Luckily they had a carriage to themselves all the way to Harwich - the honeymoon was to be spent in Germany, doing the castles of the Rhine, her choice - but Julius spoilt all the beauty and romance of being a bride by wanting to pull down the blinds and make love to her directly the train drew out of Liverpool Street. Nothing could be more undignified or distressing; she was nearly in tears, and then when the uncomfortable, ridiculous performance was over, and she wanted to be kissed and comforted, he sat in one corner with his feet propped up on the opposite seat taking no notice of her at all, but jotting down calculations on a piece of paper.
Happily for Rachel the honeymoon, in spite of its disastrous beginning, proved a great success. Germany was wonderful, the Rhine castles all she had ever imagined; the tour was luxuriously planned, and she discovered that being loved by Julius was, after the first few attempts, a glorious, shameless experience that made the world seem more worth while than it had been before.
She returned to London and the new house in Hans Crescent, hardly wiser than when she left but considerably more human, sympathetic and indulgent, her body healthy, her mind contented, expecting neither mystery nor excitement out of life, but looking forward to a normal, regular existence as Rachel Lévy, however much the fundamental Rachel Dreyfus might be unaltered and intact.
Strangely enough it was to Julius rather than to Rachel that married life brought changes. Rachel herself was no revelation to him; he found her much as he had expected, and he had no cause for complaint. He had chosen her, she was his wife, she would do. The discovery he made was that the sensation of owning a wife, and a house, and a staff of servants, was a pleasurable one; that to order and be obeyed in his own home, to know he was master here as well as in his cafés, to entertain guests and be aware of their covetous glances at his goods, and his woman, was a thrill of keen intensity new and extremely satisfying.
It was good to watch people eat at his table and praise him to his face, people who ten years before would not have lowered themselves to glance at him in the street, they who possessed birth and breeding and he who possessed nothing at that time but incalculable ambition, a baker in Holborn. It was good to see how they hung upon his words, how they clustered round him with their eager hands and their chinless, vacuous faces: butterflies and moths swarming round a candle burning bright, and their chitter of empty voices.‘My dear Lévy,’‘My dear Julius,’ ‘But of course you must come tonight; no party is a success without you,’ ‘Rachel, insist that this brilliant husband of yours stops working for once.’
He knew that it was his money that had bought them. It was his money that drew them about his person like a cluster of flies, and because his star had risen, because he was winning, because he was a success; and he knew that their words were meaningless little bleatings in the air; they did not like him, they were afraid of him. Privately they gossiped about him in their fear and called him vulgar, an upstart, a foreigner, a Jew. He knew all this and he laughed, and he invited them to his house so that he could despise them. He remembered that they had been carefully nurtured and handled from the day of their birth; they had never known hunger or cold or poverty; and he remembered with a glimmer of exquisite pain how he had starved and frozen and suffered in the streets of Paris. It seemed to him that with every penny he made he was at the same time taking the blood and the life from the pockets of these people, that as his wealth increased so would their span of idleness and leisure dwindle and be lost to them. When he had grown to the height of his prosperity, he would have helped to smash down their class of false superiority that had lived too long.
So he sat, Julius Lévy, at the head of the long table in his dining-room, the lights from the twelve silver candlesticks reflecting the faces of those around it. He looked down at the mass of fruit piled high in the centre, peaches with a soft, luscious baby’s skin, fat white grapes, the hard, prickly pineapple; he was aware of the tinkle of the cut-glass fruit-bowls, the ripeness of dessert mingled with the scent of the woman on his right, the clamour of conversation, the murmur of the butler at his elbow, the pale brown taste of brandy. He leant back in his chair and watched the faces of these people, the white soft hands of his neighbour, her fingers manicured, a single diamond bracelet on her wrist; and he smiled at her voice in his ear, the smart nasal voice he hated: ‘Julius Lévy, how terribly thrilling to be your wife; how I envy her those pearls . . .’ Poor fool, poor whore, thinking with her cheap pure-bred beauty she could please him, so exciting to be kept by him; and he looked at the strained harried face of another guest, an earl, who next morning would be signing a contract with him, making over to Julius a great site on his property in the West End for building purposes - another café to add to the number. And this fellow glanced up and caught the eye of his host and raised his glass, smiling anxiously, as though even yet some untoward accident should prevent the deal and he be penniless.
Both the woman and the man were symbolical to Julius of this power that money had brought to him; they were fighting for his favour, they crawled to him, they ate from his hand.
‘Why are you smiling?’ said someone. Andrew it was, his brother-in-law. And ‘Am I?’ said Julius. ‘I didn’t know I was. Perhaps I am glad that you are all enjoying yourselves.’ And he hid his smile behind a cigar, and tapped with his fingers on the table, thinking as he had thought before after looking out over the roofs and chimney-pots of a vast dreary London: ‘This is mine - all this belongs to me.’
