NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK
NEITHER JEW NOR
GREEK
A STORY OF JEWISH SOCIAL LIFE
BY
VIOLET GUTTENBERG
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1902
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
TO
MY FRIEND
MARIE CORELLI
AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO HER
GENIUS
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
CONTENTS
BOOK I
PROBATION
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE 1
II. INTRODUCES A SWEET AND LOVABLE JEWISH GIRL 8
III. THE BARRIER OF RACE AND FAITH 17
IV. GEOFFREY RECEIVES UNPALATABLE ADVICE 25
V. THE FRIEDBERGS OF MAIDA VALE 34
VI. AN ACADEMY STUDENT 43
VII. ENTER--DAVID SALMON 52
VIII. AT SYNAGOGUE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY 60
IX. LUNCHEON FOR THREE 69
X. A GOLD NUGGET AND A DIAMOND RING 77
XI. UNDER THE MISTLETOE 88
XII. DAVID SALMON PAYS A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE 99
XIII. THE SOCIAL ETHICS OF JUDAISM 110
BOOK II
THREE YEARS AFTER
I. CELIA MAKES HER PROFESSIONAL DÉBUT IN
LONDON 125
II. A NEW PROJECT DISCUSSED 136
III. FITZJOHN’S AVENUE, HAMPSTEAD,--OR JERUSALEM? 147
IV. A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA 157
V. THE WILTONS OF WOODRUFFE 165
VI. CELIA’S AWAKENING 173
VII. WHITE HEATHER 182
VIII. THE RING RETURNED 191
IX. AN OUTCAST IN ISRAEL 199
X. STRELITZKI PAVES THE WAY FOR HIS REVENGE 210
XI. THE STANNARD BALL, AND AFTER--AN EVENTFUL
NIGHT 223
XII. A WOMAN’S LOVE 237
XIII. THE ACME FURNISHING COMPANY 251
XIV. “THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER,” AND AN UNEXPECTED
MEETING 263
XV. NINETTE TELLS HER STORY 276
XVI. THE DARKNESS DEEPENS AROUND NINETTE 291
XVII. BOTH SIDES OF THE CURTAIN 305
XVIII. “NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK”--ONE GOD OVER ALL 319
BOOK I
PROBATION
NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK
CHAPTER I
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE
“If you ever do get married, girls,” Adeline was saying, as she
contemplated her wedding-dress, which lay spread out on the bed, “see to
it that you get men, and not broomsticks.”
“I think I would rather have a broomstick than some men,” said the
youngest sister Di. “Because a broomstick is at least inoffensive;
whereas a man with a temper would be a positive nuisance.”
“I wouldn’t give a halfpenny for a man without a temper,” put in Lottie,
with a shrug. “Look at old Solomon, for instance. He is as meek as
Moses. Whenever Mrs. Sol tells him to do anything, he folds his hands,
and says, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ and goes and does it at once. If
she told him to go and drown himself, I believe he would say, ‘Yes, my
dear, immediately,’ from sheer force of habit.”
“That shows Mrs. Sol’s cleverness,” said Adeline with a sigh. “She must
have broken him in when he was young and pliable. My future husband is
neither young nor pliable. Oh, girls, I wonder what sort of a husband
Mike will make.”
It was the eve of Adeline’s wedding. She was the eldest daughter, and
the first to leave the parental roof. “Adeline is a smart girl, and will
do well for herself,” her fond mother had been wont to say: and Adeline
certainly had done well, according to her parents’ ideas, for she had
secured Michael Rosen, the proprietor of the Acme Furnishing Company--a
man who had come over from Poland twenty years ago to start life
(English life) as an itinerant vendor of jewellery, and who was now at
the head of the furnishing trade in his particular line. Adeline’s
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg, had been introduced to him by the
minister of the synagogue which they attended, with the understanding,
that if the parties came to terms, and a marriage ensued, the Rev. Isaac
Abrahams should pocket an ample commission.
At the wedding-breakfast, which took place at the Hotel Cecil, the Rev.
Isaac, in the course of his speech, lightly mentioned the fact that
marriages were made in heaven, and unblushingly thanked Providence for
having brought the happy bridal couple together. Every one remarked how
touchingly and beautifully he spoke.
It is not so difficult to give an eloquent speech when the champagne
flows as freely as water, and one has a substantial cheque snugly
reposing in one’s pocket-book. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams was a happy man
that day; he possessed feelings of benevolence towards all mankind.
Adeline looked very charming in her bridal finery, and excited envy in
the hearts of a good many mothers and daughters present. She had a
choral and floral wedding, a full account of which, including a list of
all the wedding presents, would appear in the _Jewish World_ and the
_Queen_; and she was the prospective mistress of a beautiful house in
Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead, and another in Brunswick Terrace,
Brighton. Could any girl wish for more? True, the bridegroom would never
see forty again, and he was neither good-looking nor well-bred; but
wealth covers a multitude of other deficiencies, and one cannot have
everything. So, every one agreed that Adeline was a very fortunate girl,
and Adeline herself thought so too.
She was ecstatically happy for exactly twenty-four hours after the
ceremony.
The first part of their honeymoon was spent at a farm-house ten miles
from anywhere, where, if they had been so inclined, they could have made
love to their heart’s content, without the least fear of any
disturbance. Mike chose this place because his bride had once remarked
in his hearing that she adored the country--which she did in the
abstract.
It is so nice to think of green fields, and leafy lanes, and bleating
lambs, and twittering birds--when one is in town.
Adeline had never spent a whole day in Mike’s company before, and very
soon grew tired of his society. During their short engagement he had
come to see her every evening, but had spent most of his time in the
smoke-room with her father, and she had seen very little of him.
Perhaps, if she had seen more of him, she would not have become his
wife. Now that she was entirely dependent upon him for companionship,
however, she wondered how they would get on together. His sole topic of
conversation was furniture--“ferniture,” he pronounced it. His had been
one of the first firms to introduce the “easy payments” system on an
extensive scale, and Mike was justly proud of the fact. Adeline
wondered, a trifle contemptuously, if he considered her part of his
household “ferniture.” She was at least ornamental, if not altogether
useful.
Life at the farm was not exciting, and at the end of the third day, the
young bride had a bad attack of the blues. She was not particularly
interested in watching the pigs fed and the cows milked; and what was
the good of all her pretty frocks and lovely jewels when there was no
one to see and admire them. It was all very well for Mike. He sat on the
top of a haystack, dressed in flannels, nearly all day; and as long as
he had a fat cigar to smoke, a glass of whisky to drink, and a furniture
catalogue to read, he was perfectly happy. But even he was bored when,
on the fourth day, it began to rain, and forgot to leave off; and when
Friday came round, he suggested a trip to Blackpool, to which his wife
willingly agreed.
Blackpool was a decided improvement to the farm, but the wet weather
followed them even there, so, at the end of a very dull fortnight, they
turned their faces homewards. It was quite delightful to see dear old
smoky London once more.
Adeline lost no time in going to see her family, and went the same
afternoon that they returned. Mike was obliged to go straight off to
business, but she was not sorry to have to go alone. Her visit was quite
a surprise, for they were not expected home for at least another week.
Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg were out, she was told, but the girls were at
home, and received her with rapturous exclamations of delight and
astonishment. They carried her off to her old bedroom to take off her
things, and plied her with questions which she could not possibly answer
all at once. She hugged them all round, Prince, the pug, included; then
she sat down on the bed, and indulged in a good cry, after which she
felt considerably better.
The girls were filled with consternation. They had never seen Adeline
cry before. Had Mike been doing anything to vex her? No? Then, what on
earth was she crying for? Di ran for smelling-salts, and Lottie fetched
brandy; in vain Adeline protested that she needed neither.
“You must think me a little fool, girls,” she sobbed, copiously drying
her tears. “It was the excitement of seeing you again, I suppose. I
shall feel much better when I have had some tea.”
She made them promise not to tell her parents what a silly girl she was;
and then brightened up, and told them of all she had seen and done.
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg arrived, she was all smiles again,
and they were delighted to see her looking so well.
“Married life agrees with you, evidently,” her mother remarked, as she
gave her a prolonged and audible kiss on either cheek. “You are looking
splendid, Addie. Mr. Cohen’s nephew--not the one who married Sol
Benjamin’s niece, but the other one--saw you on the pier at Blackpool,
and said that you and Mike were so taken up with lovemaking, that you
never even acknowledged his existence.”
“It was very windy on the pier,” said Adeline apologetically. “It was
all I could do to keep my hat on. I did not notice any one who was
passing.”
“No, of course not,” put in Mr. Friedberg, with a wink. “No one would
expect you to. By-the-by, what do you think of your house, Addie? It’s
’ansome, isn’t it? That’s the best of having a husband in the furnishing
line. Mike let me have everything at cost price. When these girls get
_chosanim_,”[1] with a sly look at his other daughters, “they shall set
up housekeeping in grand style too.”
Was she never going to get away from that wretched furniture? Adeline
was sick of the very word.
“The next wedding we have in the family,” remarked Mrs. Friedberg,
apropos of nothing, “I shall put out a notice--‘No electro plate
received here.’ It’s simply scandalous the number of fish-carvers you
received, and hardly any of them silver. And fancy that Mrs. Moses
sending a rubbishing cake-basket, after all the kindness and hospitality
we’ve shown her. I don’t know how people can be so mean.”
The clock struck six, and Adeline rose to go. She must be home to have
dinner with Mike, she said, and it was a good way from Maida Vale to
Fitzjohn’s Avenue. She wanted to take Lottie and her young brother
Victor back with her, but her mother was sure Mike would prefer to spend
his first evening at home with his wife alone.
Mrs. Friedberg possessed some curious ideas. She knew, and did not
pretend to ignore the fact, that her daughter’s marriage with Michael
Rosen was a made-up match, and that, had the bridegroom been less
wealthy, or the bride less attractive, the marriage would have never
taken place; yet she persisted in thinking and saying that the bridal
pair were very much in love with each other.
Adeline, like most Jewish girls of the present day, had been taught to
place her affections in accordance with her parents’ wishes. The idea of
falling in love with anybody had never occurred to her. She was a
sensible girl, and knew that even if she so desired--and she did not
desire it--she could never marry a poor man, or a Christian, so she had
resigned herself to the inevitable, and had accepted Michael Rosen
without a protest. Mike was as good as any other rich Jew she had met,
and even if he were of the “broomstick” order of men, he was at least,
as Di had said, inoffensive.
If only she could break him of that detestable habit of talking “shop”
wherever he went! She would have to teach him that there were other
subjects of interest to the generality of people as well as his beloved
“ferniture.”
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCES A SWEET AND LOVABLE JEWISH GIRL
If you had asked who was the most popular man in Durlston, you would
have been told, without a moment’s hesitation, that his name was Herbert
Karne. Broad-chested, large-hearted, and liberal-minded, Herbert won the
hearts of all with whom he came in contact, by his cheery geniality and
his consummate tact. He was a Jew, but he was also an English gentleman,
and was treated as such by the members of the social circle in which he
moved.
Durlston was an uninteresting little town not many miles from
Manchester. There was a very large boot and shoe manufactory at one end
of the tiny High Street, and the population of the town was considerably
increased by the factory labourers and their families. These were mostly
Jews, very poor Jews, who had recently emigrated from Roumania and were
glad to get work, even though it were at almost starvation wages. Mendel
& Co. secured them directly they arrived in Houndsditch, and packed them
off to the Durlston manufactory as occasion required. They were easily
satisfied and obsequious, these poor Jews, and seemed to be able to
exist on next to nothing.
Herbert Karne lived with his half-sister in a pretty country house--The
Towers--just outside the town. He was an artist by profession and a
romancist by nature. He took the greatest interest in the little Jewish
colony which had sprung up almost beneath his windows, and it was his
pleasure to protect the rights of the colonists against the cut-throat
practices of their employers. He agitated for shorter hours and better
pay, and, for fear of being boycotted, Messrs. Mendel & Co. were obliged
to make concessions.
These poor Jews had no spirit of their own; they were utterly
downtrodden with the effect of oppression and destitution: so Karne was
determined to defend their cause, and he became their firm friend and
ally.
Whenever a new batch of Jews arrived in Durlston, he took them in hand
at once. He anglicized them, and made them suppress their Jewish
idiosyncrasies. With the help of his half-sister Celia, and a few
friends, he organized a night school, and taught them to read and write.
He managed to enlist the sympathy of the most influential people in the
county on their behalf, and got up all sorts of literary and musical
entertainments, in order to brighten their empty lives. The educating
and uplifting of these poor waifs of humanity was Herbert’s hobby; he
entered into it heart and soul.
There was no synagogue in Durlston, the nearest one being in Manchester,
so he arranged to have divine service in the schoolroom every Saturday
morning, at which Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory, officiated.
Herbert himself gave the lecture as a rule, and preached not from a
religious so much as from an ethical standpoint. He endeavoured to
instil into his hearers his own high standard of honour and equity; he
wanted to broaden their ideals, and to make them true to the noble
instincts of their ancient race and faith.
And in a great measure he succeeded. There were very few who came under
Herbert Karne’s influence who did not benefit by it. He imbued them with
self-respect, and gave them back their sense of manhood. When they left
the factory--generally to better their position in some way--they were,
most of them, better men and nobler Jews than when they had entered it.
Their backs were no longer bowed with the yoke of oppression. They held
their heads erect, and were able once again to look the whole world in
the face.
It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and Karne’s grounds were
thrown open to receive his friends and _protègèes_. A small piano had
been brought out on the lawn, and somebody was playing one of Strauss’
most inspiriting waltzes. The men smoked, and nodded their heads to the
music, and talked to each other of the hardships of bygone days. The
women darned their stockings, and watched pretty Miss Celia flitting
about in her white dress, with a sweet smile and a kindly word for each
one of them. The dark-eyed children chased each other over the turf,
danced round the piano, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. Some of them
wandered towards the studio, and, standing before the long French
windows, gazed with feelings of awe at the paintings which were the
handiwork of their benefactor. How lovely it must be to be able to paint
wonderful pictures like those, they thought!
Herbert Karne was employed in amusing the babies. They kept him fully
occupied, and demanded all his attention. One little olive-skinned
maiden sat on his knee; another tugged at his hair; and a third played
with his watch-chain. Their host enjoyed it all quite as much as they
did themselves; he was passionately fond of children.
A gentleman was coming out of the house and across the lawn. Mr. Karne
handed the children back to their mothers, and came forward to greet
him.
“Glad to see you, Geoffrey,” he said, as they shook hands. “Celia was
just wishing that you were here. They wanted her to sing, but she was
quite at a loss without you to play her accompaniments. By-the-by,
Geoff, it’s quite decided; she is to go away.”
The young man’s face fell perceptibly. “I am very sorry,” he said, and
his voice was quite husky. “But I think you are quite right, Karne.
Celia has a great future before her, and she is utterly wasted here in
this sleepy little place. With her voice, and her personality, she will
have all London at her feet some day. You will send her to Marchesi in
Paris, I suppose?”
“No; Professor Bemberger thinks she will do just as well at the Academy
in London, or, at least, until her voice is more fully developed. I did
not like the idea of sending her abroad. We have friends in London, and
she will not feel so isolated there.”
They moved up to where Celia was standing--a tall and well-developed
girl, with a quantity of red-gold hair, hazel eyes, and fair complexion.
She had a short high-bridged nose, and a sweet refined mouth. Her
half-brother had once painted her as Hypatia; her features were
distinctly Grecian in type.
She turned round at their approach, and extended her hand to the
new-comer with a cordial greeting.
Geoffrey Milnes was the son of the Vicar of Durlston, and junior partner
of the chief doctor in the town. He was one of Herbert Karne’s most
intimate friends, and spent a good deal of his spare time at the Towers,
where he had established himself as Celia’s accompanist-in-chief. He
possessed the happy knack of being able to make himself useful in almost
any capacity, and was always so eager to assist in any way he could,
that it was quite a pleasure to accept his services.
Celia offered him a chair and a cup of tea. “What brings you here
to-day?” she asked. “I thought you always spent Sunday with your
father.”
