Part 12

"Well, if I did, was it not a good deed? But now that you are man grown you have cast off the faith of your fathers. And Kaddish cannot lawfully be said by one who is not a Jew! When you have made up your mind whether you will be a rich Jew--or a heathen no better off than many others--write to me at your uncle's Hull address!" Mendel, who had resumed his seat, snapped his mouth shut, and snapped shut the calfskin bag--and stood up and went on--in the act of buttoning the single-breasted brown great-coat. "As to the Shrine, it's at Alexandria, and the Ashes are naturally where the Shrine is--not that I've any information to give you on that point. But the other--less sacred obligation--you may discharge as soon as you see fit. The accounts and the documents touching Kir Saba--some of them are very old and should be handled carefully!--must be taken to Scotland and delivered to the representatives of the original mortgagor, whose address is there written--by no other hands than your own. A gift of five hundred pounds English has been bequeathed you by your grandfather,--without further condition than that you render him this service. The cash will be paid you by a cheque upon London as soon as I receive the receipt for the documents. You will naturally not part with them without receiving this acknowledgment. Take care! Haven't I warned you?"

John's big fingers were prying into a flat wallet of mouldy parchment sewn with something like ancient silkworm-gut, and containing an oblong of crumbly brown....

"What on earth is it? ... It looks like seaweed.... Or an old felt sole out of somebody's boot! ..."

"It is the original Title Deed of the Tower of Kirjath Saba and the lands about it, granted by the Emperor Vespasian to the Tribune Justus Martius, of the Tenth Roman Legion: on the tenth day of the month of Ab--that is, August, in the second year of his reign."

"My holy hat! That was Anno Domini 70, when the Romans under Titus took the Temple at Jerusalem and burnt--"

"Not burned but demolished, according to Josephus--the walls of the Upper City alone being left standing--to shelter the garrison chosen from the Roman Tenth Legion!--together with the three great towers built by Herod--in order to demonstrate to Posterity how glorious a city had been cast down.... Woe! for the madness and the wickedness of the Pagans. Alas! for the Sacred City, a chattel in the hands of the filthy unbeliever even to this day! Who shall restore the glory of Jerusalem, or give back life to the dead place, or cleanse the robe of snowy wool that hath been defiled by pitch?"

"I've heard you reel off things like this before, haven't I, when I was a little beggar? I say! Do you know this rotten old sheepskin is pretty well priceless? Why, it's about one thousand eight hundred and forty-five years old! Those Johnnies at the British Museum would hand over a pot of cash for it."

"Have I not told you to lose no time in returning the document to its owner? Let him deal with it as he will! There is another parchment, the original Deed of Mortgage dated in your Christian Era 1146. Money was lent by Issachar Ben Hazaël, of Joppa (they spell it 'Jaffa' in these days)--to the Mortgagor, Sir Hugh Forbys, (they write his name 'Hew'), Knight, and lord of the Strong Tower of Kir Saba, in return for the right of user of the Tower, with its groves, gardens, springs and vineyards; and all the 'purtnans' for the 'makyn of wine.' When the cash with the interest, should be recovered, the Title-Deed was to be given back to Forbys.... These later records continue unbroken up to the June of the Christian year 1914. Examine them at your leisure. They are faithfully translated and clearly typed."

John answered and said unto the aged man, not being unmindful of the bequest of £500.

"You make my head spin, chuckling about centuries as though they were marbles! But I give you my word of honour, I'll swot all the documents up. When have I to go down to hand them over to these Scotch people? ... I suppose they do have some sort of a name?" ...

"They are a family of high repute and ancient standing on the Border. The Forbis of Kerr's Arbour, Tweedburgh, N.B. Have you at any time heard of them?"

"Never in my natural! They seem to have been thunderingly pally with us Hazels somewhere about the Bronze Age.... Do you know 'em at all?" ...

"Ask not foolish questions. What are the people to me? For a reason that the documents will clearly explain to you, they have had no intercourse with your family since the time of the Seventh Crusade."

"I wonder whether they'll be likely to know me when they see me?"

"Be not a Schlemihl! Where is the ring?"

"Which ring? You know, my head is fairly buzzing with all this business! ... You've dropped on me like a sandbag out of an Observation Rupert. Here--I've got it! Some ring!" ...

"It is a black onyx, a Greek gem of price, carved with a head of the Pagan Hercules and in an ancient setting of gold. It was given to your ancestor, Hazaël Aben Hazaël, by the Roman Prætor Philoremus Florens Fabius, at Alexandria, in the reign of the Pagan Emperors Diocletian and Maximianus--about the beginning of the fourth century of the Christian Era." Mendel added as John groaned again at this fresh evidence of antiquity, "This signet now belongs to you as head of the House of Hazaël. Let me see you put it on the third finger of your right hand!"