Everything, the smell of food and wine and smoke and the scent of the women, the clamour of voices, the movement of the servants, all that they had eaten and drunk, the chairs they were sitting on, the coverings of the room, the roof above their heads, the anxious smile of the man who must sell his property or die, all this atmosphere of unrest, of brilliance, of fever and of excitement, had been created by him and because of him. He had made it with his own hands, his will and his brain; from the taste of the brandy on his tongue to the body of Rachel his wife, already big with the child she was carrying, her face calm and grave between the row of glittering candles - all this is mine, all this belongs to me.
Rachel’s baby was to be born in July of the following year, but August came and there was still no sign of its making its appearance. Two specialists were called in and a nurse was in attendance.
Julius, who of course gave his consent that any measure should be taken to insure the safety of his wife, was considerably astonished at all these preparations. He had always imagined child-bearing to be an easy business; women retired to their beds for three or four days to rest themselves, but the actual birth would take half an hour or so, uncomfortable, perhaps, but more or less painless. Surely, he thought, these doctors were exaggerating the gravity of the situation, they probably hoped to pocket a big fee, and it bored him to have his mother-in-law in the house treating the place as though she belonged there.The whole affair was a damned nuisance; this baby should have turned up in July and here they were in the second week in August waiting for it to happen. Rachel, poor child, looked appalling, but he supposed she could scarcely help that. Still she must have bungled things somehow to cause all this difficulty. Perhaps she had done too much in the early months, he didn’t know about these things, but anyway this hanging about was trying to both their tempers. Besides, it interfered with his plans. There was a scheme afoot for opening a café in Manchester, and he was due up there for a general discussion and settlement on the fifteenth of August. It was impossible to arrange a meeting in London, neither was it practicable. He wanted to see what sort of a property site he was buying, whether it was suitable for the purpose - he didn’t believe in purchasing anything blindly for all the detailed map of the district. No, he would go to Manchester whatever happened, his wife was in capable hands, after all. This baby by rights should have been alive and kicking well before this date, he had purposely put off the meeting until well on in August, chafing even then at the delay. He generally clinched a matter as soon as possible after th
e first proposal, got a contract written out and signed before the other fellow had time to wonder if he were making a mistake.
This start of a café in Manchester was, to his way of thinking, the first link in the chain that would eventually stretch across England, embracing every big provincial town. It was the right moment for setting about it, too. Work and reconstruction would begin during the slack months and the café be open to the public for Christmas.
And here was Rachel waiting to produce this baby, mixing his private domestic life up in his business affairs.
He would return to the house in Hans Crescent every evening from his office above the big Strand Café, hoping that the event had taken place during the day, always to be met with the same disappointment, the familiar figure of Rachel lying on the drawing-room sofa, her work or a book in her hands.
‘No sign yet?’ he would ask. ‘Look here, Rachel, how long is this going on for?’
She would shake her head hopelessly, putting her work aside.
‘Good gracious,’ she would say. ‘If you think I care about waiting. It’s much worse for me. Mother’s been in to tea - she’s coming for the day to-morrow, she cheers me up, and says it’s sure to come soon. But I don’t know ...’
Julius strolled about the room, smoking one of his big cigars. She waved the smoke away patiently, she never liked to tell him how she hated the smell, and he never noticed her discomfort.
‘What a curse it is,’ he grumbled; ‘if I’d known there was going to be all this trouble I’d never have let you start this baby.’
Rachel was shocked. She did not say anything. One shouldn’t mention things like that - besides it was wicked. Birth was sacred, children came to one naturally.
‘Can’t you do something to make it arrive?’ he said. ‘Move about, go for a ride in an omnibus - I don’t know.’
‘Of course not,’ she said; ‘what a dreadful suggestion. I should probably hurt myself terribly, and the poor little baby.’
He glanced at her and laughed.
‘Not particularly little, judging by your size,’ he said.
She flushed at this, it was the sort of coarse, hurtful remark he found amusing. He would probably repeat it to one of his friends as a huge joke.
‘Anyway, I can’t do anything, we must just go on waiting,’ she said. She wished he would sit down instead of being so restless, this tearing up and down the room was wearying to watch. Her head ached, and she was so tired of her heavy, clumsy body; she wanted to be alone, or with her mother; she wanted for some weak, foolish reason to bury her head in a pillow and cry.
‘Well, I’ve got to go up to Manchester on the fifteenth,’ he said, ‘can’t put it off again. You’ll be all right, of course. It’ll be Christmas if this hangs on much longer, the child’ll be born with long hair and a complete set of teeth.’
He laughed again, his fancy tickled at the idea, but Rachel was wondering whether it was true that when a baby was late in coming it meant very much more pain.
‘Don’t bang the door, dear,’ she called out in warning, but she spoke too late, he had slammed it behind him with a crash, setting her nerves on edge, and she heard him howling down the stairs to the butler to fetch up some drinks.
It was on the Sunday afternoon when they were sitting at tea - her mother, Julius, and the nurse - when suddenly she clutched at the table in front of her, crying out aloud, a wave of heat fanning her and little beads of sweat breaking upon her forehead.
‘Oh! Mother,’ she called. ‘Oh! Mother, what is it?’ and she put out one hand on the nurse’s arm to steady herself.
‘Thank God at last,’ said Julius;‘this is what we’ve been waiting for. You’d better get her upstairs, nurse. Want any help?’