“So I do,” he answered, nibbling a tiny piece of cake. “But I happened
to be passing, and, hearing the music, I could not resist the temptation
to look in. If you don’t want me, though, I’ll go away.”
“Of course I want you, and I am very pleased you have come,” she
hastened to assure him. “Only you must think us such Sabbath-breakers.”
“Not at all. You had your Sunday yesterday. We cannot expect you to keep
ours as well.”
“Yesterday was not our Sunday,” Celia corrected him with a smile. “We
had our _Sabbath_ yesterday, but our Sunday is to-day. I have heard so
many people say that we keep our Sunday on Saturday. It sounds Irish to
me.”
“It is rather silly, certainly,” he admitted. “But you see we generally
connect Sunday with the Sabbath in our minds. What are you going to
sing?” he added, as Celia selected some music from a portfolio.
“Something of Schubert’s?”
He went to the piano and struck a few chords. His touch was light and
facile, and he was an excellent accompanist on that account. Celia’s
voice was a sweet and very pure soprano, and she already possessed
remarkable power and flexibility for her age. She sang Beethoven’s
“_Kennst du das Land?_” with expression and a pretty German accent. Her
audience listened entranced. Some of the women put down their sewing;
their vision was clouded by a mist of tears.
“You must not sing any more in the open air,” said Dr. Milnes, as he
rose from the piano. “You will have to take very great care of your
voice now that you have decided to become a professional singer. When
are you going away?”
“On Thursday week,” she answered with a sigh. “The entrance examination
at the Academy is on the Saturday following.”
“So soon!” he said regretfully. “And I suppose you will quite forget the
unsophisticated Durlston people, when you are in the midst of the
excitement of London life?”
“Indeed, I shall not,” she answered him earnestly. “I shall miss them
all dreadfully, especially Herbert and--and you. I wanted Herbert to
take a flat in London so that we could be together, but I cannot get him
to leave Durlston. He thinks the factory people could not do without
him, and he says that he cannot work anywhere but in his own studio. He
is painting his big picture for the Royal Academy, you know.”
“Yes; I shall have to look well after him, or he will knock himself up,
as he did when he was painting his ‘Dawn of Love.’ He allows his
pictures to prey upon his mind, and an attack of insomnia is the usual
consequence.”
Celia was about to reply, but the factory people were beginning to
disperse, and their conversation was interrupted.
A little boy ran up to say good-bye. “You promised me a penny if I took
all my medicine last week, Dr. Milnes,” he said, looking up into
Geoffrey’s eyes with an anxious expression on his little Jewish face.
“I’ve tooked all that nasty stuff, so I’ve come for my penny, please.”
Geoffrey felt in his pockets, but no money was forthcoming.
“I never pay my debts on Sunday, young man,” he said with mock gravity.
“I am sorry, but I have no change. Can’t you wait until to-morrow, when,
if you present your bill, it will be settled in due course?”
The child looked bewildered, and considered a moment. “If I wait till
to-morrow, you ought to give me something extra,” he remarked at length;
and then, as the doctor did not answer, “Make it tuppence,” he added
persuasively, “I’ve waited a week already!”
“One hundred per cent. interest? All right,” agreed Geoffrey; and the
boy went away perfectly happy.
“That boy will get on in the world,” observed Celia, smiling: “he has
what Americans call an ‘eye to the main chance.’”
“I think we most of us have,” said the young doctor, thoughtfully, “only
we don’t like to admit it, even to ourselves.”
“But some people possess it in a more marked degree than others,” she
pursued, bending down to kiss a little dark-eyed maiden of two years
old. “My people, for instance, are noted for their shrewdness. One
seldom finds a Jew who is not a good man of business, and therefore
people--Christian people--are inclined to think that every Jew must of
necessity be a Shylock. Do you know, I can never quite forgive
Shakespeare for creating such a character?”
“Why not? Shylock was a type of an avaricious money-lender, and there
are many such, even in the present day. And a typical character, in
order to make an impression, is bound to be overdrawn. I am sure that
Shakespeare was not out of sympathy with the Jews. Do you not remember
the famous speech--‘Hath not a Jew eyes,’ etc.? And then there was
Shylock’s daughter Jessica, a sweet and lovable Jewish girl.”
He paused, suddenly recollecting that he was treading on somewhat
dangerous ground, for Celia’s father, Bernie Franks, was a well-known
Capetown financier and former money-lender, and his reputation was not
of the best. Nevertheless, Bernie Frank’s daughter was, like Jessica, a
sweet and lovable girl. Geoffrey Milnes thought her the sweetest girl in
the world, but he had not the courage to tell her so. He had allowed
himself to fall in love with her, knowing that such a love was quite
hopeless, and could only cause them both unhappiness and pain. There was
the barrier of race and faith between them, and he knew that neither
his people nor hers would sanction their marriage, even if Celia really
loved him--and he was not sure that such was the case.
The church bells were ringing for Evensong, and Geoffrey was obliged to
take his leave.
Herbert Karne accompanied him part of his way, and Celia went into the
house singing blithely. She, at least, was perfectly heart-whole as
yet.
CHAPTER III
THE BARRIER OF RACE AND FAITH
The studio at the Towers was built on elevated ground at the north side
of the house; and was approached by a short flight of steps leading from
the hall. From where the artist sat at his easel, he could obtain a
bird’s-eye view of Durlston, which consisted of chimney-pots and church
spires, relieved by a small park in the centre of the town, with grassy
fields surrounding it; and, beyond that, the smoky haze of a
manufacturing city.
There was not much in the prospect from which to derive inspiration, but
it was all-sufficient for Herbert Karne. He liked to look up from his
picture and note the varying aspect of his garden at the different
seasons of the year. There was always something new to see and admire,
for Nature is ever-changing, and Herbert knew of every bud that
blossomed, and every flower that bloomed.
It was autumn now, the season of decay. The richly tinted leaves were
falling fast, and made quite a thick carpet on the gravelled paths. The
trees, which but a few months ago had been so fresh and green, were
adopting sombre hues of golden-brown. Some of them were already bare,
and waved their gaunt arms in the breeze as though in warning. “Life and
youth are short,” they seemed to say, “and all must die.”
The artist’s brain was busy as he worked. He cast his mind back to the
time of his mother’s death, some twelve years ago. Her second marriage
had not been a success, for Bernie Franks had never properly understood
her refined and gentle nature; so that when, attacked by the
money-making fever, he went off to Johannesburg to make his fortune, his
wife, on the plea of delicate health, remained at home with her two
children.
She never saw him again, for he enjoyed life out in South Africa so
much, that he would not trouble to come home, even when he knew that she
was ill. When she died, he wrote for little Celia to come out to him,
but changed his mind before the next mail, and wrote again, saying that
her coming would greatly inconvenience him, and asking Herbert to find a
boarding-school for her.
Karne was studying art in Paris at the time, but he returned to England
before the funeral, and, in accordance with his mother’s last wish, took
charge of his little half-sister. He and Celia were devoted to each
other, and the child begged so hard not to be sent away from him to
boarding-school, that he engaged a housekeeper whom his mother had
known, and sent the little girl to a high school. Her education became
his greatest care; and when she showed marked ability for music, he had
her taught by one of the cleverest professors in the county, in order to
have her talent developed in the best way possible.
And now she had come to womanhood, and was anxious to spread her wings
and see a little more of the world. Her teacher, Professor Bemberger,
had imbued her with the idea that, with a voice like hers, it would be a
thousand pities if she did not become a professional singer. He made her
dissatisfied with her quiet life at Durlston; it was tame and dull, he
said. In London, she would live, not vegetate; and in glowing terms he
described what her life as a successful singer would be.
Her half-brother received the idea with disfavour. Celia had no need to
earn money by her voice, he said, for she was the daughter of a wealthy
man; and in professional life there was disappointment to be met with,
as well as success. He painted the reverse side of the picture, the hard
work and many worrying details which must of necessity arise; but Celia
would not be discouraged, and, as she had so set her heart on it, he
reluctantly gave his consent. Now, however, that her going was decided,
and everything definitely arranged, he wondered if he had done right
after all.
Celia, besides being an accomplished musician, was a beautiful and
winsome girl, and although not altogether lacking in _savoir faire_,
possessed very little knowledge of the world. Might not her beauty prove
a danger to her in her new life? Hitherto she had been carefully
guarded, for her brother had himself chosen her friends, and her tastes
and ideas had been led in the right direction. Was he wise in sending
her away from his influence, where she would come into contact with all
sorts and conditions of people, and must inevitably pick up fresh ideas
of evil as well as good?
He was so engrossed with these thoughts that he did not notice the
click of the latch as a lady opened the French window from without, and
only when he heard the rustle of silken skirts was he made aware of her
presence. She was a very daintily clad little woman, with a bright face
and vivacious manner. Her blue eyes sparkled with kindliness, and her
small mouth betokened a keen sense of humour.
Lady Marjorie Stonor may have possessed a great many faults, but her
worst enemy could not have accused her of being dull. She was in the
habit of dropping in at the Towers when she knew that she would find the
artist at work, and although she disturbed him seriously with her light
chatter, Herbert could not but be glad to see her, for she had helped
him a good deal with his work amongst the factory people, and was one of
Celia’s greatest friends.
He rose to greet her, and she established herself comfortably in a low
wicker chair. She had come, she said, firstly to bring him an order from
the county hospital for one of the factory men, and secondly to discuss
Celia’s future. She was anxious to know if Mr. Karne were aware that all
the Durlston people were anticipating Celia’s engagement to Dr. Geoffrey
Milnes!
Mr. Karne was not aware of it; he was most astonished; he had never
dreamt of such a thing. He turned round and confronted his interlocutor
with a look of consternation. How on earth could such a rumour have got
about?
Lady Marjorie gave vent to a rippling laugh of amusement.
“Oh, you men!” she exclaimed. “You are as blind as bats, and have no
more perception than a rhinoceros! You have allowed Celia to see
Geoffrey Milnes constantly, to ride with him, drive with him, and sing
with him. He is a nice young fellow, and she is a beautiful girl, and
yet you are surprised that they should fall in love with each other. Do
you mean to say, seriously, that you have never thought of such a
contingency, Mr. Karne?”
“Indeed, I have not,” he answered with contracted brows. “I am very
grieved indeed, if such is the case, for nothing but trouble can come of
it; but I think and hope that you are mistaken, Lady Marjorie. If I had
had the faintest idea of such a thing, I should have put a stop to their
intimacy long ago.”
“But why?” she asked eagerly. “He is only a country doctor, it is true,
and has no brilliant prospects, but if they really love each other----”
“You forget that Celia is a Jewess,” he interposed gravely, “and that
Dr. Milnes is the son of a Christian clergyman. Do you think that, much
as the vicar likes Celia, he would approve of his son’s marriage with
one whom he terms an unbeliever? And even should he approve, I should
not do so, for I think most emphatically that mixed marriages are a
mistake.”
Lady Marjorie’s blue eyes were quite troubled. “I don’t know about
that,” she said musingly. “My dear husband was a Roman Catholic and I am
a Protestant, yet we never had a single quarrel over religion; and he
was a man with peculiar views, you know. I dare say you remember that,
when he died, I had to send his heart to be buried in Jerusalem--that
was just one of his religious fads, and he had many more, poor dear.”
She paused a moment to raise a diminutive lace handkerchief to her eyes,
and then added cheerfully, “But I let him go his way, and I went mine,
and we were very happy together.”
“Yes, but in this case there is a difference of race as well as
religion. Celia is not prejudiced in any way, nevertheless she would
find many little things that would go against the grain, so to speak,
and offend her inborn Jewish instincts. I do not think there can be
perfect unity between a Christian husband and a Jewish wife, or _vice
versâ_; there are bound to be certain jars for which neither is to
blame.”
Lady Marjorie moved her position, so that he could not see her face.
“If you really loved a woman,” she said in a low voice, “it would not
matter to you if she were a Heathen Chinee. Love knows neither
nationality nor creed. Besides, Celia is not a Jewish Jewess, you know.”
“More’s the pity,” he answered, as he rose and paced the room. “I am
afraid that I have not quite done my duty in allowing her to grow up
without any Jewish society and influence other than my own. However, I
am sending her to stay with an orthodox Jewish family in Maida Vale,
where she will see more of Jewish home and social life than she has ever
done before.”
He ceased speaking abruptly as the girl herself made her appearance. Her
eyes were bright, and there was a slight flush on her cheeks. She sank
on to a chair with an air of relief, for she had been for a long walk
and was tired.
Lady Marjorie greeted her with warmth. “So you are going to leave us,
naughty girl!” she said affectionately. “I hope that when you have
become a second Patti, you will not forget old friends.”
Celia laughed merrily. “Oh no, I won’t forget you,” she answered
lightly. “Besides, I am going to make my _début_ at your ‘At Home,’ you
know.”
“Yes, that’s right. I shall be in town at the end of April, and shall
quite enjoy being the first to ‘discover’ the coming singer.”
“I don’t suppose she will be allowed to sing in public for several years
yet,” said Herbert, doubtfully. “There is a great deal of hard work to
be gone through first.”
Celia made a little grimace. “Herbert is a dreadful damper,” she said
with a pout. “I don’t believe he wants me to go.”
“Ah well, he will miss you, dear,” said Lady Marjorie, kindly. “There
will be no one to look after him when you are gone.”
“He ought to get married,” suggested the girl with a smile. “A wife is
just the very thing he wants. I wish you would persuade him to look out
for one, Lady Marjie.”
There was an awkward pause. Herbert grew crimson and embarrassed; and
Lady Marjorie bent down to stroke the dog which lay at her feet.
Celia looked from one to the other in surprise, whilst a new thought
came into her mind. Had she hit upon the true reason of Lady Marjorie’s
constant visits to the Towers, and her interest in Herbert’s work at the
factory, she wondered? True, Lady Marjorie had professed to be very
fond of her husband, but he had been much older than herself; whereas
Herbert was about her own age, and they had many tastes in common.
She thought she had better change the subject, and showed her friend a
jewel case which had just been given her. It contained a gold brooch,
the pattern of which was two hearts entwined, with a ruby set in the
apex of each.
“Who gave you this?” asked Lady Marjorie, with a significant glance at
Herbert Karne. “It is very pretty.”
“Dr. Milnes gave it to me for a keepsake,” she answered frankly. “Was it
not kind of him?”
“Yes, very. I suppose you will prize it highly? You like Dr. Milnes,
don’t you, Celia?”
“Oh yes, Geoffrey is a nice boy,” she replied, looking at them both
quite innocently. “He is a great friend of Herbert’s and mine.”
CHAPTER IV
GEOFFREY RECEIVES UNPALATABLE ADVICE
Herbert Karne was greatly disturbed by what Lady Marjorie had told him;
and he was vexed with himself for not having foreseen the possible
consequences of Dr. Milnes’ frequent visits to the Towers. Now that he
came to think of it, there were several little lover-like attentions
which Geoffrey had paid to his sister before his very eyes, and he had
been so dense that he had never noticed them before. He attempted to
find out now how far the mischief had gone, and if any understanding had
taken place between the two. He scarcely cared to ask Celia outright,
for if Lady Marjorie were, after all, mistaken, he did not want even to
suggest to the girl that such might be the case. He could hardly bring
himself to believe that Celia would think of becoming engaged without
having first consulted him, for she was of an open and confiding nature,
and knew quite well that her half-brother was her best and truest
friend.
The next few days passed like lightning, for Celia had a great deal to
do and several farewell visits to pay. She began her packing several
days in advance, assisted by her bosom friend Gladys Milnes, and the
housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons. Gladys hated packing unless she were going
away herself, and the only service she rendered was to sit on the top of
the trunks when they were full, and to relieve Celia of some of the
chocolate which Herbert had brought back from Paris. Herbert came
upstairs occasionally to see how they were getting on, and found the two
girls in a state of great excitement. Either they were squabbling about
what should be taken or left behind, or else they were giggling over
something quite absurd, or else they were in tears at the thought of
parting; and the ways of girls being past his understanding, he decided
to leave them severely alone.