John obeyed. The great ring fitted the big finger as though it had been made for it. The intaglio, worn thin by time and chipped at the edges, was still beautiful, and though the tiny Greek letters at the lower left-hand corner signified nothing to its new owner--the signed work of a master-hand. John commented:

"He must have been a hefty chap, that old Hazaël!"

Mendel responded, buttoning up the brown overcoat:

"Your race have always been noted for breeding men of extraordinary strength and stature. There is a fellow-ring to this, I am given to understand, in the possession of the Forbis family. It is in high relief, this being the intaglio. Remember, you will bequeath the signet to your elder son, after you: as an heirloom which must always be in the possession of the chief male of the line."

"Carrying on as though one was Rob Roy M'Gregor," John remarked mentally. Then as Mendel made a strangle-knot in the purple woollen comforter, adjusted his mittens and was about to re-lock the brown bag:

"Here," he said suddenly, "you had better keep this for putting those papers in. Can't leave them lying about on the bed! It's a bit old, like me, and the worse for wear, like both of us. But I shan't improve, and you're getting over the wound you got"--he jerked his thumb as indicating a locality,--"over there. In the trenches. In Belgium."

John explained at some length, Mendel seeming to expect it--that the bit of shrapnel in his lung-tissue was of exceedingly small size. That the symptoms of slight pain and breathlessness which had persisted long after the healing of the chest-wound, had almost vanished under treatment which had involved absolute rest: the avoidance of talking; a sitting position maintained constantly, and small but frequent doses of morphia.

"Morphia, eh? Dangerous stuff. Done with it now, let's hope!" said Mendel jerkily. "Put back the papers in the bag when I've gone, and mind you always keep it locked! Look here!--I've left you the key. And so you're convalescent!" He went on in quite a different tone, suggesting that he had only dropped in to inquire about the patient's health about five minutes previously: "Well, well! And going out of Hospital in another week--I think you said?"

"Not quite that, I didn't say!" pronounced John in his English. "The C.M.O. pronounces me Posh, and the Military Medical Examination Board'll be sure to certify me Fit for Service. I expect to be drafted out to the Mediterranean pretty shortly--my battalion of the Regiment having got transferred to the Eastern Expeditionary Force."

"Say not to Gallipoli, that shambles whither British soldiers are sent as sheep to the slaughter! Stay, I babble foolishly! Have I not knowledge that the British forces were yesterday withdrawn?"

"The hell you have! Why, where did you get it?"

"I made no reference to the Place of Burning. As to my knowledge, it is common to the elders among our people: a nation that received enlightenment from the Most High in dreams and visions, when the naked woad-daubed savages of these British Isles were howling to the Moon.... Make not calf's eyes at me! ... Did not naked savages cry news for hundreds of miles from hill-top to hill-top in the War with the Booren!--and was not the murder of the Gentile General Gordon at Khartoum known within the hour to the idolaters in Damascus! What I tell you is--there is no doubt at all!"

"But--but--they don't say a word about it in the papers!"

"_Prrtsch_! Is not that what the papers are for? And now, when do you think to get back to business? I mean business in the City--not that of killing other men. Though, as to the slaying of enemies," added Mendel, with strange yellow fire burning under his shaggy eyebrows, "the Kings and warriors of Hebrew race have slain when slaying was necessary. Saul his thousands and David his tens of thousands and Joshua--who knows how many hundreds of thousands of the Amorites and Canaanites! Nay, in your own veins there runs the blood of famous men of battle. You should inherit, with your frame and muscles, a measure of their fighting blood."

"Can that be why I sing whenever there's a scrap on?" asked John, reflectively rubbing his ear.

"When scraps are on what? Tell me again, employing plainer language," acidly commanded the old man.

"I mean, when I've--not often it's not been--worse luck!" returned the young man in his slipshod grammar, "but now and then--come really to close quarters with the--the enemy, you know." ...

"The Germans? Have no fear!--I am a Damascus Jew and not an Hebrew of the Ashkenazim.... It matters not a _yod_ to me how many you have killed. What is this about singing--when do you sing?"

John scowled and the dark red flush began to creep up under his dull brown skin. He said gruffly, avoiding the inquisitive old eyes that raked him, by looking past the edge of his sole remaining screen down the vista of the long, clean, shining ward, at the big fire blazing in a deep old-fashoined grate....