He seemed to be treating the whole affair as an enormous joke. Now he would be able to set off for Manchester in the morning and act the proud father. He was considerably put out when the doctors told him at midnight that judging by the baby’s position it was not likely to be born before twenty-four hours.
His mother-in-law took hold of his hand, she too looked white and drawn, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Rachel is being brave,’ she said, ‘she is struggling all the time.You must be brave, too, Julius dear. Try and get a little rest now, because to-morrow will be a long anxious day.’
‘I know,’ said Julius; ‘you’ll have to wire me every few hours at Manchester.’
‘Manchester?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘But you surely won’t be going now? Don’t you understand Rachel is desperately ill?’
‘Yes - the doctors have explained.’
‘Well - then you . . .’ Mrs Dreyfus paused, baffled at the expression in his eyes.
‘The train leaves at nine-thirty,’ he said; ‘you’re right about getting some rest while I can.Tell them to let me know if there’s any change during the next few hours. Good night.’
When he left the next morning there was no difference in Rachel’s condition. He did not go in to see her, the nurse thought better not. He called to her through the door but she did not seem to hear him. ‘Poor old Rache,’ he cried, ‘this is bad luck - stick to it, you’ll get through,’ and he turned to the nurse. ‘Is she suffering much?’ ‘Yes, sir - I’m afraid she is.’ ‘How dreadful.’ He frowned, trying to worry it out. He did not understand pain. He went downstairs to the cab which was to take him to the station.
He arrived in Manchester in time for lunch, and then proceeded to the offices of Draxwell Ltd. in the afternoon. As he had feared, the delay in the proceedings had caused the property owners to reconsider the original price; it had seemed to them, on thinking things over, that they would be making a poor bargain in letting the property go for the sum at first proposed. They now stipulated for a thousand pound increase. Julius Lévy would have none of this. He had gone, he declared, to his limit. So, they insisted, had they. This haggling continued for at least three hours, and he succeeded in beating them down to an increase of five hundred only. By this time he had missed his train back to London, nor had he yet inspected his future property.
‘Are you,’ they said, ‘in any immediate hurry?’
He thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so. I would prefer to see all I can to-day.’
They took him along to the big block where he would construct his café, and he could see at once what a fine place he would have, the excellence of the central position, the proximity to the new theatre.
Like a child with a new toy he examined the building from every angle, he pointed out what part of it should be pulled down and what should remain.
It seemed to him that it would be a novel idea to make use of the first floor in the form of a gallery, looking down upon the ground floor beneath, that this would give an impression of space and would, at the same time, facilitate service. ‘You see what I mean?’ he said to the elder Draxwell. ‘By cutting away here and allowing for the outside walls - I’m certain it could be done. Tell me, who’s the best architect here?’
They gave him some name. ‘I’d like to see him,’ he said. ‘If he’s any good I’ll use him on this job. Can we get hold of him now?’ There would apparently be some little delay.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’d like to see him if he can be found,’ he said.
Then a boy came along with a telegram from Draxwell’s office.
‘This has just come through for Mr Lévy,’ he said.
‘Give it here,’ said Julius, and he tore it open and read: ‘Rachel weaker - strain proving too much - impossible operate because of heart - situation serious - can you return at once - Martha Dreyfus.’
He stuffed it in his pocket. ‘No answer,’ he said. ‘Look here, Draxwell, try and get hold of that architect, will you? It means missing another train but I’ll catch the midnight express instead.’
‘Will that be all right for you?’
‘Yes - suit me fine. Let’s have a look at that ground floor again,’ said Julius.
So he settled his busin
ess with great satisfaction, winding up the day with dinner at an hotel in company with the architect, and he arrived at the station with three minutes to spare before the midnight express left for London.
His café affairs concluded, he now had time to consider his domestic life, and he took out the wire and read it again.
He realised that it was well within the limits of possibility that he would return home and find that Rachel was dead. This had to be faced, nor did he shrink from it. Yes, he loved her in his fashion; at any rate he did not want to lose her. Doctors were useless, he supposed, in a case like this, the whole thing depended probably on a woman having courage. He thought of Rachel white-faced and serious, and he stared in front of him, tapping with his fingers on his knee. He arrived at Hans Crescent shortly before five. He let himself in, Mrs Dreyfus must have heard his cab, for she was waiting at the head of the stairs.
‘Well?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘It’s still the same,’ she said, ‘they can’t do anything. She’s so tired, she doesn’t seem to be able to struggle. Oh! Julius . . .’ she broke down, stretching out her hand.
‘All right—’ he said, ‘I’ll go up to her.’
‘The doctors are coming back at seven,’ she told him. ‘They said it was no use waiting - nothing can happen before then. Nurse and I are watching for any change.’
He went up to his wife’s room. Rachel was lying very still, she stared up at him without recognition.The nurse was bending over her, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
‘Will they give her an anæsthetic?’ said Julius.
The nurse supposed so.
‘I don’t believe that’s right,’ said Julius,‘it will make her weaker, and take away her fighting sense. She ought to struggle.’
‘The doctors are afraid of the strain, sir.’