Dr. Milnes had been to Manchester for a few days, and only arrived home
the day before Celia’s departure, when they met him at a little
dinner-party at Durlston House, the residence of Lady Marjorie Stonor.
Celia was not in the drawing-room when he arrived, for she had gone up
to say good night to Lady Marjorie’s little boy, Bobbie; but when she
did make her appearance, looking very charming in a gown of the palest
shade of blue, Geoffrey pounced upon her immediately, as was his wont,
and, drawing her aside into a small alcove, they engaged in an animated
conversation.
Herbert Karne watched them with some disapproval, for, however much he
liked Dr. Milnes as a friend, he scarcely cared to regard him in the
light of Celia’s lover. When dinner was over, he invited him to have a
hundred up in the billiard-room before they rejoined the ladies, and
Geoffrey, although a little bit surprised, readily agreed. The artist,
however, had not the slightest desire for a game, and, after knocking
the balls aimlessly about, put down his cue, and meditatively lit a
cigar.
“I say, old man, I want to ask you a straight question,” he said; “will
you give me a straight answer?”
Geoffrey Milnes looked surprised. “Certainly, if I can,” he replied, as
he struck a match. “What is it? Fire away.”
“Well, it’s simply this. Have you been talking any nonsense to my
sister?”
Geoffrey coloured up. “It depends on what you consider nonsense,” he
replied. “Our conversations are not often of a weighty description, I
admit, but----” He finished off with a shrug.
“You know what I mean,” broke in Karne, impatiently. “It has been
brought to my knowledge that you have been indulging in a flirtation
with Celia. I simply want to know if there is any truth in it or not?”
The young doctor looked him straight in the eyes. “There is no truth in
it whatsoever,” he answered. “I hate flirtation, for it is not only in
bad taste, but it is cruel also, and I never go in for it in the
slightest degree. But as we are on the subject, Karne, I may as well
tell you that I do love your sister very dearly--she is the one girl in
the world for me; and, if all goes well, I hope, some day, to win her
for my wife.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.” Herbert threw down his cigar, and leant against the
mantelpiece. “Listen to me, Geoffrey. You are an old friend of mine, and
I like you; I don’t know of any fellow that I like better, so I want you
to take what I am going to say in good part. Celia is a pretty girl and
a thoroughly good girl, but she would not be a suitable wife for you.
Firstly, you are a country doctor, and, as the son of the Vicar of
Durlston, you have certain social and parochial duties to fulfil, in the
performance of which your wife should materially assist. Celia could not
do this--she is not adapted to it; and when she has tasted professional
and social life in London, I am quite sure that she will not be content
to rusticate as a country doctor’s wife. There is no offence meant,
Geoff, of course.”
“But I hope I shall not always be a country doctor,” interposed the
young man, quickly. “I am not without ambition, Karne, and I mean to try
and work myself up to the top of my profession. Besides, as you know, my
uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, practises in Harley Street. He is getting
old now, and has given me every reason to believe that I shall step into
his shoes when he finds that his energies are flagging. I should not
dream of asking Celia to become my wife until my position was assured.”
“I suppose you know that Celia will inherit a considerable fortune at
her father’s death?” asked Herbert, as he watched the other’s face
keenly. “Bernie Franks is one of the richest men at the Cape, and that
is saying a good deal.”
Geoffrey’s countenance lengthened, and he puffed away vigorously at his
cigar.
“I did not know of it, or if I did know it I had forgotten,” he said
gloomily. “Of course that makes it harder for me. With wealth as well as
beauty and talent, Celia can wed some one in a much higher position
than I can ever hope to attain. This is your chief objection, I
suppose, Karne? It was kind of you not to tell it me in so many words.”
Herbert ignored the last remark. “Another thing,” he pursued earnestly,
“Celia is a true Jewess by faith as well as by race, and you are, so far
as I know, a devout and earnest Christian. I contend that there cannot
be absolute unity ’twixt husband and wife when difference of religious
opinions exists between them. Of course you might endeavour to convert
Celia to your own faith, but I do not think you would succeed. We Jews
have deeply rooted opinions--call them prejudices if you will,--and we
instinctively cling to the faith of our ancestors. However lax we may be
in the performance of our religious duties, we like to remember that, in
spite of everything that tends to draw us away from Judaism, we still
are Jews, and we set our faces hard against any attempt at our
conversion.”
“You may be sure that I should respect Celia’s religious beliefs, and I
should certainly not try to convince her otherwise against her will,”
responded Geoffrey. “I believe that conversion should be voluntary; it
is seldom sincere and lasting when brought about by coercion or
persuasion. And as for wishing Celia to become a Christian from motives
of expediency, you ought to know me better than that, Karne.”
He paused. From the drawing-room there arose the sound of sweet music.
His sister Gladys was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat, and although
her rendering of it was not at all Chopinesque, and her technique
faulty, her playing was not without charm. They listened in silence
until the last note died away, and each was busy with his own thoughts.
“Are you sure that Celia reciprocates your feelings of affection?” asked
the artist, suddenly. “I know that she likes you very much indeed, but I
doubt whether she has ever considered you as a possible lover.”
“That I don’t know,” said Geoffrey, with a sigh. “I wanted to find out
before she went away.”
“Well, the best advice I can give you is to wait a while. You are both
young, and have your lives before you. If you spoke to Celia now, you
would unsettle her mind, and perhaps cause her pain. I want her to start
out on her musical career without anything to worry her, so that she may
give her whole attention to her studies. It will be much better for both
of you to wait a few years. When Celia has met more people and has seen
a little more of the world, she will be better able to judge whether she
loves you or not; and, you know, love that will not stand the test of
time and separation is not real love at all.”
“Yes, that’s all very well; but if I let Celia go without a word, she
may think that I am indifferent to her. I feel that if I do not come to
some understanding with her now, while her heart is free and she is
unspoilt by flattery and adulation, I may lose her for ever. You speak
so coolly, Karne. Have _you_ never had a love-affair of your own? Cannot
you understand how I feel?”
He spoke impetuously, and did not stop to think that his question was,
perhaps, a presumptuous one. Although they had been friends for so long
a time, Herbert had never been confidential so for as his _affaires du
cœur_ were concerned, and love was a subject he had hitherto tabooed.
Yet to his nature love was a necessary adjunct, and without it his life
would have been incomplete.
“My love affair was a fiasco,” he said slowly, while his face assumed a
hard expression. “It is a painful subject to me, Geoffrey, and that is
why I have never spoken about it. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you
all, but not now. I am paying the penalty of it even yet; and therefore
I am doubly anxious that Celia’s happiness should be assured. It is much
better, so much better, to wait a few short years, than to make a
lifelong mistake such as mine has been.”
Geoffrey Milnes was surprised and moved; and his face lit up with ready
sympathy. He knew that there was some secret at the back of Herbert
Karne’s life, some trouble that was continually weighing him down: and
though he would have been glad to have found out what it was, so that,
if possible, he might have helped his friend, he had the tact not to
press for his confidence just then, but to wait until it was voluntarily
given.
The drawing-room door was opened, and they heard the hum of voices on
the stairs. Celia’s silvery laugh floated towards them; she was coming
up to search for the deserters.
“Well, I will take your advice and say nothing to Celia at present,”
Geoffrey said hurriedly, as he handled his cue and sent the balls
rolling over the table. “But I am in earnest, Karne, and I shall remind
you of this at some future time.”
The door was opened sharply, and Gladys Milnes entered with a bounce.
“There they are, the truants!” she exclaimed, as Celia followed more
leisurely. “We all think it extremely rude of you to desert us in this
unchivalrous manner. Lady Marjorie wants you to come and hear Miss
Stannard recite. It’s something very tragic, so Celia and I thought we
had better take our leave in case we were overcome with our emotions.
The last time we heard her recite, we exploded in the middle of it, and
she hasn’t forgiven us yet. Father said it was very bad manners, but we
couldn’t help it, for Miss Stannard’s tragic recitations are too funny
for anything. Come on, Geoff, you can sit just inside the drawing-room
near the door, and Celia and I will stand outside and pull faces at you.
I bet you anything we’ll make you laugh, especially when Miss Stannard
comes to the part about the ‘ruddy gore,’ and the ‘br-r-reaking
hear-r-rt.’ Won’t we, Celia?”
“Don’t be so silly, Gladys,” admonished her brother severely; “you get
more babyish every day.”
He switched off the electric light, and they passed down the shallow
staircase.
Miss Stannard had already begun her recitation, and, not wishing to
disturb her, they lingered in the hall. Celia seated herself on the
stairs with her feet resting on the lowest step, and, as a natural
consequence, Geoffrey followed suit. He rested his chin on his hands,
and heaved a deep sigh. It seemed so very hard to have to part with
Celia without having told her of what was in his heart, when perhaps
some other fellow in London would snap her up before she had time to
look round. He had half a mind to tell her everything there and then,
in spite of what Herbert had said, but he managed to restrain his
desire, and contented himself with looking very forlorn instead.
Celia glanced at him curiously. “Whatever is the matter with you,
Geoffrey?” she whispered. “You are sighing like some love-sick swain.”
“Supposing I were a love-sick swain,” he answered, with a faint attempt
at a smile; “what would you advise me to do?”
“I scarcely know,” she returned without embarrassment. “But I will give
you an antidote which Major Denham told me. It is to go and see your
best girl before breakfast one morning when she does not expect you, and
her hair is in curl-papers, and she is wearing a dowdy blouse. Major
Denham says that a little touch of prosaic realism like that is the best
thing to counteract the effect of romantic sentiment. He has found it a
most efficient cure himself.”
“Yes, but if my best girl never wears curl-papers or a dowdy blouse,
what then?”
Celia rose to join the others in the drawing-room. “In that case I’m
afraid I cannot advise you,” she said, with a roguish glance from under
her long lashes. “But if you consult Major Denham, perhaps he will be
able to tell you what to do.”
CHAPTER V
THE FRIEDBERGS OF MAIDA VALE
Mrs. Friedberg possessed one of the kindest hearts in the world, and
when she heard that Celia Franks, whose father was a distant relative of
her own, intended coming to London, she at once offered the girl a
temporary home, so that she should not have to go and live amongst
strangers. Her daughters demurred just a little when the plan was first
suggested, for the prospect of having another girl about the house was
not particularly pleasing to them; but their mother, taking into
consideration that a good many bills in connection with Adeline’s
wedding were as yet unpaid, and that Mr. Karne’s terms were sufficiently
liberal to enable her to settle at least some of them, overruled their
numerous objections, and wrote off to Durlston to make all arrangements.
They were quite delighted with Celia when she came. She was so different
to what they had imagined her to be, and her sweet face and gentle
manners quite won their hearts. They did all they could to put her at
her ease, and very soon came to look upon her as one of the family; but
Celia was shy and reserved at first, and it took her some time to
become accustomed to the novelty of her surroundings.
Herbert Karne brought her to town, and stayed for a few days in order to
go with her to the entrance examination at the Academy. The principal
was delighted with her voice, and arranged for her to go to M. Emil
Lambert, the eminent professor of singing. She was also to be taught
elocution, pianoforte, harmony, and counterpoint, and was to attend the
various classes and lectures in connection with the Academy curriculum.
Herbert was glad that her time would be so fully occupied, for she would
have no opportunity for feeling the pain of separation.
“You will be a musician to your finger tips by the time you have
finished studying,” he said, as they came away.
Mrs. Friedberg gave Celia a sitting-room at the top of the house, where
she could practise without the least fear of being disturbed. It was
light and cheerful, and looked out upon the front of the road. Celia
liked to sit by the window and watch the omnibuses pass; and she would
speculate as to where all the passengers were going. The life and
movement in the streets quite fascinated her: it was so entirely
different from the quiet seclusion of the Towers.
When Herbert had gone, and her first attack of homesickness had been
overcome, the girl amused herself by unpacking and arranging some of the
little treasures she had brought from Durlston. The room looked more
homelike when her cuckoo-clock was on the mantelpiece, and her own
little knick-knacks were arranged on the sideboard. Then there were her
numerous books and music, which, with their familiar bindings, greeted
her like old friends as she sorted and put them in their places.
The piano had been placed against the wall, but Celia had it moved into
the centre of the room; and draped the back of it with stiff ivory silk,
on the centre of which was a beautiful representation of St. Cecilia at
the organ, the handiwork of her brother.
The appearance of the room was quite transformed by the time she had
finished, and she called Lottie Friedberg up to see the changes she had
made. A large painting of Herbert Karne, done by himself, rested on an
easel of carved oak, and close by was a panel portrait, in the Rembrandt
style, of Lady Marjorie Stonor in evening dress. Celia had instinctively
placed these two in close proximity to each other, though she did not
know why she had done so. There were other pictures and paintings in
evidence as well, and Lottie examined them all with keen interest.
“That’s rather a nice-looking fellow,” she observed, pausing before a
cabinet photograph in a silver frame; “he looks like an actor, and his
eyes are just a wee bit like George Alexander’s, don’t you think so?”
Celia smiled. “I don’t know Mr. Alexander, so I can’t say,” she
returned. “But this gentleman does not belong to the dramatic
profession. He is a doctor--a great friend of my brother’s.”
“I suppose you met a good many Christian johnnies in Durlston, didn’t
you?” queried Lottie, as she turned over the pages of an autograph
album. “We don’t see many here. Ma doesn’t like them, because, as they
are no good for matrimonial purposes, she thinks it is not much use
knowing them. There’s one lives next door, Harold Brooke, and we
sometimes meet him at the Earls Court Exhibition with some more fellows.
Maud and I got stuck on the big wheel with them once, for more than an
hour, and Ma was down below shouting up to us, and looking as wild as
can be. Oh, it was such a lark, I can tell you! I must introduce you to
the Brookes. Harold is rather good fun, and not so insipid as most
_goyeshka_[2] fellows, but he’s got two stuck-up sisters, and they
always pass us by with their noses in the air--because we happen to be
Jews, I suppose. They have a cousin staying with them, Enid Wilton, who
is rather a nice girl. She is studying music at the Academy, too, so I
expect you will meet her there.”
She sat down at the piano, and began to strum a popular ditty. Lottie
always made it a rule to learn the latest song directly it came out; she
would have considered it quite a crime to have played anything belonging
to one of last season’s comic operas.
Celia watched her as she played. She was a well-built girl of eighteen,
with very dark hair and eyes, a slightly aquiline nose, and full red
lips. Her forehead was low, and not particularly intelligent, and her
mouth indicated sensuality. She wore a number of bangles at her wrists,
which jingled and knocked against the keyboard as she played. The jingle
quite irritated Celia, and she was not sorry when the gong sounded
somewhere in the lower regions for supper, and Lottie closed the piano
with a bang.
The two girls went downstairs arm-in-arm. Lottie seemed inclined to be
very friendly, and showed her affection in a somewhat demonstrative
manner.
As they were entering the dining-room, Mr. Friedberg passed in just
before them, rubbing his hands dry from his ceremonial ablutions, and
mumbling some prayers as he did so. Then he took some bread and dipped
it in salt, whilst he said the Hebrew grace, after which he took his
seat at the supper table. He was a short thick-set man with a grey
beard; and he habitually wore a black velvet skull-cap.
The other members of the family sat down with a great deal of chatter,
and minus the grace. Mrs. Friedberg immediately collared the eldest boy,
Montie, and ungently pushed him out of the room.
“Go upstairs and wash your hands, you lazy young jackanapes!” she called
out indignantly. “And take Victor with you, and ask Mary for a clean
collar. How dare you come to table looking like chimney-sweeps! I am
quite ashamed of them,” she added, turning to Celia, apologetically.
“They give me more trouble than all the girls put together.”
She took her place at the head of the table, and began to carve some
smoked beef; whilst Maud, her eldest unmarried daughter, who sat at the
other end, served the boys to liberal helpings of cold fried fish.
There was very little resemblance between Maud and her mother, for Mrs.