"Why, at first when I went to the Front--no amount of stabbing stuffed sacks and shooting at dummy men--and bombing others--could"--his prominent Adam's apple jumped as he gulped, and his speech came from him in spurts of broken sentences--"bring me to swallow the idea of--killing them. Well!--first two hours of the Real Thing--I was sick and cold with sheer fright--just gibbering with horror! Then we advanced, went in with the bayonet--and I--began to like it, quite! Though when--some of us--got back and I saw--a--a--Hair and a--a--Blood on my--on mine!--that I'd got to clean off or get Hell from the Sergeant!--I was as sick--I give you my word!--as a chap who's been ordered to drink a tin-cupful of cold-drawn castor without a bit o' lemon to chew. Well, then, you see, as I was retching, comes along the N.C.O. and hands me out some chaff! 'Sick now bedad!' he was a wiry little Irishman, with a brogue thicker than the mud--'Sick, are ye?--the big bucko that was singin' as he hoisted Huns to glory wid the Haymaker's Lift!' Well, of course I thought the beggar was joking--but next time--"

"Ay, yea!--what happened the next time?"

Old Mendel rubbed his withered hands and smiling widely, revealed the fact that his still sound and white teeth were worn down quite level with the gums.

"Next time? ..."

"Next time was--rather a personal affair. Mind you--I've never talked about this to any other Service fellow. There's something different about their point of view. It was in March last--we'd been doing reserves at Richebourg St. V.--in the Neuve St. Chapelle racket, and after the battle we were taking our turn in the front-line trenches and making barricades! Shooting, you may guess, for all we were worth, and Fritz was handing it back with the Mauser, besides throwing 15 and 17-inch shells at us and enfilading our parapet with sprays of bullets from one of their machine-guns. The air was full of bangs and squeals and whistles, and every minute men were toppling over: and the fellow on my right was a pal of mine: we'd chummed up together like--a--like bricks! Well, there was a badly wounded German near, lying outside in the thick of it. Harding--my chum--put down his gun, gave me a wink--went over the top--sniped at like anything!--brought the lousy beggar back--gave him a drink,--put a coat under his head: and stowed him away behind us at the bottom of the trench, to wait for the stretcher-bearers. Then he came back to his place by me, loaded and went on shooting."

"And then?"

"Then, he--my pal--Harding--started rotting in his usual way; and I'd just said to him in my usual way, 'Do dry up, you silly, brainless lunatic!' when a revolver banged behind us, and Harding fell over on me, and I was all one smother with blood and brains--_his_! When I'd just told him he hadn't--you see the point of it?" John's mouth was stretched in laughter, but he shuddered as though cold.

"He--" Old Mendel's eyes were fierce under their bushy brows as he nodded, saying:

"_Day--day_! ... It does not need to be more plain. I understand thee clearly. The German lying at the bottom of the trench had shot the man who brought him in, through the head, from behind.... We have wolves in the Anti-Lebanon--and when taken they will fight to the death.... It is wisest to despatch them at once with the loaded club, whenever you find them trapped. But what didst thou do to thy wolf, O David! when the blood of thy Jonathan was wet upon thee?"

"I--went for the brute with the butt,--like mad!--and bashed him into jelly." John shuddered and felt for his handkerchief and mopped his face and neck. "He shot at me--twice--and nearly got me, but I--just bashed on!"

"And didst thou sing as thou didst smite?"

"They--they said--when they got me away, and it took a lot to hold me!--they said I talked a gibberish that nobody could understand."

"But I--possibly--might have understood it!" Old Mendel nodded knowingly and briskly rubbed his hands. "Well, well?"

"Well, after that I made no bones about killing Germans. There were nights when I used to creep out of the trench (nights when there was nothing much doing) with a white cotton Pierrot's costume I'd picked up pulled over my khaki, because of the star-shell showing me up dark against the snow--and until the enemy got too knowing, I made quite a bag every week--of Lonely Fritzes on Advanced Posts. Fellows began to look at me rather queerly. I think I'd got a name for being a bloodthirsty kind of beast. And the officers of my platoon'd say to a man who was noisy and wanting in caution: 'If you let a cheep out of you, So-and-so, during such and such an expedition--I'll tell Hazel to kill you!' and he'd shut up--tight as a box."

"Aha!" Mendel hugged himself with his stiff brown sleeves and chuckled. "I, Jew of Damascus as I am, do not wonder!--do not wonder, knowing the stuff of which thy forefathers were made! Now I should depart, for we have talked much, and the young woman in starched linen is nodding at me and frowning. We Jews daily thank the Creator that He did not make us women: but when there comes pestilence, or War with wounds and fever, He cannot make too many women to satisfy us! Now is there anything more to ask before I leave you?"

"Nothing, I--Here, hold on for half a mo'! There is a question. If I stick to my guns and don't turn Hebrew, what becomes of my grandfather's cash?"

"Provision in the event you name is duly made in the Will. The three hundred and eighty thousand pounds will go to found an Orthodox Jews University that is to be built near Jerusalem--the money being vested in the hands of certain Trustees. There are three Trustees. Lord ----, Sir Arthur ---- and Professor ----" the speaker named three names of power--not only in Israel:--"but you will not let the money go to found the University. _Shalôm!_ Is that not all?"

