 Ruben Sachs, A Sketch, by Amy Levi. CHAPTER 19 This life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether this she felt, as looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together? Browning, Christina. Esther sat a little apart, watching the lovers. Does she think he is a cardboard man to play with? Or an umbrella to take shelter under? She reflected. A lover may be a shadowy creature, but husbands are made of flesh and blood. Doesn't she see already that he is as obstinate as a mule and as whimsical as a goat? And she repeated the phrase to herself, well pleased with it. It was Sunday, the day following that of the election. A great family party had dined in Kensington Palace Gardens, and now were awaiting Ruben in the Primrose colour-drawing-room. Judith, side by side with Bertie, was listening amably to a fluent account of his adventures in Asia Minor, in which he dwelled a great deal on his state of mind and state of health at the time, while Rose played scraps of music for the benefit of Jack Guihano, who had a taste for comic opera. Judith was in such a state of tension as scarcely to be conscious of pain. Her duties as a fiancé were clearly marked out. Everything was better than those days of chaos, of upheaval which had preceded her engagement. Esther's favourite phrase, that marriage was an opiate, had occurred to her more than once during the past week. I sat up all night long and read every word of it. I was determined to make up my mind once for all Bertie was saying. Rose at the piano put her hand on her hip and hummed a scrap from a musical song while Jack whistled an accompaniment. Stop the cab, stop the cab, whoa, whoa, whoa. The hall door banged with some violence. The voices of Lionel and Sidney were heard upraised without. Vote for Sax, vote for Sax, the people's friend! Then came the sound of another voice. My head was like a live coal and my feet were as cold as stones, went on Bertie. Judith looked sympathetic and her heart leapt suddenly within her. It had not yet unlearned the trick of leaping at the sound of Ruben's voice. Lionel flung open the door and capered into the room. Behind him came Ruben Sax. Judith knew nothing more till she and Ruben were standing face to face, holding one another's hands. Whatever had happened before, whatever happened afterwards, she will remember to the day of her death that, in that one moment at least, they understood one another. No need for question, for answer, for explanation of motives and feelings. It was all as clear as daylight in that strange, brief, interminable moment which to the onlookers showed nothing more than a pale, tired-looking gentleman offering his congratulations on her engagement to a flushed, bright-eyed lady. Even that sharp battery of eyes could discover nothing more than this. It was not long before the hall door closed again upon Ruben. He flung out into the night. "'Good God!' he said to himself. Not till he had actually seen her had he been able to realize what had happened to understand what manner of change had come into his life to see what might have been and what was. He had so many things to tell her which may never now be told. The blind, choking rage of a baffled creature came over him. He sped on, stifled through the darkness. Judith, sitting dazed and smiling in the gaslight, said over and over again in her heart, "'Oh, my poor Ruben! My poor, poor Ruben!' At the piano Rose and Jack sang in chorus, "'For he's going to marry, yum-yum, yum-yum. Your anger may bury for all would be merry, I think you had better succumb, com-com.'" At the beginning of January there was a wedding at the synagogue in Upper Barclay Street, which excited unusual interest. The beautiful bride in her white silk dress was greatly admired. She was very pale, certainly, and in her wide open eyes an acute observer might have read an expression of something like, "'Terror.' Barter-cute observers, fortunately, are few and far between. The bridegroom, in all appearance, enjoyed himself immensely, going through the whole pageant with great exactness, smashing the wine-glass vigorously with his little foot and sipping the wine daintily from the silver cup. Old Solomon Sacks, whose own daughters had been married in the drawing-room at Portland Place, but who had no prejudice against the new fashion of weddings in the synagogue, occupied a prominent place near the Ark surrounded by his family. Reuben Sacks stood close to Leopold Leninger, a little in the background. His face was absolutely expressionless, unless weariness may be allowed to account as expression. He wanted yet a year or two of thirty, and already he was beginning to lose his look of youth. Leo, it must be owned, paid little attention to the ceremony. His eyes roved constantly to where the bridegroom's family, the Lee Harrison's and the Norwood's, stood together in a rather chilly group, to where, in particular, Lady Geraldine Sydenham, in her unassertive, unaccentuated costume, leaned lightly against the porphyry column. These people had accepted the situation with philosophy and were really fond of Judith, but they found her family, especially in its collateral branches, uncongenial, if not worse. On the outskirts of this group hovered Montague Cohen, absolutely rigid with importance. Near him Adelaide tossed her head in its smart new bonnet from side to side, her sallow face and diamond earrings flashing this way and that throughout the ceremony. She knew that such restlessness was not good manners, but for the life of her she could not resist the temptation of seeing all that was to be seen. Poor