Friedberg was stout and florid, with prominent cheek-bones and a loud
high-pitched voice. Maud, on the contrary, was thin, and of
insignificant appearance. Her eyebrows receded from her eyes, and made
her look as if she had once been surprised and had never quite recovered
from it; and she was in the habit of going about with her mouth open.
Dinah, the youngest girl, was the prettiest of the bunch; for her eyes
were large and expressive, and she could smile very naïvely on occasion.
She had long cork-screw curls, which reached almost to her waist and
were tied by a piece of ribbon. These curls were the plague of her life,
for the boys could never resist the temptation to pull them whenever
they approached her vicinity, and a quarrel nearly always ensued.
Celia sat between Victor and Lottie, much to the former’s discomfort,
for he was shy and awkward in the presence of a stranger. Mrs. Friedberg
watched him with the eyes of a ferret, and worried him with so many
“don’ts” that the poor boy became quite flustered, and accidentally
upset a glass of claret over Celia’s dress. His mother was furious, and
broke into a tirade of wrath, though Celia assured her that her skirt
was an old one, and that it was not of the slightest consequence. Victor
subsided under the table, and boohooed lustily; and although Celia felt
very sorry for him, she did not like to interfere.
She found the social amenities of family life a little bit trying at
first, for she was so unused to anything of the sort. The Friedbergs as
a family possessed exuberant spirits, and did not mind telling each
other home-truths, which had the effect of making Celia feel exceedingly
uncomfortable. She often thought they were quarrelling, when in reality
they were only indulging in affectionate banter, but there had never
been anything of the kind between her half-brother and herself, and she
was not able to understand it.
As the meal progressed, she noticed that each piece of bread and butter
which she transferred to her own plate, Lottie immediately turned over,
with the buttered side downwards. Celia was quite mystified, until
Lottie told her the reason after supper, when they were out for a stroll
in the garden.
“You must have thought it very rude of me to touch your bread,” she said
laughingly. “But I was so anxious to prevent Pa from seeing the butter.
Of course you can do as you like, and have butter with meat if you want
it; but Pa is so particular, and it would have upset him dreadfully if
he had noticed it.”
Celia was genuinely surprised. “How stupid of me!” she exclaimed, quite
vexed with herself. “It never occurred to me to consider that at all.
Herbert and I do not observe the Jewish dietary and ceremonial laws, so
you must excuse any blunders I may make.”
“But surely you keep a Jewish house, don’t you?” asked Di, looking quite
shocked. “I suppose you have _kosher_[3] food, and all that; though I
should think it must be rather difficult to procure in a little place
like Durlston?”
Celia shook her head. “No, we don’t keep what you call a Jewish house,”
she answered frankly, “although we could do so if we wished, for there
is a Jewish provision shop in Durlston, where all the people at Mendel’s
factory buy their things. Whenever we give an entertainment for the
factory people, we always provide _kosher_ food for them, otherwise
they wouldn’t come; but we never trouble about it for ourselves. You
see, Herbert does not believe in it,” she added, almost apologetically.
“And he is so sincere, that he would not keep it up simply for old
association’s sake.”
Di and Lottie exchanged glances. They began to foresee trouble; for
unless Celia intended to conform to their customs, there would be
constant dissension in the house. They knew their father so well. He was
an orthodox Jew of the old school, and had no patience with the
new-fashioned way of making religion fit in with the usages of modern
Jewish society. His wife and children, however, held entirely different
ideas; and in order to satisfy him as to their vigilance in religious
duties, they were obliged to have recourse to all kinds of petty
deceits. They knew exactly how far they could bamboozle him without
running the risk of detection; for woe betide any member of the family
whom Mr. Friedberg found disregarding some item of the law. Lottie
wondered what course her father would adopt where Celia was concerned.
He certainly had no right to interfere with her, so long as she did not
offend his religious susceptibilities in any way; but, in the matter of
ceremonial religion, he was so arbitrary that he would most probably
take it upon himself to act as her mentor. She deemed it advisable to
give Celia a few hints about her father’s rigid surveillance, and how
best to avoid it; but Dinah interposed, and skilfully changed the
subject, for she thought that her sister was telling a little more than
was necessary.
They had said enough between them, however, to set Celia thinking; and
by the time she retired to rest that night, she had made up her mind,
that neither Mr. Friedberg nor any one else should ever become the
keeper of her conscience.
CHAPTER VI
AN ACADEMY STUDENT
Before Celia had been at the Academy a month, she came to the conclusion
that musicians generally were the most jealous and conceited species of
the human race. It amused her greatly to hear the students--and
especially the girl students--condescendingly speak of Paderewski’s “no
mean abilities,” and Madame Patti’s “ofttimes faulty vocalization.” To
her such musical giants as these were beyond criticism; but then, of
course, she was a new student, and correspondingly unsophisticated.
She gradually came to divide these girl critics into two classes--those
who raved over the latest long-haired musician and designated him as
“such an artist, don’t you know!” and those belonging to the _nil
admirari_ set, who methodically pulled to pieces every one who possessed
more talent than themselves. Celia herself was prepared at that time to
admire everybody and everything. She had not yet overcome her first
feeling of awe at actually having become an Academy student--of being
able to meet in person those “lions” of the musical profession, whom
hitherto she had regarded but as names. She sat in the concert-room,
and listened to the orchestra almost reverently, for there was no saying
how many embryo Beethovens and Mozarts there might not be among that
medley of players. Then she managed to lose herself in the labyrinth of
passages with which the Academy abounds, and was obliged to ask a
dyspeptic-looking youth the way back to the entrance hall. He was lanky
and narrow-shouldered, but he might be a genius for all that--perhaps a
second Wagner even,--so Celia addressed him with respect accordingly.
Her first singing-lesson--to which she had looked forward with much
trepidation--was not such an ordeal as she had expected it to be. She
had been told that Lambert was a bully and a boor; and when she noticed
the pupil who came before her quit the room in tears, her spirits sank
to zero. Lambert, however, received Celia quite graciously, and leered
at her in a manner which he seemed to consider irresistible. He was a
little man with shaggy white hair, and a face reminiscent of a bull
terrier; and he had a way of grunting his remarks, which considerably
strengthened the canine effect of his personality.
Had Celia been of a more nervous temperament, she would certainly have
been disconcerted by his repeated attempts to flurry her, but his
caustic remarks only served to put her on her mettle, and she was
determined not to be over-awed.
“Who did you say was your master?” he asked for the fourth time, as she
prepared to take her leave. “Bemberger? H’m. Don’t think much of his
method. Too much _tremolo_; sounds like shaking a water-bottle.
Practise those exercises I gave you; don’t attempt a song for six
months. Good-day!”
Celia was aghast. Not attempt a song for six months. What a decree! All
her visions of fame as a successful singer melted into thin air; she was
a humble little student at the bottom of the ladder, and nothing more.
Her fellow-pupils, however, thought she had got on capitally. She could
not possibly have expected Lambert to present her with a laurel wreath
straight off, they said; and as he had not thrown the music at her, or
told her to go and keep a tripe and trotters shop in preference to
entering the musical profession, as he had been known to do to others,
they thought she had done very well.
“Wait until you’ve seen him in a royal rage, my dear!” said one of them,
encouragingly. “He was just as mild as butter to-day.”
In spite of her reserve, Celia had already made several friends at the
Academy. There were half a dozen little cliques of girls--either
vocalists, pianists, or violinists--who pretended to adore each other,
and formed a mutual admiration society amongst themselves. They competed
for the same prizes and scholarships; and although the lucky winners
were congratulated and fêted by their associates, they were quite aware
that behind it all lay a vast amount of jealousy and heart-burning.
Celia became the centre of one of these cliques by reason of her
striking personality. Her fellow students would turn round and stare at
her as she passed up and down the stairs, and, when she had gone, they
would argue as to whether her hair was dyed and her complexion
artificial. Then, when it became known that she was one of Lambert’s
pupils, they vested her with a certain amount of prestige on that
account, for Lambert only troubled to take exceptionally gifted
vocalists.
One day, as she was coming up from her harmony lesson, trying not to
look self-conscious under the keen scrutiny of her companions, one of
the girls, also a Lambert pupil, accosted her, and, after having
cross-examined her as to her name, age, and place of abode, introduced
her to the clique of the “elect.” Celia found herself surrounded by
would-be friends after that, and eventually became one of the most
popular students at the Academy.
There was only one among all her numerous acquaintances, however, whom
she ever considered a friend in the true sense of the word. This was
Enid Wilton, the girl who was staying next door to the Friedbergs in
Maida Vale.
Enid did not belong to the “elect,” for she was neither smart nor
brilliant, but there was something so sweet and _spirituelle_ about her,
that Celia fell in love with her at their first introduction. Whenever
the hours of their lessons tallied, the two girls went to and from the
Academy together; and although neither of them was inclined to be
communicative, they were in possession of each other’s family history
before they had been acquainted a week. Enid was two years older than
Celia, and the second daughter out of a family of eight. Her father was
a solicitor, and lived near Brighton; and her eldest brother Ralph was
curate at a poverty-stricken church in the East End of London. Mrs.
Brooke, with whom she was staying, was her mother’s sister. Enid took
Celia home with her one day to be introduced to her aunt and cousins,
and, in due course, Celia received a formal invitation to Mrs. Brooke’s
“At Home” on the first Wednesday in the month.
Celia wanted to take one of the girls with her when the day came round,
but Maud and Di were otherwise engaged, and Lottie declined with thanks.
“I am not fond of the Brookes,” she said in explanation. “They are very
cordial one day and snub us the next, and I don’t like people of that
description. Besides, their ‘At Homes’ are so dreadfully stiff. I went
once with Ma just after Adeline’s wedding. There were several visitors
there, and nearly all the chairs were occupied, but Harold managed to
find one for Ma. It was a stupid little spindle-legged thing--I believe
the wicked boy chose it on purpose,--and directly Ma sat down, it went
bang; you know Ma’s weight. Fortunately, she didn’t hurt herself; but
her bodice was tight, and split at the seams, and her bonnet went all
awry. She looked just as if she had been having a fight; and we both
vowed that we would never go there again.”
So Celia went alone, and, although she was not of Mrs. Friedberg’s
dimensions, she avoided the spindle-legged chairs and sat on the sofa,
next to Enid Wilton, holding a diminutive cup of tea in one hand, and a
minute piece of cake in the other.
The Brookes were freezingly polite at first, but unbent just a little
when, in the course of conversation, they discovered that Celia was
related to Mr. Herbert Karne, R.A., whose picture, “The Dawn of Love,”
they had seen at the New Gallery last year. The younger Miss Brooke was
quite enthusiastic about it, for she liked knowing celebrated people or
their relatives. She herself possessed some little ability for painting,
and showed Celia some plaques on which she had painted some impossible
birds on the wing.
“I can really do better work than that,” she hastened to explain, as
Celia did not appear to be overcome with admiration, “only the worst of
it is that I feel most inspired in the middle of the night, when I am in
bed, and mother does not like me to get up and paint then. By the time
morning comes, I haven’t a single idea left.”
“That’s because you are such a geni_ass_, Mildred,” said her brother
Harold. “Geniuses are always supposed to burn the midnight oil, are they
not, Miss Franks?”
“I really don’t know,” answered Celia. “My brother always works in the
morning; but then, perhaps, he isn’t a genius.”
“I wish you would tell me all about Mr. Karne’s method of work,” said
Miss Brooke, eagerly. “It is so very interesting to know the ideas of a
well-known artist.”
“Herbert has written a little book on ‘Modern Art’ which may interest
you. I believe I have a copy of it somewhere. I will look it out for you
if you like,” returned Celia, always anxious to please.
Mildred Brooke effusively expressed her thanks; and that she might not
forget her promise, Celia searched for the book directly she arrived
home.
She did not know exactly where to look for it, but, after some amount of
rummaging, found it at the bottom of a trunk, underneath a pile of old
music. It was very dusty, and looked as if it had not seen daylight for
some time. Celia dusted it carefully, and shook the leaves. As she did
so, a small sheet of foreign writing-paper dropped out on to the floor.
She picked it up and examined it. It was evidently a note of some
description, but was not addressed to any one by name. The calligraphy
was English in character but was barely legible, and the ink was faded.
With difficulty Celia made out the following words:--
“9, Rue d’Alençon, Neuilly. Longchamps an utter frost. Auteuil ditto.
Bonne Bouche a dead cert this time. Hurry up, old man, and send a
hundred by return, or I come to England for change of air.--NINETTE.”
She read it over twice, but could make nothing of it. To whom was it
addressed, and who was “Ninette”? _Ninette_--the name seemed strangely
familiar, yet she was unable to remember where or when she had heard it
before. Perhaps Herbert had lent the book to somebody, and the note had
been inserted as a bookmark. She would ask him about it some day, if she
did not forget. Meanwhile she locked it away in her desk, and gave the
book to Montie to take to Mildred Brooke.
Then she sat down to write a letter to her brother. Mrs. Friedberg had
asked her if she intended to take a seat in the synagogue for the
forthcoming _Yomtovim_,[4] and she wished to have Herbert’s advice. She
was undecided whether to observe the holydays or not. Hitherto she had
never done so, for lack of opportunity; but now that she was living with
a Jewish family, within easy reach of several synagogues, she had no
such excuse.
This was a matter which had caused her some serious thought of late. It
was not only the question of keeping the approaching holydays, but of
practising the Jewish faith as a whole. If, a month ago, anybody had
asked her what religion she professed, she would have replied, without a
moment’s hesitation, “Judaism.” She was not so sure now. She had come to
the conclusion that, if she would be a true Jewess, she was bound to
observe all the ceremonial laws, honestly and thoroughly. It would not
do to keep some and reject the others. Either she must place herself
under the yoke of the law, or she must cast it off altogether. The
question was, which was right in the sight of God?
Herbert Karne answered her letter by return of post. “This is a matter
in which you must decide for yourself, dear sis,” he wrote. “You know my
views. I do not believe in revealed religion, according to the
Pentateuch, at all; and still I call myself a Jew. I worship God only as
I find Him in nature, in art, in all that is beautiful; this is the
grandest of all creeds. If, however, you think that these Jewish
ceremonial observances will help and comfort you, use them by all means,
and get all the good you can out of them. If, on the other hand, you
find them but meaningless and empty forms, do not submit to them under
any consideration, but shake them off for ever. Whatever you do, Celia,
be true, be sincere. Shun hypocrisy as you would a pest, for there is
nothing more weakening to the whole moral and spiritual nature. At the
same time, I do not want you wilfully to offend Mr. Friedberg’s
religious susceptibilities; it is not at all necessary to tell every one
what you think and believe. In any case, it will not hurt you to go to
the synagogue on New Year’s Day, and the Day of Atonement. It will be a
new experience for you, and if you have any religious feeling in you at
all, you ought to be profoundly moved by the intensity and solemnity of
the services. I have promised, as usual, to assist at the services for
the men at Mendel’s factory on those days. It seems strange, but
although my views are to them so heretical, they always ask me to give
the lecture.”
He then passed on to other subjects, and asked several questions about
her Academy work. Celia put the letter away, and went down to tell Mrs.
Friedberg that she would like to have a seat in the synagogue for the
holydays.
Mrs. Friedberg was pleased. “Lottie said you didn’t care about
_Yiddishkeit_[5] at all,” she said. “But I think you do, don’t you,
Celia?”
“Yes, I think I do,” answered the girl, slowly. “I am afraid that I have
been very lax in the past, but I am going to try to be a true Jewess
now.”
CHAPTER VII
ENTER--DAVID SALMON
“You see, it’s absolutely necessary that my girls should marry well,”
Mrs. Friedberg said confidentially. “Business has been bad of
late--there has been a slump in the trade, you know,--and Ben’s position
is not what it used to be. Of course, I can’t expect them all to do as
well as Adeline; but I must see that they are properly provided for.
Otherwise, I am sure that there is no one I should like better for a
son-in-law than you, Dave, having known your poor pa when he was a
_barmitzvah_[6] boy, and you from the time you were eight days old.”