"All--except that I've not yet asked after my Uncle Benjamin Simonoff at Hull."

"Thy Uncle Benjamin prospers exceedingly. Trade failed with Russia when the North Sea Ports were closed; but the warehouses were full--and Government paid much money for tallow, tar, green hides and tanned skins. Benjamin is enlisted in a Home Defence Corps, and both his sons are on the sea, serving in converted Hull trawlers. They sweep for mines, set snares for what they call 'tin fish' and seem content with life.... Woman, I have said that I am departing! Had I not, it is not seemly for your sex to thrust themselves into the private talk of men!"

"But you've been here already over an hour, and the doctors--"

The Ward Sister had swept down on him:

"I go, I go! ... Nay, but, look to the boy! He is swooning! ... Woe to me! heedless and forgetful of his weakness.... I thought but of confuting the errors of an Epicurean--and lo! I have injured the child I loved!"

John, struggling in the clutches of a return-attack of breathlessness, propped up high against hard pillows, tried to tell Old Mendel not to bother, that he, John, was as right as nine-pence, or would be in the shake of a guinea-pig's tail. But the words were lost in suffocating gasps and pantings; from which, administered by Nurse's skilful hands, the prick of a subcutaneous injection of morphia presently delivered him....

The semi-relapse entailed another fortnight in Hospital: its tedium infinitely relieved by the fulfilment of John's promise to swot over the documents and papers in the bag. Which contained, besides a pair of well-darned spare socks, and a clean blue-spotted handkerchief of Mendel's, a bag of brown peppermint-rock, of the highly-flavoured kind most fondly associated by John Hazel with the blameless days of infancy. Alas! that the writer should be bound to the Wheel of Truth as concerning this young man, so unheroic a hero. As soon as he was well enough, he ate it all up.

VII

Three weeks at a Soldier's Seaside Convalescent Home on the outskirts of a West Coast Winter resort, intervened before John's return to Campden Hill Terrace.

It had been strange to recognise upon his mother's cheerful, well-preserved comeliness the strained and sharpened look that is the stamp of War upon the human countenance. Maurice--who was later on to develop into a mechanic-private in what was then the Royal Flying Corps--the chrysalis or pupa-stage of ultimate transformation into a Lieutenant-Pilot--was Overseas at an Advance Depot of the A.S.C. and didn't write punctually. And the double-fronted millinery and florist's business in Dove Street was languishing. Fruit and flowers were only bought to be sent on to the Wounded in the Hospitals. Nobody wanted ravishing hats when the men the hats were meant to slay were being killed in the trenches; besides, British women were all agreed by now that in War-time some kind of uniform was the only possible wear. So Lady Delphinia had departed to France to open a Hostel for Officers at one of the Allied Bases, and the huge benevolent octopus of Organised Activity had enveloped within its tentacles Mrs. Hazel and her set. They spent their days strenuously at various West End Centres, in making every imaginable aid,--from list slippers to body belts, from artificial legs and arms to life-saving waistcoats--for the Fleet and the Forces; and if they took comfort from the knowledge that their neighbours at the trestle-tables in the crowded work-rooms were occasionally Duchesses, who shall grudge John's mother and her intimates the gratification they derived from this fact!

Of the visit of Mendel Bartoth to the Hospital at Colthill, John said nothing to his mother. After all, it was his affair. His and Maurice's--because it was provided under the conditions of the Will of Eli Hazaël that, should the elder of the two surviving male representatives of his House decline to adopt the Judaism of his forefathers (and incidentally forfeit a sum of £380,000), the younger should be offered the fortune thus foregone.

Justice and wisdom went to the making of the Will, with consideration and magnanimity. John was to have two years clear in which to make up his mind. In the meanwhile, there was the acceptable sum of £500 to be earned by taking a run up North as soon as his health was sufficiently restored.

Consequently upon a bitter grey-white morning in the February of 1916, Private John Hazel found himself seated in a grimy third-class compartment of the Kelso Express, steaming out of a vast and murky London terminus, upon the strangest errand of his life.

The thing was real. He might have dreamed old Mendel: but that there could be no doubt in face of all those proofs. The typewritten papers and the queer crumbly parchments were in the brown calfskin bag beside him. And, queerest of all, the ring: the intaglio of the bust of Hercules in black onyx in its ancient setting of pale greenish gold, incredibly battered, was on the third finger of his big left hand....

He squeezed the back sheet of his _Pall Mall Gazette_ into a ball, observant of the inferior quality of the paper--cleared away the clammy fog and grime that obscured the window next him--and settled down to read the News.

Front after front had burst into roaring flame; the brown shuttle of the Army and the dark blue shuttle of the Navy, driven back and forth with dizzying rapidity, wove the bloody web of War upon the loom of Fate daily, hourly, momentarily....