Mrs. Quajano, proud, but vaguely distressed, stood near her husband. While Jack, the picture of nimble smartness, ushered everyone into their places and made himself generally useful. The wedding was followed by a reception. At afterwards, amid showers of rice from Lionel and Sydney, the newly married pair set out en route for Italy. EPLOG It was the beginning of May, a bright, barmy evening, and the London season was in full swing. The trees in Kentington Gardens wore yet that delicate brilliance of early spring, which a passing glory all the world over is in London, the glory of an hour. Under the trees children were playing and calling. Out beyond in the road a ceaseless stream of cabs, carriages, carts and omnibuses rolled by. The broad back of the Prince Consort, gold beneath his golden canopy, shone forth with unusual splendour. The marble groups beneath stood out clearly against the soft background of pale blue sky, and in the air, the London air, lingered something of the freshness of evening, and of spring, mixed though it was with the odour of dinners in preparation, and with that of the bad tobacco which rose every now and then from the tops of the crowded road-cars rolling by. The windows of a flat in the Albert Hall mansion's opposite were open, and a lady who was standing by one of them could smell the characteristic London odour and could hear the sound of the children's voices, the rolling and turning of the wheels, and the shuffle and tramp of footsteps on the pavement below. She stood there a moment, one bare, beautiful hand and arm, resting on the back of an adjacent couch, her eyes mechanically fixed on the glistening gilt cross amounting the Albert Memorial, then she turned away suddenly, the thick, rich folds of her white silk dress trailing heavily behind her. The room across which she moved was small but bright, and fitted up with the various and elaborate luxury of a modern fashionable drawing-room. Among the articles of Brickerbrack, Costley, Interesting or Milly Bizarre which adorned it, were an antique silver Hanukkah lamp and a spice-box such as the Jews make use of in certain religious services of the same metal. Judith Lee Harrison, for it was she, went over to the mantelpiece and consulted a little carriage-clock which stood upon it. It was barely three months since her marriage, though to judge from the great, if undefinable, change which had passed over her, it might have been the same number of years. Her beauty indeed had ripened and deepened, so that it would have been impossible for the least observant person to pass it by, and the little over-emphasis of fashion which had hitherto marred the perfect distinction of her appearance had vanished. Mrs. Lee Harrison would be a beauty if she cared about it, is the verdict of the world to which she had been introduced little more than a month ago. But it was sufficiently evident that Mrs. Lee Harrison did not care. There was something almost austere in the pose of the head and figure, the lines of the mouth, the look in the wonderful eyes. Those eyes, to a close observer indeed, told that Judith had learnt many things, had grown strangely wise these last three months. Yet she knew now more clearly what she had only dimly and instinctively felt. The nature and extent of the wrong which had been perpetrated, which had been dealt her, which she in her turn had dealt herself and another person. She stood idly by the mantelpiece, staring at the mass of invitation cards stuck into the mirror above it. One of them told that Lady Chemis would be at home that night in Grovener Place at nine o'clock. It was to be a political party, and like all such gatherings would begin early, for which reason she had dressed before dinner. She took the card from its place and read it over. Rubin would be there, of course. Well, they would shake hands, perhaps. She for one would be very amiable. They might even talk about the weather, and would he ask her to have an ice? She put back the card indifferently. It mattered so little. She had been home a month from Italy, and as it happened she and Rubin had not yet met. The Lee Harrison's had dined duly in Kensington Palace Gardens, but Rubin had been unavoidably detained that night at the house. He had called on her some weeks ago, and she had been out. But rumours of him had reached her. He had addressed his constituents with great eclaire in the recess, and was already beginning to track detention from the leader of his party. As for more intimate matters, there were reports currently connecting his name with Caroline Cardozo, with Miss Lee Harrison, and with the chorus-girl at the gaiety. Some people said he was only waiting for old Solomon's death to marry the chorus-girl. The last month, which had been full of new experiences of social events for Judith, seemed curiously long as she stood there looking back on it. It came over her that she was in a fair way to drift off completely from her own people, day in she were born on dividing currents. A sudden longing for the old faces, the old ties and associations came over her as she stood there, a strange fit of homesickness, an inrushing sense of exile. Her people owe her people to be back once more among them. When all was said, she had been so happy there. A servant entered with a letter. Judith, glancing again at the clock, saw that it was nearly eight, and said, as she opened the envelope, has Miss Lee Harrison come in? He had come in half an hour ago when she had been dressing, and had gone straight to his room. The gong sounded for dinner as the man spoke, and a few minutes afterwards Bertie came tripping