David Salmon smiled good-humouredly. He was a curly-headed young fellow
of about five and twenty, with nothing but his good looks and easy-going
temperament to recommend him. Mrs. Friedberg would have liked him very
much as a husband for Maud or Lottie, had it not been for his
unfortunate aptitude for spending money as quickly as he earned it.
He had just returned from South Africa, where, instead of making a
fortune, as he had intended doing, he had lost the little money he had
possessed. Yet he was not by any means despondent, for in the dim
future there loomed forth largely, a hope--the substantial hope of an
ample balance at the bankers, and immunity from certain blue documents
which found their way to his address with irritating persistency.
On the strength of this hope, he played bluff on board ship with the
nonchalance of a millionaire, and when it came to squaring up, proffered
a gold nugget as security. The nugget was not his--it had been committed
to his care by Bernie Franks, and was intended as a present for Bernie’s
daughter,--but it brought him luck, and, by the time he landed at
Southampton, he was over £30 in pocket.
He had never troubled to consider what he would have done if he had lost
the nugget or part of its value. It was characteristic of David Salmon
never to think of the consequences of any rash act of his. If he muddled
into a scrape, he managed to muddle out of it again somehow; and always
relied on his indomitable bounce to carry him through.
It was by means of a letter of introduction from Ben Friedberg, that he
had made the acquaintance of Bernie Franks. The financier lived by
himself in a house that was little more than a shanty, and subsisted on
a sum which the least of his clerks would have considered very poor
salary. Most people were of opinion that money-grabbing had turned his
brain. He was certainly eccentric and miserly, and looked on all men
with suspicion. David Salmon found it hard to convince him that he
wanted nothing out of him, and that, although he possessed scarcely a
brass farthing of his own, he would not accept a penny from the
financier, either as a loan or as a gift. By dint of perseverance, he
won himself into the old man’s good graces; and by the time he left the
Cape, was quite satisfied with the result of their acquaintance. So far
as actual money was concerned, he was not one penny the richer; but he
had gained Bernie Frank’s consent to his marriage with his daughter
Celia, and therein lay the fulfilment of his great hope.
“I should certainly have liked to marry one of your girls,” he said to
Mrs. Friedberg; “but I’ve scarcely a sixpence to bless myself with, so
of course I must marry some one with money. I regard it as almost
providential that Celia Franks should be under your very roof. I hadn’t
the slightest idea, when I left Capetown, that I should find her with
you.”
“Yes, it is lucky for you, David,” returned Mrs. Friedberg,
complacently. “You will find it much easier to do your courting here
than you would if she were in Durlston. I am sure you have my best
wishes, and I will do all I can to help you. I can’t say more than that,
can I?”
“No, indeed not; and I’ll give you a very handsome present on my
wedding-day. I shall be able to afford it then; for, however niggardly
Bernie Franks may be about his own personal expenditure, he is generous
enough where Celia is concerned. He has promised to give her a dowry of
thirty thousand pounds--providing she marries a Jew; and there will be
the prospect of a fortune at his death.”
“Providing she marries a Jew!” repeated Mrs. Friedberg, as she paused in
the act of threading a needle. “That is a very sensible stipulation,
and I think that Celia ought to be made aware of it. She has been
talking a good deal about a young Christian fellow in Durlston--a
doctor, I believe; I hope she hasn’t any idea of marrying him, though.”
“Do you think I shall have any difficulty in getting her consent to our
engagement?” asked Salmon, somewhat anxiously. “You must remember that I
don’t know a bit what sort of girl she is, and I haven’t even seen her
yet.”
For answer, Mrs. Friedberg walked over to a console-table and lifted up
a framed photograph. “There she is,” she said, handing it to her
visitor. “She is a lovely girl, as you can see, and she will be a still
more lovely woman. She has a good voice too--I believe she will make her
mark in a few years’ time. You will have to mind your p’s and q’s,
David, I am sure of that. Celia is not an ordinary girl, by any means,
and she has curious ideas about some things. She seems to have been
mixed up with a regular English churchy set of people in Durlston; you
would scarcely take her for a Jewess.”
“Does she play solo whist?” he asked, as if that were a test.
“Not she. When we sit down to our game, she goes up to her own room and
plays the piano, or moons about with a book of poetry. Do you know any
poetry, Dave? If not, you had better learn a few yards.”
The young man made a grimace. He was not fond of poetry.
“Is she that kind of girl?” he said.
Mrs. Friedberg laughed. “I don’t know what ‘that kind of girl’ is
like,” she answered. “But she is at home. You can come up and see her
for yourself.”
She led the way upstairs, and David Salmon, with some curiosity,
followed. The house was unusually quiet, for the boys and Dinah were at
school. On the fourth landing she paused, out of breath.
“It’s like climbing up to heaven, isn’t it, Dave?” she panted. “I gave
Celia a room up here, because the children make such a noise downstairs.
She has her friend, Miss Wilton, with her; they study their music
together. I hope they won’t mind being disturbed.”
She tapped lightly at the door facing the stairs, and, receiving no
answer, opened it, and stood on the threshold. The two girls were
kneeling at a low table at the far side of the room. Their fair heads
were bent close together, and they appeared to be absorbed.
Suddenly Celia gave a sigh of relief.
“Got him!” she exclaimed jubilantly. “I knew I should be able to do it
if I could only get him to jump.”
“So that is what you call studying,” said Mrs. Friedberg, preceding her
visitor into the room. “We expected to find you both deep in the
mysteries of harmony; and, instead of that, you are amusing yourselves
on the floor. What on earth are you doing?”
Celia rose from her knees, and came forward smoothing her skirt.
“Playing tiddley-winks,” she answered promptly. “We were doing some
counterpoint, but the _canto fermo_ was a regular _canto inferno_, so we
have given it up for to-day.”
David Salmon looked at her critically. Yes, she was undoubtedly a
beautiful girl. Tall, erect, and graceful, her bearing had the effect of
making him feel small and insignificant. And her hair--such wonderful
hair! He wondered what its colour reminded him of; and, comically
enough, could think of nothing else but Everton toffee. It was neither
brown, nor auburn, nor golden; it was a blending of all three.
He glanced from her to Miss Wilton. She, also, was an attractive
girl--she had splendid grey eyes; but her prettiness faded into mere
insignificance when compared with the rich colouring of Celia’s hair and
complexion.
Mrs. Friedberg introduced David to them both with some effusion. Celia
gave him her hand, and favoured him with a smile which sent the blood
coursing through his veins. It was quite a natural smile, disclosing a
set of even white teeth, and there was a sweetness about it which was as
fascinating as it was innocent. In after years, men came to regard her
smile as a veritable danger-trap, but Celia herself was never conscious
of its charm and power. She was genuinely pleased to see Mr. Salmon, and
did not hesitate to tell him so. He had come straight from Capetown, and
brought news of her father--that father whom she had almost relegated to
the bygone era of her childhood, for he never came to see her and seldom
wrote. She wanted to know all about him--how he looked, how he lived,
and how he spoke; and David Salmon, with a great many mental
reservations, answered her questions as clearly as he could.
Enid Wilton felt herself to be _de trop_; and would have left, but Celia
absolutely refused to let her go.
David expressed a wish to be initiated into the game of tiddley-winks.
It was a simple game, and required but little teaching, but he pretended
to be very dense, and was a slow pupil. He was clumsy too, and his hand
frequently came into contact with Celia’s, as he endeavoured to make his
yellow counters spring into the cup.
Mrs. Friedberg watched them with a smile of gratification. David had
evidently made a good impression, for Celia was more charming and
vivacious than she had ever seen her as yet.
After the game was finished, he produced the gold nugget, which was
carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. It had brought him luck, and he
felt a little lingering regret in parting with it.
Mrs. Friedberg examined it with keen interest. “It must be worth a large
sum,” she observed, turning it over. “What shall you do with it, Celia?”
“Keep it, I suppose,” she answered doubtfully. “It isn’t really of any
use to me, but I shall value it as a present from my father. I can’t go
about with it slung round my neck, can I?”
“You could realize on it,” suggested the young man. “I should think you
would get quite £100 for it.”
“Yes; but Celia doesn’t want money,” put in Mrs. Friedberg. “Ben had
better put it away in his safe for the present.”
The girl readily acquiesced; for except that the nugget came from her
father, she felt no interest in it whatever. David Salmon half wished
that he had delayed a little longer before giving it to her, for it was
of much more use to him than it was to her. However, he had hopes of
having it in his possession even yet, for when Celia was his _fiancée_,
he would express the desire to keep it as a souvenir of his visit to
Capetown, and of course she would be only too pleased to gratify such a
wish.
He went home that evening well pleased with Celia and with himself. If
she had been an ugly and ill-tempered old hag, he would have been
willing to marry her just the same; but he was sincerely glad that, in
addition to possessing a fortune, she was such an altogether charming
girl. He saw that he would have to use some amount of tact during his
courtship; it would never do to let her know that her money was of the
slightest consideration, for instance; but he was confident that he
would succeed in his undertaking; and already, in imagination, he beheld
himself under the wedding canopy with Celia as his bride.
CHAPTER VIII
AT SYNAGOGUE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY
The coming of David Salmon brought a new interest into Celia’s life. His
acquaintance with her father formed a link of friendship between them;
and from the first she looked upon him in a different light to the other
young men she met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house. He went the very best way
to work to win her affections, that he possibly could have done. Other
young men paid her open and extravagant compliments; David did not, and
Celia liked him all the better on that account, because she thought he
was sincere. In conversation he was very careful to avoid the _Yiddish_
expressions so prevalent amongst the people by whom they were
surrounded; and although he was not able to be discursive on any subject
except, perhaps, racing, of which she knew nothing, he managed to convey
the idea that he knew a great deal more than he cared to say. He came to
see the Friedbergs every evening regularly, and, if Celia were not
downstairs, he nearly always found his way up to her sitting-room, with
either Dinah or Victor to act as “gooseberry.”
Very soon Celia began to treat him with the same frank cordiality with
which she had delighted Dr. Geoffrey Milnes; yet there was a subtile
difference. Geoffrey was intellectual, and more than her match as far as
brain-power went, but she dominated him completely. David Salmon, on the
contrary, was her inferior in intellectual power, yet his assertive
personality overruled hers. The mere touch of his hand sent a thrill
through her whole being; and by word and look he contrived to instil
into her that sense of affinity which is usually the basis of love. He
soon managed to discover her likings and aversions, and made it a rule
to ratify all that she said. He encouraged her to speak on those
subjects on which she thought deeply, and responded in such a way that
she felt that his was indeed a kindred spirit. “That’s how I feel!” was
the exclamation most often on his lips, and the suspicion that he was
not quite sincere never once crossed her mind.
If she could only have seen him, when, after a conversation in which,
perhaps, she had almost laid bare her very soul, he went away to chuckle
over her “moonshine,” and laugh in his sleeve at his cleverness in
humouring her fancies, she would have been spared much heartache and
bitterness. But, being absolutely true herself, she credited him with
the same sincerity and depth of character, and made the fatal mistake of
trusting him with her confidence.
On the Jewish New Year’s Day he called for her to go to synagogue. The
day was quite a sultry one for late September, and Celia had donned a
summer gown of soft grey voile, whilst a black Gainsboro’ hat set off
her rich beauty to perfection. David felt quite proud as he escorted
her down Maida Vale, and noted with satisfaction the admiring glances
which were cast in her direction. Maida Vale seemed to be quite astir
with gaily dressed people, apparently bent on the same errand as
themselves, for they nearly all carried large prayerbooks. Celia glanced
at them with some curiosity, for it was the first time that she had come
across so many well-to-do Jews together. Most of the matrons were
inclined to _embonpoint_, and wore a profusion of showy jewellery. Celia
wondered why they spoke to each other as if they were all deaf, and what
it was that was so peculiar in their intonation; it was not unlike the
Cockney accent combined with a dash of nasal Yankee. She also observed a
peculiarity in their gait and bearing,--a side-to-side movement, which
was as odd as it was ungraceful. She was quite vexed with herself for
noticing these things, but she could not help discovering that some
Jewish people had mannerisms peculiarly their own.
A few little ragged urchins were loitering by the doors of the
synagogue, watching the people as they entered.
“Them’s Jews,” Celia heard one of them say. “It must be their Passover.”
“Garn!” exclaimed another. “They have Passover at Easter. I spec’ it’s
their Christmas.”
“Tain’t then,” put in a third with authority. “It’s their New Year. That
little Jew boy as lives in Lisson Street told me so.”
“Well, then, I ain’t far out,” retorted the other sharply. “They must
have had their Christmas last week. Christmas comes a week afore New
Year, don’t it, stoopid?”
In the vestibule Celia and David parted, Celia to go upstairs to the
ladies’ gallery, David to take his place in the body of the synagogue.
Mrs. Friedberg and her girls had just arrived, and joined Celia at the
top of the stairs. The service had commenced; and the minister was
chanting some prayers in a sing-song monotone, whilst the congregation
accompanied him with a subdued murmuring.
Mrs. Friedberg was evidently a well-known personage, judging by the nods
and smiles which greeted her appearance. She stood up with some
importance to read her preparatory prayer; and then turned round to
Maud, who sat immediately behind her.
“Do look at Mrs. Isaac’s new dress,” she exclaimed in an audible
whisper. “Did you ever see such a sight? Looks as if it came out of an
old clo’ shop.” Then she sat down with a smile of amiable benignity, and
taking up a pair of tortoise-shell _lorgnettes_, critically scanned
every lady within her range of vision.
Lottie and Dinah had not yet attained to the dignity of seat-holders,
and went wherever there was room. They were constantly on the move, for,
whenever the lady whose seat they were occupying arrived, they were
obliged to vacate their position. Finally they settled themselves down
on the steps, in a state of mind not at all conducive to devotion.
“Ma can shout at me as much as she likes, but I won’t come on _Yom
Kippur_,”[7] exclaimed Lottie, indignantly. “I don’t see why Maud should
have a seat any more than me. If I have to shift again, I shall go
home.”
Celia, whose seat was next to Mrs. Mike Rosen’s, gazed furtively about
her, with mingled feelings of reverence and interest. Adeline found the
place in the prayer-book for her, and, though she possessed but a
limited knowledge of Hebrew, she followed as well as she could.
She had come to the synagogue with the sincere desire to worship God
according to the ancient customs of her people, and was willing to be
impressed by all that she saw and heard. Fixing her eyes on the
white-curtained ark, she tried to make herself conscious of the presence
of God, and of the solemnity of the occasion.
New Year’s Day--the day on which her destiny for the coming year was
foreordained, and her name rewritten in the Book of Life. Surely, here
was ample food for meditation!
As the service proceeded, however, her thoughts began to wander away on
irrelevant subjects. She looked over the ledge on which her prayer-book
rested, and met the eyes of David Salmon below, who looked back at her
and smiled. The other men wore silk hats with slightly curled brims.
David’s brim did not curl, and she was glad of that. She was quite
ashamed of herself for noticing such a triviality at such a time and in
such a place, but she could not help it.
The mournful chanting of the white-robed minister, which, at first, had
struck a responsive chord in her nature, began to jar upon her nerves.
The unaccompanied choir sang out of tune, and their voices grated
harshly on her well-trained ear. The small procession of men carrying
the bell-topped scrolls of the law as if they were nursing dolls,
struck her as droll. It might have been impressive had they worn the
flowing garments of the ancient East; but silk hats, frock coats, and
praying shawls in combination, seemed to her grotesque. Even the sound
of the ram’s horn, which should have awakened her to a sense of the awe
and majesty of God, failed to impress her, because the man who blew it
spluttered over it, and his performance was a dismal failure.
Throughout the service the girl experienced a sense of keen
disappointment. Either there was something radically wrong with the
service, or there was some spiritual sense of appreciation lacking in
herself. Perhaps she had not received sufficient Jewish knowledge to
enable her to understand the mystic symbolism of Jewish rites and
ceremonies.
After some consideration she discovered what might be the cause. It was
not the service itself, for there could be nothing more majestic than
those grand old psalms and supplications in the grand old Hebrew
tongue;--but it was partly the way in which the service was conducted,
and partly the irreverent demeanour of the congregation themselves.
