? I don’t want to be cruel, but I can’t help telling you how I regret that you did not listen to me. For look at your present position: a wife, and yet practically without a husband—a mother, and yet without a child. Oh, you poor dear girl, if you had only taken my advice you would never have made such a shipwreck of your life!”
Had she not been sincerely sympathetic, Patricia would have been irritated by her comments.
“Oh, I don’t regret the past,” she responded quickly, “not one little bit; and if I had it to live over again I would marry Lionel just the same. It is not his fault that things have turned out like this; it is the fault of a fanatical Chief Rabbi and a narrow creed. But Lowthy, if you don’t mind, I would rather not talk about it any more. You see it hurts; and—and—I shall have to get used to being alone.” She held up the locket containing the portraits of her husband and baby, and looking at it thoughtfully, added sadly: “Not that I want to forget these two dear ones. The remembrance of them will remain with me day and night. I can’t yet realise that they are all those hundreds of miles away; I want to consult my husband at every turn.”
And then dashing away the tears which in spite of her will would come, she left the intended nursery, and descended to the hall.