in, fully equipped for the festivities of the evening. Blanche expects us early, said Judith, as she swept across to the dining-room, and took her place at the little round table. Bertie looked across at her doubtfully, then put his spoon into the excellent white suit before him. It was the first time in some weeks that they had dined alone together, and conversation did not flow freely. Bertie looked up again, fixed his eyes not on her face, but on the row of pearls at her throat. "'My dear, you will be very much shocked.' "'Yes,' said Judith, interrogatively, eating her soup. "'Rubin Sacks is dead.' "'It is not true,' said Judith. And then she actually smiled. The room was whirling round and round. A strange, thick mist was over everything, and through it came the muffled sound of Bertie's voice. It occurred this afternoon. Quite suddenly I heard it at the club. He had not been well for some time, and had collapsed more or less the last week, but no one had any idea of danger. It seems that his heart was weak. He had been overdoing himself terribly, and cardiac disease was the immediate cause of his death. Cardiac disease,' repeated Bertie, with a mournful enjoyment of the phrase, and pulling a long face as he spoke. Judith, sitting there like an automaton, eating something that tasted like sawdust, something that was difficult to swallow, was vividly conscious of only this—that Bertie must be silenced at any cost, anything else could be born, but not Bertie's fluent regrets. Another woman would have fainted. There had never been any mercy for her, but at least she would not sit there while Bertie talked of it. So she lifted up her face, her stony face, and turned at the current of his talk. Dinner came to an end at last, and the automatic woman passed across to the sitting-room. Her husband followed her. She stared at him. "'You must take my excuses to Blanche. It is due to my family that I should not appear to-night in public.' "'Certainly. Certainly. A mark of respect. Blanche will understand. We will neither of us go.' She looked at him in horror. All her force of will gathered to a point. "'Go! Go! Blanche will expect it. There is no reason for you to stop here.' "'My dear girl, do you think I can't stand an evening alone with you? It will be a change—quite a pleasant change.' He had gone at last, and she stood there motionless by the mantelpiece, staring at the card for Lady Chemises at home. Infinite eons seemed to divide the present moment from that other moment, half an hour ago, when she had told herself carelessly, indifferently, that she would meet Rubin that night. It struck her now that all the sorrow of her life, all the suffering she had undergone, would be wiped out, would be as nothing if only she could indeed meet Rubin, could see his face, hear his voice, touch his hand. Everything else looked trivial, imaginary. Everything else could have been forgotten, forgiven. Only this thing could never be forgiven him, this inconceivable thing that he was dead. She knew that her agony was not yet upon her, that she was dazed, stunned, without feeling. A dim foreshadowing of what that agony would be was slowly creeping over her. She moved across to a chair by the open window and sat down. The children's voices were silent. The iron gates were shut. The gold cross above the memorial shone like fire as the rays of the setting sun fell upon it, and beyond in the roadway the ceaseless stream of carriages moved east and west, on the pavement the people gathered thicker and thicker. A pair of lovers moved along slowly, close against the park railings, beneath the shadow of the trees. The pulses of the great city beat and throbbed. The great tide roared and flowed ever onwards. London, his London, was full of life and sound, a living, solid reality, not a wonder, a dream city that melted and faded in the sunset. Across the great gulf she could never stretch a hand. Death had thrown down no barriers. Had brought them no nearer to one another. Wider and deeper, though before it had been very wide and deep, flowed the stream between them. Nearer and nearer came the sound nearer and nearer. Where had she heard it before? There was music in her ears now, the dreamy monotony of a voice, the scent of dying flowers, tuberose gardenia, was wafted in from some unseen region. It was a November night, not springtime sunset, and the harsh sound struck upwards through the mist. Death of a conservative MP, death of the member for some old winds. Away in Cambridge Leo paced beneath the lime trees a sick, blank horror at his heart. Nearer across that verdant stretch of twilight park sat a wrinkled image of despair, surely a mark for the mirth of ironical gods, and here by the open window sat Judith, absolutely motionless, a figure of stone. Before the great mysteries of life her soul grew frozen and appalled. It seemed to her, as she sat there in the fading light, that this is the bitter lesson of existence, that the sacred serves only to teach the full meaning of sacrilege, the beautiful of the hideous, modesty of outrage, joy of sorrow, life of death. Is life indeed over for Judith, or at least all that makes life beautiful, worthy, a thing in any way tolerable? The ways of joy, like the ways of sorrow are many, and hidden away in the depths of Judith's life, though as yet she knows it not, is the germ of another life which shall quicken, grow, and come forth at last. Shall it bring with it no doubt pain and sorrow and tears? Shall it bring also hope and joy and that quickening of purpose, which is perhaps as much as any of us should expect or demand from fate?