A single glance around showed her that the true spirit of devotion was
almost entirely absent from their midst. The men, with the exception of
three or four grey-heads, who swayed to and fro with the fervency or
their prayers, looked either bored or indifferent. The majority of the
women seemed absorbed in contemplation of each other’s _yomtovdic_[8]
clothes, whilst some of them, including Mrs. Friedberg, gently
slumbered. The children conversed with each other in whispers,
interspersed with occasional giggles and ejaculations; it was scarcely
surprising that they should find the service long and tiresome, for
there was no music, and it was almost entirely in a language they could
not understand.
If these people had been truly devout, Celia would have been devout
also, for she possessed a nature which was capable of being deeply
moved. But she could not help feeling that this was a spurious form of
worship from which the glory of God was almost obscured.
At the close of the service, Mrs. Rosen asked her what she thought of it
all.
“It was very nice, wasn’t it?” she said convincingly. “I go to that
synagogue every Saturday, and always like the service there so much.”
The girl scarcely knew how to reply. Clearly there must be something
wrong with her own way of looking at things. As the congregation poured
out of the synagogue, she heard nothing but favourable comments on the
service. It was so beautiful, every one said,--so impressive; and the
Rev. Abrahams’ sermon was so interesting.
Mrs. Friedberg came down the stairs with another lady of the same
proportions as herself.
“Oh, I did enjoy the service, Celia!” she exclaimed, with a deep sigh.
“And they all liked my new bonnet, didn’t they, Mrs. Joseph?”
“Yes, my dear,” answered the other lady, soothingly. “It looks as if it
had come straight from Paris in a band-box.”
“Fifteen shillings in the Grove, and not a penny more!” chuckled Mrs.
Friedberg, confidentially. “It’s the best bargain I’ve had for a long
time, my dear.”
David Salmon was promenading outside with Lottie and Dinah. Although a
terrible tease, he was a great favourite with the girls. As soon as they
caught sight of Celia, they very kindly marched off to hunt up Montie
and Victor, and David escorted Celia home as a matter of course.
She was silent on the homeward journey, and her fair face looked quite
troubled. When, at length, he asked if she had enjoyed going to the
synagogue, she told him something of what was in her mind.
“I cannot think what was the matter with me,” she confessed quite
sorrowfully. “Instead of entering into the service with all my heart, as
I had meant to do, I pulled it to pieces and criticized it as if I were
a rank outsider. And yet I am sure that there must be beauty in Jewish
worship, only I seem to have overlooked it somehow.”
“Well, there is no harm in being critical,” he rejoined cheerfully. “To
tell you the truth, I think that synagogue-going and all that sort of
thing is a lot of silly humbug, only we keep it up for the sake of being
social: that’s my candid opinion.”
Celia was shocked. “Do you really think so?” she asked with surprise.
“Then why do you ever go to synagogue?”
David saw that he had made a mistake. “Well, I don’t mean exactly that,”
he corrected himself hastily. “I can’t explain myself very well. But
what was it that you did not like about the service? Was it the choir?
I must take you to the Reform Synagogue, where they have an organ. It is
more churchified there, and perhaps you would like it better.”
“No, it wasn’t the choir,” answered Celia, hesitatingly. “They did sing
flat, it is true; but if one really wants to worship God, little details
like that should not be of the slightest account. If the true note is in
the heart, what matters it if the vocal sound be out of tune? I don’t
know what it was, but instead of feeling ‘good,’ the service made me
feel quite the reverse. I am afraid you think me very wicked, don’t you,
Mr. Salmon?”
They had arrived at the gate, and the Friedberg girls were waiting for
them in the garden. David gave Celia back her prayer-book, and looked up
into the sweetly earnest face with a somewhat cynical smile.
“I would rather have you just a little bit wicked, Miss Franks,” he
rejoined. “Very good people are apt to become bores. A little spice of
the devil, like cayenne pepper, adds flavour to what might otherwise be
quite wholesome--but insipid.”
Then, opening the gate for her, he pressed her hand, and, raising his
hat, walked abruptly away.
CHAPTER IX
LUNCHEON FOR THREE
One Tuesday morning when Celia was having her harmony lesson at the
Academy, the hall-porter entered the room with some importance, and
handed her a visiting card. It bore the superscription, “Lady Marjorie
Stonor,” and underneath was scribbled in pencil, “Am in town for two
days. Can you see me?”
With some excitement the girl asked leave of her professor to be
excused, and, gathering up her music-books, hastened from the room in
glad expectancy. Lady Marjorie was standing in the hall, studying the
concert notices. She was wearing some handsome sables, with Parma
violets in her toque, at her throat, and on her muff, and she looked
younger and prettier than ever, Celia thought.
“I couldn’t resist coming in to have a look at you,” she explained,
after the first greetings were over. “I’ve only come up to London to see
my solicitors, and I am going back to-morrow afternoon.”
“But you will spend the rest of the day with me, won’t you?” asked
Celia, anxiously. “Now that you have come, I don’t want to let you go.”
Lady Marjorie smiled. “I shall be able to inflict my presence upon you
till six o’clock,” she answered. “I have promised to dine with my
brother Bexley at Eaton Square this evening, but I am free until then.”
They passed up the stairs and into the waiting-room, where the girl
students whiled away their spare time with musical _causerie_. Lady
Marjorie expressed surprise that musicians should ever have any nerves
left at all, for the medley of discordant sounds which surrounded them
was enough to shatter the strongest, she thought. Pianos to right of
them, pianos to left of them, violins and voices above them, and the low
rumbling of the practice organ below them--it was just like a foretaste
of Pandemonium.
On the ledge of the book-case in the waiting-room were several letters
addressed to various students. Celia had never received one at the
Academy as yet, but there happened to be one for her to-day. The
envelope was black bordered, and the hand-writing large and round.
“It is from Gladys Milnes,” she said; “but I was not aware that she was
in mourning.”
“Haven’t you heard?” asked Lady Marjorie, with surprise. “I made sure
Mr. Karne would have told you. Their uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, is
dead; he died about three weeks ago. Geoffrey came up to town for the
funeral; it is almost a wonder that you did not come across him.”
This was news to Celia. She made Lady Marjorie sit down and tell her all
about it. It was scarcely a suitable place for a confidential chat, for
there were several students waiting about and passing through to the
cloak-room; but there was so much noise going on all about them, that
their voices were lost in the general hubbub.
“Fancy Geoffrey Milnes in London, without paying me a visit!” she
exclaimed, almost vexedly. “He might have let me know that he was
coming.”
“His uncle’s death was quite sudden,” said Lady Marjorie. “I suppose he
was too busy and too much worried to come and see you. You know, we all
thought that Geoffrey would succeed to Dr. Williams’s house in Harley
Street, and that it would be a splendid thing for him to have a good
West End practice. Well, it seems that the house is mortgaged, and the
practice has gone down to nothing. I dare say you have heard of Mrs.
Neville Williams--she is a well-known society leader, and has the
reputation of being one of the most expensively dressed women in London.
It was her extravagance that ruined poor Dr. Williams, and her debts, or
rather her husband’s debts, are, I believe, something enormous. However,
Bexley told me that she is already engaged, _sub rosa_, to the Duke of
Wallingcourt, so no doubt she considered her husband’s death a happy
release. She went about everywhere with Wallingcourt last season, and
poor little Williams used to come running behind with her
_porte-monnaie_, as if he were her footman instead of her husband. I am
so very sorry for Geoffrey Milnes, though. He had quite counted on the
Harley Street house and practice to give him a good start, and now he
will have to go plodding on at Durlston instead.
“That is the worst of waiting for dead men’s shoes,” said Celia,
sententiously. “But I am really sorry for Geoffrey. I will write him a
letter of condolence as soon as I have time.”
“Then you do not correspond with him regularly?”
“Oh no. I have had two letters from him since I left Durlston, that is
all.”
She glanced at the clock, which pointed to a quarter to one. “We must be
going,” she continued, rising. “You don’t mind coming back with me to
Maida Vale?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Lady Marjorie, hastily, “I met Guy
Haviland this morning. You’ve heard of Haviland, haven’t you? He is a
musical critic, and writes plays. I spoke to him about you, as I thought
he might be of use to you in your musical career. He is a thoroughly
good fellow, and always ready to encourage youthful talent. He expressed
the wish to make your acquaintance, and has invited us to luncheon
to-day. We are to meet him at Prince’s, in Piccadilly, at half-past
one.”
The girl was delighted at the prospect of meeting Guy Haviland
personally, for he was well-known in musical and dramatic circles, and
she had heard him very highly spoken of amongst her friends. Suddenly,
however, her face clouded.
“It is very kind of you and of him,” she faltered; “but I really think I
ought to go home. You see, since I’ve come to London, I have made up my
mind to practise the Jewish religion sincerely, and that forbids me to
partake of food which has not been prepared according to Jewish law.
Otherwise I should have been so pleased to lunch with you and Mr.
Haviland.”
“But, my dear girlie, that is absurd. At that rate you will never be
able to go into society at all. I don’t understand your beliefs, and I
have no wish to make you act against your principles, but I really
cannot see the connection between spiritual religion and what we eat and
drink. Those dietary laws were excellent in their day, no doubt, but you
must remember that civilization has advanced since then, and we are not
living in the Holy Land.”
“That is not the question,” answered Celia, hesitatingly. “You do not
understand, Lady Marjorie, and I am not qualified to explain. However, I
will pocket my religious scruples for once. I must let Mrs. Friedberg
know that I shall not be home.”
She put on her hat and jacket, and they sauntered down Regent Street to
the post office, where Celia despatched a telegram. She was anxious for
Mrs. Friedberg to see her friend, so they arranged to go to Maida Vale
in the afternoon.
“How empty London is just now,” Lady Marjorie observed as they came out
of the office. “There seems to be nobody in town.”
Celia glanced at the people who thronged the pavements, and at the
ceaseless stream of traffic in the street.
“Nobody?” she repeated, questioningly.
“No society people, I mean,” explained Lady Marjorie, for her
edification. “I suppose they are all away.”
It was quite half-past one by the time they reached Prince’s restaurant,
for they made an exhaustive survey of the shops on either side of Regent
Street, and purchased a few articles, on the way.
Almost simultaneously to their arrival, a gentleman drove up in a
private hansom, and addressed Lady Marjorie with a cordial greeting. He
was a man of about thirty-five, of professional appearance, with a
genial clean-shaven face and clear-cut features. His manner betokened
the polished man of the world, and he had a way of treating ladies with
that old-fashioned courtly deference which in these days has,
unfortunately, almost been relegated to a bygone generation.
Leading the way to a small table which had been reserved for him, he
apologized for his wife’s absence, and plunged into a conversation on
musical matters, which immediately put Celia at her ease. He was
acquainted with most of the professors at the Academy, and knew Emil
Lambert well.
“You are in good hands,” he assured her encouragingly. “Lambert is a
splendid man. You may consider him somewhat dilatory in bringing you
out, but you must not mind that. I do not suppose he will allow you to
sing at a single Academy concert until you are quite qualified to start
on your professional career. He is very jealous for his reputation, and
always keeps his pupils in the background until he is sure that they
will do him credit.”
“He won’t even let me try a song yet,” Celia complained. “I have to keep
on at those wretched exercises, and I am so tired of them. Now, my
elocution master is just the reverse to Mr. Lambert. He has already
arranged for me to recite at the students’ concert on Saturday week, and
I am to take the part of Lydia Languish in the ‘Rivals’ at the dramatic
performance next term.”
Mr. Haviland was interested. “Then you evidently have talent for acting
as well as singing?” he queried, helping Lady Marjorie to some
_mayonnaise_.
“I am very fond of acting, but I am not sure that I have talent for it,”
Celia answered modestly. “‘Lydia Languish’ will be my first attempt.”
“And have you any idea of going on the stage?”
“I am afraid Miss Franks’s brother would object to her doing that,” put
in Lady Marjorie. “He is a most broad-minded man in other respects, but
he is decidedly prejudiced against the dramatic profession.”
“A good many people are,” said Guy Haviland, with a smile.
“Nevertheless, the drama nowadays is just as much recognized as an art
as is music or painting; only, unfortunately, it is the most easily
abused of the three.”
“That is true,” responded Lady Marjorie. “There are a great many actors
and actresses, but how many real artists are there on the English stage?
Not more than a dozen, all told. However, I would like you to go and see
Miss Franks act, and if you think she has the makings of an artist, I
will persuade her brother to modify his opinion.”
The restaurant was filling rapidly, even though, according to Lady
Marjorie, there was “nobody” in town. Celia sipped her wine, and watched
the people with interest; and Mr. Haviland pointed out to her those with
whom he was acquainted. It was quite an enjoyable little luncheon party,
for their host possessed a fund of entertaining anecdotes which he
related tersely and with dry humour. Celia was in her element, and
consequently spoke and looked well.
Before they parted, Mr. Haviland gave her his visiting-card, and invited
her very cordially to come and make the acquaintance of his wife and
sister. He was anxious to test her musical and dramatic abilities, and
promised Lady Marjorie to take an interest in her career, and to give
her all the advice he could.
Lady Marjorie informed her, later, that Mrs. Haviland was practically a
nonentity so for as social life was concerned.
“I cannot understand a man like Guy Haviland marrying such a woman,” she
said confidentially. “She hasn’t an idea beyond servants and babies.
There has always been a baby at the Haviland’s ever since I have known
them; and as soon as one is able to walk, another one appears upon the
scene. Mrs. Haviland is seldom visible at their ‘At Homes,’ being
otherwise engaged, and her sister-in-law, Grace, does all the
entertaining. It is strange, is it not, how clever men come to marry
such very insipid women? I have seen it over and over again amongst my
friends.”
“Perhaps their husbands’ cleverness overpowers them?” suggested Celia,
thoughtfully; “or perhaps a clever man finds that a homely kind of wife
is more conducive to domestic happiness than one greatly gifted with
intellectual powers. Even the cleverest men are human, and they
appreciate home comforts.”
“That may be so,” agreed Lady Marjorie. “Anyway, Guy Haviland seems
happy enough. I want you to keep in touch with him, Celia. His
acquaintance is well worth cultivating.”
CHAPTER X
A GOLD NUGGET AND A DIAMOND RING
When Celia went home for the Christmas holidays, it was as the betrothed
of David Salmon. David had proposed to her one evening when they were at
Mrs. Rosen’s house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, and she had accepted him, on
condition that he should not even introduce the subject of marriage to
her for at least three years.
It was altogether a conditional engagement on her part. She was not sure
if she really loved him, and she was not at all anxious to be engaged;
but David seemed so bent on having his own way, that for the sake of
peace she acceded to his request.
The first thing he did was to cast about for a diamond ring for his
_fiancée_. He would have to beg, borrow, or steal one from somewhere.
There were plenty in the jewellers’ shops, and he looked at them with
longing eyes, but as he had no cash wherewith to purchase one, he was
obliged to be content with looking only.
Presently, however, a bright idea struck him. Hailing a hansom, he
betook himself to the aristocratic neighbourhood of Shoreditch, where
there resided, at the sign of three balls, an old man who happened to be
a second cousin of his father’s. Ikey Benjamin was scarcely a relative
to be proud of, and on most occasions David conveniently forgot the
relationship; but he chose to remember it now. The dingy little shop was
filled with a conglomeration of old bric-a-brac, violins, books and
jewellery, both antique and modern. Keeping the hansom waiting at the
kerb, Salmon entered, and tendering the grubby little pawnbroker a
familiar greeting, inquired politely after the health of his wife and
family. Ikey Benjamin glanced at him suspiciously, and answered with
short grunts. He was quite certain that the young swell had not driven
all the way from Maida Vale to ask after Mrs. Ikey and all the tribe of
Benjamin.
David produced his silver cigar-case, and proffered a choice Havana. The
old man accepted it, sniffed at it approvingly, and finally clipped and
lit it, whilst his face relaxed a little of its sternness.
“Tings looking up mit you, eh?” he queried, as his narrow eyes took in
the fashionable cut of Salmon’s frock coat. “Done well in Sout’ Africa,
I suppose, eh?”
“No, I lost every stiver I possessed,” answered David, as he made a
casual survey of all the stock that the shop contained. “But I hope that
I’m going to do well now. I’ve just got engaged to the daughter of one
of the richest men at the Cape. You have heard of Bernie Franks, haven’t
you, Ikey?”
“Heard of Bernie Franks? Have I heard of Queen Victoria!” said the old
fellow with resentment. “Of course I have. I wish you _mazzletov_,[9]
Dave, if you marry his daughter.”
“Thanks. Well now we’ll come to business.” David sat down on an
overturned barrel, and produced a small piece of cardboard into which a
circular hole had been cut. “I want a diamond ring for my young lady.
And if you have one for sale cheap, you may as well have my money as any
one else. Only it must be smart, and not too ancient.”
Mr. Benjamin shook his head. “Ain’t got nodings of the kind,” he said
decisively. “My customers don’t go in for diamond rings. But I might be
able to get you one in about a week.”
“That wouldn’t do. I must have it to-day. Miss Franks is going away to
the north to-morrow, and I want her to take it with her.”
The old man was silent for a few seconds, whilst he puffed away at his
cigar.
“Have you the cash right down?” he inquired, presently.
“No-o,” answered David, with hesitation. “But I’ll give you an I.O.U.;
and I can guarantee the cheque--or its equivalent in solid gold--within
a week. That’s good enough, isn’t it?”
But his cousin was not quite satisfied. He wanted some security, and the
young man had none to offer. At length, however, they came to terms;
and, calling to his son to mind the shop, Ikey Benjamin donned his
Sabbath hat and overcoat, and jumped into the hansom accompanied by
David.
They drove to Hatton Garden to interview a diamond merchant who was a
close friend of Ikey’s; and after a long confabulation, and some amount
of haggling, David became the possessor of a very pretty ring. He was
so delighted with the transaction, that he wished to treat the two men
to a bottle of _Kosher_ rum each, but as they happened both to be strict
teetotalers, his offer was respectfully declined.
When he left them he hastened back to Maida Vale to present the ring to
his beloved. Celia, however, was not at home, and Lottie informed him
that she had been out all the morning with Enid and the Rev. Ralph
Wilton.
“She seems to be quite taken up with the Wiltons and the Brookes,” Mrs.
Friedberg complained. “And what she wants with that good-looking young
clergyman, I’m sure I don’t know. I should put a stop to that
friendship, if I were you, Dave. Put your foot down, and try to make her
submit to your wishes.”
David put both feet down, and marched about the room with some
impatience. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket, and, as he was
dying to show it to some one, he gave Mrs. Friedberg the privilege of
the first view.
She examined it with approval. “Celia ought to be pleased with that,”
she said. “It’s a beautiful ring. But I hope you haven’t gone above your
means, Dave?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “It did cost a fine
penny, but I had to give her a decent one; and as she will practically
pay for it herself, I suppose I mustn’t grumble.”
“But, my dear boy, you can’t possibly ask the girl outright to pay for
her own engagement ring!” said Mrs. Friedberg, in astonishment.
“Whatever would she think of you?”
“Of course I can’t,” he answered laughingly. “But I’ll manage it
somehow, never fear.”
When Celia returned, he drew her aside into the back drawing-room; and
after a short preliminary speech, which voiced some very excellent
sentiments (according to his own ideas), he produced the ring. Celia
blushed rosy red as he placed it on her finger; and her colour deepened
still further when he sealed the compact with a hearty kiss. She hoped
he did not intend to indulge in much lovemaking of this sort. She ought
to have liked it, but she did not, and it made her feel quite
uncomfortable.
“To think that, after to-morrow, I shall not see you for a whole three
weeks!” he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. “How ever shall I be able to
exist all that time without you?”
“The same as you did before you knew me, I suppose,” she answered,
holding her left hand up, so that the diamonds caught the light and
glittered in the sun. “By-the-by, David, I should very much like to give
you a little present as a memento of this occasion, and I don’t quite
know what to get for you.”
His eyes sparkled eagerly, and he almost made a hasty answer, but
managed to control himself in time.
“As long as I have you, my darling,” he answered, pressing her hand, “I
want nothing in the world besides. You have given me the best present
possible, Celia--yourself.”
“And I admit I am a handful,” she returned, smiling. “But still I want
you to accept a little souvenir, David, just to please me. What shall it
be? An umbrella, or a card-case, or a pair of cuff-links?”
He rose from his chair at her side, and strode nervously about the room.
Celia was still examining her ring, and did not see his face.
“Well, as you are so anxious to give me a present, dearest,” he said,
after due consideration, “I should like something that has already been
a sort of amulet to me--I mean your gold nugget. Of course, I don’t want
it for its intrinsic value; but it is a curiosity, and has a history
attached to it--it came from California, in the first place--and there
is nothing you could give me that would please me more.”
If he had expected her to grant his request with alacrity he was
mistaken. Sitting down to the piano she played a little _arpeggio_
passage; then veered round on the music-stool, and faced him.
“I’m so sorry, David,” she began, apologetically, “but I am afraid I
cannot give you that. Isn’t there anything else you would like? You see
it is so very valuable, and----”
“And I suppose it’s too good for me,” he put in hastily. “I am sorry I
asked for it, but I thought you gave me my choice. And it isn’t really
of any use to you, Celia, so you might as well give it to me as keep it
locked up in Mr. Friedberg’s safe.”
“I would with pleasure,” she answered, “only---- Don’t look so cross,
David, but sit down, and I will tell you just how it is. You know Miss
Wilton’s brother, don’t you, or, at least, you’ve seen him? He is a
clergyman in a very poor parish near Hoxton. The people there are
horribly, sordidly poor. They are housed together like cattle instead of
human beings, with the consequence that vice and misery are rife amongst
them. Most of them couldn’t go to church even if they wanted to, because
they haven’t any decent clothes to go in. Oh, I almost had the nightmare
after Mr. Wilton had told me of some of the horrors of their daily
lives! He would not have told me, only I asked him: for since I came to
London, my eyes have been opened to all the miserable poverty and
suffering there is in this great city, and I wanted to know more about
it; I don’t think it’s right to close one’s eyes to these things. Mr.
Wilton took me over his church and parish this morning; it is a
dreadfully poor church, and not at all properly fitted up. Well, to come
to the point, I thought that, having this nugget, which, as you say, is
of no use to me, it would be a good thing to sell it and give the money
to one of Mr. Wilton’s funds. I am sure my father would have no
objection to my selling it for such a good cause; and Mr. Friedberg has
promised to dispose of it for me. Don’t you think it a nice idea,
David?”
She looked into his eyes, half appealingly, hoping to read therein
approval and sympathy; but his brow had knit into a frown during her
recital, and the expression on his face was one of ill-concealed
displeasure.
Celia was, in reality, a tender-hearted, large-souled child; David
considered her in this respect a silly little fool.
“I am quite sure your father would object,” he said decidedly. “The
nugget has been in your family for years, and it would be a pity to sell
it, unless you were absolutely driven to do so, which you never will be.
Besides, what do you want to bother yourself about Mr. Wilton’s church
for? If you have such charitable inclinations, why do you not interest
yourself in the Jewish poor? Surely our own people should come first?”
“I am interested in the Jewish poor,” the girl answered seriously. “But
they are in the minority, and are mostly well looked after. What does it
matter, though, whether they be Jews or Gentiles; are they not all
_God’s poor_? The reason I am particularly interested in Mr. Wilton’s
parish, however, is because Ralph Wilton himself is such an energetic
man, and so enthusiastic over his work. Enid told me that he actually
set to and white-washed his church himself, because there were no funds
to pay for it. And do you know why the men in Hoxton respect him? Not
for his pulpit eloquence, nor for his straight living, but simply
because they knew that, if it came to it, he could fight and rout any
one of them--he is a ’versity man, and was one of the Oxford eight.
Those are the sort of people he has to deal with--men who admire mere
brute force a great deal more than the highest moral or spiritual
qualities,--and it is Ralph Wilton’s vocation to tame the savage
instincts within them, to raise their standard of the chief aim of life.
That is why it would be such a pleasure to me to help on, if it were
ever so little, what I consider such really noble effort.”
“I suppose it’s the Wiltons themselves who have imbued you with these
high-flown notions,” said David, with annoyance, whilst he made up his
mind to try and gain entire control over her fortune when they were
married. “I should certainly not advise you to waste any money in that
way, Celia. Don’t you see, how ever much you can give, it is only a drop
in the ocean; and surely you have other things to think of instead of
worrying yourself about the poor? What is the use of bothering your head
about things that can’t be altered? There always have been poor people,
and I suppose there always will be, and it’s my opinion that they are a
great deal better off than those poor devils--beg pardon--of the
‘middle’ class, who are obliged to keep up an appearance on next to
nothing a year.”
The girl was silent, whilst her fingers meditatively pressed the keys,
and wandered off into a little minor melody of her own improvisation.
She was fond of musing to the accompaniment of a sequence of chords
played _pianissimo_; they helped her to think, or at least she imagined
they did.
“David,” she said presently, as her fingers paused over an interrupted
cadence, “have you ever realized the _responsibility of existence_, of
being a human creature with mental capacity and a soul? I have, since I
came to London; and at times it weighs heavily upon me--the burden and
the stress of life.”
He glanced at her moodily, and murmured something under his breath which
sounded not unlike “Rats!”
Aloud he said, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
That was just it; he did not understand! Celia sighed. Already there
existed the little rift within the lute. She was beginning to find out
that, although at first he had professed to be so entirely in sympathy
with her, there was something in their two natures which did not
altogether harmonize. Either he was too superficial for her, or else she
was too serious for him: she was not sure which.
But David thought they had wandered too far away from the subject of the
nugget.
“You wouldn’t refuse me the first little favour I have ever asked you,
would you, darling?” he said, striving to introduce a tender inflection
into his voice. “Why, Celia, if you were to ask me for everything I
possessed, I would give it you without a moment’s hesitation.”
She rose from the piano, and regarded her ring contemplatively.
“Do you want the nugget so much as all that, David? Well, you shall have
it. I don’t want you to think me selfish or unkind. I dare say Herbert
will advance me the money I have promised to Mr. Wilton’s fund--he
wouldn’t like me to break a promise, I know. Remind me to ask Mr.
Friedberg for it to-night, and I will give it to you then.”
He took her in his arms, and thanked her effusively. It was a weight off
his mind. Within a week the nugget was in pawn at Ikey Benjamin’s shop.
David would not sell it outright at present, in case Celia should ask to
see it at any time; but his cousin had given him sufficient money to pay
for the ring, and with that he had perforce to be content. He
considered that he had managed the affair very smartly.
It is not every man who can get his _fiancée_ to pay for her own ring.
CHAPTER XI
UNDER THE MISTLETOE
The cheerless winter afternoon was drawing to a close, as, muffled up in
furs, and escorted by a Dandy Dinmont terrier, Celia hastened up the
Durlston High Road. The sky was heavy with leaden clouds of snow; the
cold wind blew in sharp gusts across the moor, making her ears tingle
and her cheeks glow. She had been visiting some of the wives of Herbert
Karne’s _protégés_, and they had given her such a homely welcome that
she had spent a most enjoyable afternoon.
It happened to be Friday, the eve of the Sabbath, and she had watched
them prepare the fried fish and raisin wine which were the necessary
adjuncts of their Sabbath meal. Her presence did not disturb them in the
least, for she was unassuming and never in the way, and she had received
more than one invitation to stay and partake of their frugal fare. There
was no false pride about these people; they were poor, but exceedingly
hospitable, and they would always offer you the best they had to give.
As Celia turned into the private road leading to the Towers, she became
aware of a form leaning against the hedge which skirted the foot-path.
Dandy sniffed, and growled ominously--he had no sympathy with tramps;
and as the girl paused irresolute, a woman emerged from amongst the
deepening shadows.
“Don’t be nervous, Miss Celia; it’s only me--Anna Strelitzki,” she said
hurriedly. “I’m in trouble; I’ve come to you for help. They’ve given
Jacob the sack at Mendel’s factory, and they say they won’t take him on
again this time. And he’s spent every penny we had in drink--all the
money I had saved up for the rent this week. And baby has got the croup,
and Dr. Milnes says she must have careful attention and nourishment, and
I ain’t got a bit of coal in the house. I’m that worried I don’t know
where to turn.”
She burst into tears, and her frame shook with heavy sobs. Celia was
quite distressed. She knew Anna’s husband, Jacob Strelitzki. He was a
surly Jew of the worst type, and had given trouble at the factory on
more than one occasion.
“I am so sorry for you,” she said sympathetically. “Will you come up to
the Towers and see Mr. Karne? If you tell him all your difficulties, he
will see what can be done; you ought to have gone to him before.”
But the woman hung back. “I can’t go to Mr. Karne,” she sobbed, wiping
her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Jacob had a row with him this
week when he had been drinking, and Mr. Karne said he wouldn’t give him
any more help, and called him a renegade and a scoundrel, and----”
It was beginning to snow. Celia cut her short. “Well, I will speak to
my brother,” she said kindly. “I feel sure he will help you and baby,
even if he won’t assist your husband. But here is something to tide you
over your immediate difficulty.” She opened her purse and took out a
sovereign, which represented all her weekly allowance. Mrs. Strelitzki
accepted it with effusive thanks, and called down blessings upon the
girl’s head. Although she possessed some qualms of conscience for taking
money on the Sabbath, she satisfied her scruples by the thought that she
would be able to say her Sabbath prayers more fervently.
Celia watched her turn and disappear in the darkness, then hurried
onwards, for it was getting late. Her brother was already in his own
room, dressing for dinner, when she arrived home, so that she could not
speak to him then about the Strelitzkis, but they occupied her thoughts
as she made her evening toilette.
She remembered their humble wedding three years ago. Anna had been such
a pretty bride, and Jacob was steady and industrious then. Their lives
had been full of promise; but now Jacob drank, and Anna was an ill-used
wife. She wondered how it felt to have a drunken husband: it must be
dreadful; she shuddered at the thought. Suppose David were to take to
drink and ill-use her? But it was absurd to think of such a thing.
Jewish men proverbially made good husbands, and a drunken Jew was,
fortunately, a rare exception.
Checking the flow of her thoughts, the girl scanned her wardrobe for
what she should choose to wear. She expected Dr. Milnes, whom she had
not yet met since her return, and, as she was not entirely free from
girlish vanity, she wanted to look nice. With the advice of her maid,
she selected a light grey gown with long trailing skirts, and diaphanous
collar and sleeves of old cream lace. It was the dress she had worn at
the engagement party which Mrs. Friedberg had given in her honour; and
though it had not met with David’s approval, being too puritanical for
his taste, she fancied that Herbert and Geoffrey liked her in simple
gowns.
Her heart beat a little faster than usual as she passed down the stairs
to await her guests--Geoffrey Milnes and his partner Dr. Forrest. She
wondered what Geoffrey would have to say about her engagement, and half
hoped that he would not congratulate her on the fact.
She need not have been afraid; he did not even mention it, though his
eyes wandered frequently to the ring which flashed almost aggressively
on her finger. There was just a little constraint between them when,
Karne having taken Dr. Forrest to look at some specimens of ancient art,
they were left to a _tête-à-tête_ conversation; but it soon wore off,
and Celia was so glad to see his good, honest English face again. They
found plenty to talk about without being personal; and passed from grave
to gay, and back again to grave.
Celia was sitting on a small settee in the bay window, the light from a
pink-shaded standard lamp casting quite a roseate glow on her face and
form. Although she had only been away three months, Geoffrey found her
changed. It may have been the cut of her London gown, but she certainly
seemed to have grown taller and more graceful. She wore her hair
differently too; for, instead of being done Madonna fashion as of old,
it was dressed high, and had the effect of making her look quite
distinguished. And there was a dreamy wistfulness about the eyes, and a
little pathetic droop about the lips which had not been there before; he
found out the reason for it in the course of conversation--_she had
begun to think_.
To almost every youthful mind there comes a period of perturbation and
unrest; one asks the eternal question “Why?” and strives to discern the
_raison d’être_ of things. Life, death, religion, ethics, and social
inequality--all those problems which defy even the keenest penetration,
crop up in overwhelming force, and one’s soul is filled with a
passionate yearning to master the knowledge of the unattainable. This
quickening of the mental and spiritual faculties had come to Celia now;
and in her case it was primarily the consciousness of the “deep sighing
of the poor.”
When the young doctor asked her opinion of London and Londoners, she
told him frankly just what she thought; and his was such a congenial
spirit that she forgot the barrier which had sprung up between them,
forgot for the moment that there was such a person as David Salmon in
existence.
But Geoffrey Milnes did not forget. That morning he had received a
letter from a medical friend in Sydney, asking him to act as _locum
tenens_ for a year in his place; and he was debating as to whether he
should accept the post or not. Once out in Australia he might stay there
for years, and his hope of marrying Celia would have to be totally
renounced. The news of her engagement had come as a great blow, but it
had not entirely shattered his hopes. Herbert Karne had told him quite
candidly that he was disappointed in Celia’s choice, and had also hinted
that the engagement might have been the outcome of mere propinquity, not
love. This made Geoffrey all the more angry that he had not been first
in the field; and though his keen sense of honour forbade him to make
love to another man’s _fiancée_, he was not altogether discouraged. A
good many things could happen in three years; he would have to bide his
time.
At dinner he was silent, almost moody. Celia sat next to Dr. Forrest and
opposite to himself, and though a silver _épergne_ filled with
chrysanthemums partially obscured him from her view, she felt his eyes
continually on her face.
The conversation between the old doctor and his host was chiefly on such
topics as tithes and the agricultural outlook, and when, at the close of
the meal, Celia rose and left the room, they were holding a controversy
on the question of vivisection.
Geoffrey Milnes remained silent, for as he held contrary views to his
partner, he deemed it wiser not to join in the discussion. He lit a
cigarette, and smoked it pensively; then asked to be excused, and
followed Celia into the drawing-room.
She was standing at a little table, turning over the leaves of a book,
and did not hear him enter. The room was in partial darkness, for the
electric light had been extinguished; and the flickering firelight,
mingled with the subdued effulgence from the lamp, cast weird shadows
over the walls. Above her head there hung, suspended from the
chandelier, a large bunch of mistletoe.
The temptation was too much for Geoffrey. Giving way to a sudden
uncontrollable impulse, he clasped her in his arms, and pressed a
passionate kiss upon her brow. He could feel the throbbing of her heart
near his, her warm breath upon his cheeks; then he let her go.
“Geoffrey!” she gasped in bewilderment, “Geoffrey!” It was all she could
utter; the suddenness of it, and the surprise, seemed to have bereft her
of all words.
“Forgive me, Celia,” he panted. “It was a liberty I ought not to have
taken; but it is a Christmas privilege--under the mistletoe, you know.”
He looked at her penitently. She sank down on to a low chair by the
fire. A warm colour suffused her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
Geoffrey took up his position on the other side of the hearth, with his
arm resting on the mantelpiece.
“Are you very angry with me?” he asked timidly, half expecting to be
reproached.
“No, not angry,” she answered in a low voice; “but you should not have
done it, Geoffrey. My _fiancé_ would be angry if he knew.”
She looked up, and met his gaze unflinchingly. He sighed. They gazed
into the glowing embers as if they would read therein the reflection of
each other’s thoughts. A burning coal fell into the fender. Geoffrey
adjusted the tongs, and put it back again.
“What strange visions are in the fire,” he observed after a pause.
“Shall I tell you what I can see? Two children, a girl and a boy. The
girl has hazel eyes and bronze-gold hair, almost the colour of that
pale flame. The boy is fair and freckled. They have met in a meadow on
the way home from school. The girl is pulling off the petals of a daisy,
one by one, ‘Loves me, loves me not.’ The last one comes to ‘loves me!’
She looks questioningly at the little boy. Yes, he does love her, loves
her better than his new cricket bat, better than the guinea-pig which
his father gave him for his birthday; she is his little sweetheart!”
He poked the fire; Celia stirred uneasily. “Look, the scene has
changed,” he continued dreamily. “The girl and boy are grown up now, new
interests have come into their lives, their spheres have widened. No
longer do they stroll in the meadows after school, though in the school
of life they sometimes meet. The boy is still faithful to his early
love; but she--she has forgotten that they were ever sweethearts. She is
beautiful, talented, and an heiress, and belongs to a race and faith
more ancient than his own. He is the son of a country clergyman, and has
no good prospects, nothing to offer her but his love; and yet----”
He broke off abruptly. Celia had risen to her feet. Her lips were
parted, and her breath came quickly, whilst the hand which lightly
rested on the chair-back trembled like a leaf.
“Geoffrey, stop!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “Do you know what you are
saying? I can’t pretend to misunderstand you. You have no right to talk
to me like that; it is too late--now.”
“Too late!” he repeated passionately. “Yes; I was a fool not to have
spoken before. Forgive me, Celia, if I have said more than I ought.” He
raised his hand, and wearily pushed the hair from off his brow. “I feel
out of gear to-night; don’t think too hardly of me, will you? I may be
going away soon--away, out of your life, far beyond the seas.”
They both heard some movement in the hall. Celia went to the door, and
switched on more light.
“Going away?” she faltered, in surprise.
“Yes; to Australia. My agreement with Dr. Forrest terminates this month,
and now that my uncle Neville Williams is dead, I have nothing
particular to keep me at home. Unless----” His face lit up with sudden
hope; he looked at her appealingly.
What he was going to say, however, died on his lips, for he heard the
old doctor talking to Karne outside the door. With a swift movement he
seated himself at the piano, and wandered off into the pathetic
harmonies of Schumann’s “_Warum?_”
Celia remained standing by the mantelpiece, with bent head and solemn
eyes. It had come as a revelation to her, the knowledge of Geoffrey’s
love. Oh, if she had only known before! Why had he not told her? But it
was too late now. She had promised herself to David Salmon; she would be
true to her promise; she _must_ be true, cost her what it might.
A touch on her shoulder interrupted her reverie. Her brother was
standing at her side; his face was pale, and he looked disturbed.
“Celia dear, I have just received bad news,” he said, with some
agitation. “Bad news from South Africa. It has come very suddenly. I am
afraid it will give you a shock, but it is best that you should know it
at once--your father is dead.”
Geoffrey’s hands fell on the keys with a discordant crash; the news came
as the death-blow to his hopes.
Celia scanned the cablegram which Herbert handed to her:--
“Mr. Bernie Franks died suddenly to-day; sudden failure of the
heart’s action. Wire instructions.--Bell and Boyd, solicitors,
Capetown.”
“Dear father--dead!” she exclaimed, in an awestruck voice. But she did
not show signs of grief; it was impossible that she should sorrow deeply
for one whom she could barely remember. It touched her, however, to
think that he had died out at the Cape, all alone. She wished she had
been with him at the last.
Dr. Forrest came forward and tendered his sympathetic condolence, after
which he took his leave.
Geoffrey Milnes also rose to go. His brain was on fire, his mind in a
tumult, but he managed to utter a formal sentence of sympathy; in his
confusion he almost blundered into congratulating Celia on acquiring her
father’s fortune.
“I suppose I shall see you again?” he asked wistfully, as he pressed her
hand at parting. “It is probable that I shall sail on Saturday week.”
Celia’s eyes were humid, and her lips quivered; she could not control
herself sufficiently to reply.
“So you have decided to go?” said Karne, almost cheerfully. “Ah, well,
there is nothing like a little knocking about the world to put grit
into a man. It will make you hard as nails, Geoff--and that’s what we
have to be in this world, old chap,” he added with a sigh. “Hard as
nails, and equally as tough.”
CHAPTER XII
DAVID SALMON PAYS A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
It was strange how quickly the news of the death of Bernie Franks became
known the next morning. It was the one topic of conversation in Durlston
that day, and the front door bell at the Towers scarcely rested. There
was a short but important paragraph in the London paper about it, which
may have accounted for the numerous telegrams Celia received from people
with whom neither she nor her half-brother had the slightest
acquaintance, but who, according to their messages, had been on the most
intimate terms with her father.
The afternoon train from London brought David Salmon to Durlston. He put
up at the best hotel in the town, and, after having refreshed himself
from the effects of the journey, started off for the Towers, wearing a
black tie and a mourning-band on his hat. He was in very exuberant
spirits, and walked along the High Road whistling and humming the latest
music-hall tunes; then suddenly recollected his _rôle_ as mourner and
sympathizer, and managed to assume the requisite amount of gravity. He
had been to the Towers once before, for the purpose of making Herbert
Karne’s acquaintance, so did not consider himself a stranger there.
Judging by the way he made his entrance, the house might have been his
own property, and the home of his ancestors.
A little boy, in a man-of-war suit, was playing about the hall when he
arrived, and watched him take off his hat and overcoat with a show of
interest. He had put his own hat on the head of a statue which held an
electric lamp, and looked as if he expected David to do the same.
“Cely’s papa is dead,” he informed him gravely. “An’ my papa is dead,
and Mr. Karne’s papa is dead. Is your papa dead too?”
“Yes, my papa is dead too,” answered David with mock gravity. He
wondered what the youngster was doing there.
“It’s very funny, isn’t it?” said the little boy, looking up into his
face with round solemn eyes. “They fasten all the papas up tight in a
box, and put ’em in a long hole in the ground, and then they go to
Heaven. But when old Patrick died--that’s our gardener--I stood by the
hole ever such a long time after they putted him down, an’ I didn’t see
him go to Heaven. Perhaps he wasn’t good enough, though--he used to
swear at me drefful sometimes in Irish, and vicar says it’s only good
people that go to Heaven. Do you know what I fink?” he added, putting
his finger in his mouth and looking very wise. “_I_ fink that, instead
of putting them down a hole, they ought to put them on top of the church
tower, so that they wouldn’t have so far to go to get up to Heaven; and
then, if they rang the church bells, the angels might hear, and come
down and carry them away.”
David smiled, and patted the child’s head indulgently.
“He’s a rum ’un, is Master Bobbie,” said the butler in parenthesis.
“He’d keep you chatting all day if you would stay. Is it Mr. Karne you
wish to see, sir, or Miss Celia?”
“You can’t see Mr. Karne,” put in the little boy, decidedly. “I wanted
to ask him lots of fings, but he is busy writing letters, an’ he told me
to run away and play. You had better come up and see Cely. Mother’s up
there with her, and lots more ladies. Cely looks drefful sad; I fink
she’s going to cry. That’s why I comed out; I don’t like to see growed
people cry--do you?”
He danced up the stairs and across the landing, his chubby face aglow
with vivacity and health.
“It’s all right, Higgins,” he called out to the butler. “I’ll show the
gentleman the way. What is your name--Mr. Salmon? How funny! We eat
salmon, don’t we, an’ it’s pink?”
He opened the library door cautiously, and peeped in. A buzz of
conversation met their ears.
“It’s all right,” he informed David, in a loud whisper. “She’s not
crying.” Then, imitating Higgins, he went forward, and announced, in a
stentorian tone of voice, “Mr. Fish!”
Celia rose with some surprise, for she knew no one of that name, and,
although it was very foolish of her, she felt her colour rise as David
Salmon entered. He was the last person she wished to see just then, for
she had not yet recovered from the shock of Geoffrey Milnes’ veiled
avowal. She managed to retain her self-possession, however, and, having
thanked him for his expression of sympathy, introduced him to her
friends.
Lady Marjorie Stonor he had already met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house, and
she extended her hand in that hail-fellow-well-met kind of manner which
was one of her own particular charms.
“I am sorry you fell into the hands of my small son,” she said with
urbanity. “He is a veritable _enfant terrible_. I never know what he
will say or do next. Come here, Bobbie, and let me introduce you to Mr.
Salmon.”
But Bobbie had established himself comfortably on the knee of a charming
young lady, and did not feel inclined to disturb himself.
“Oh, it’s all right, mother,” he said equably. “We have been ’duced; we
knowed each other downstairs. Mr. Salmon’s papa is dead too.”
The charming young lady bent down and whispered something into the
little boy’s ear. She was afraid that he would say something that might
hurt Celia’s feelings, for his childish mind seemed full of her
bereavement. He was very fond of his dear “Cely,” and he did not like to
see her look so sad.
David Salmon was awkward and ill at ease. He possessed no interest in
common with these stiff and formal county people, and felt that as
Celia’s _fiancé_ he was being criticized, and would afterwards be
commented upon. He was not sorry when Celia suggested that he should go
and hunt up her brother, and, rising with alacrity, went from the room
with an air of relief.
He found Herbert Karne in the study, busily attending to a formidable
pile of correspondence; and, fearing to intrude, would have withdrawn,
but the artist called him in, and made him sit down.
“I have only two more letters to write, and then I shall have done,” he
said, when they had shaken hands. “I am glad you have come, Salmon. I
should like you to tell me what you know of poor Franks’s affairs
presently, if you will.”
He took up his pen and indited another letter, whilst David lit up a
cigar, and watched him through a thin haze of smoke.
Karne was certainly a man worth looking at, and, like his half-sister,
possessed a marked personality. He had straight jet-black hair,
contrasting sharply with a pale, almost sallow complexion. His features
were clear-cut, and but slightly suggestive of his Jewish origin, the
nose being high-bridged like Celia’s, and the clean-shaven chin firm and
resolute. His eyes were dark and brilliant, and reflected his varying
emotions as if they had been, in truth, the faithful mirrors of his
inner self.
They were the eyes of a thinker and a dreamer of dreams. If Karne’s
poetic instincts had not found an outlet in allegorical art, he would in
all probability have been a musical composer or a writer of verse. Yet,
in spite of his tendency towards romance, his nature was encrusted with
a strain of prosaic common sense which gave strength to his character,
and made him essentially practical.
When David Salmon had heard of his charity to the workers at Mendel’s
factory, he had attributed it to a good nature which could easily be
imposed upon. He found, however, that he was mistaken; it would not be
so easy as he imagined to hoodwink Herbert Karne.
As the artist put down his pen and sealed the last letter, the door
opened to admit a gentleman in clerical attire, who, judging by the
familiar way in which he greeted him, appeared to be an intimate friend
of his. He had a kind, cheery face, and, although rapidly approaching
ripe middle age, looked very little more than forty-five. Time had used
him well; and his vigour was as great now as ever it had been in his
youth. He was a man who enjoyed the good things of life, and thanked God
heartily for them. He liked to be happy himself, and nothing gave him
keener pleasure than to see those around him happy also. Genial,
courteous, and complaisant--such was the Vicar of Durlston.
“You seem to be busy, Herbert,” he said, when he had been introduced to
David Salmon. “But don’t be alarmed; I can only stay a few minutes, as
Gladys is waiting for me to take her home. I want you to be so good as
to give me what information you can concerning Jacob Strelitzki. He was,
until just recently, in the employ of Messrs. Mendel & Co., so you have
no doubt come in contact with him at one time or another.”
“Yes, I have,” rejoined Karne, dryly. “And I am rather surprised if he
has referred you to me for a character. He ought to know pretty well
what opinion I have of him by this time.”
“He did not refer me to you,” corrected the clergyman, affably. “I will
tell you how it is, Karne. The man came to me about a fortnight ago, and
said that he was convinced of the truth of the Christian Faith as
expounded by the Church of England, and wished to be baptized
accordingly. Also that his fellow-workers were so incensed against him
for giving up Judaism, that he could not possibly stay at Mendel’s
factory, and was obliged to leave. He was quite without means of
subsistence, and I organized a fund amongst my parishioners for his
relief. Since then I have been able to obtain a situation for him as
steward to Squire Stannard, with whom I think you are acquainted. The
squire is much interested in Strelitzki’s case, and will, I am sure, be
exceedingly kind to him. Before he goes, however, I should like to be
assured that he bears a good character, for of course the squire will
hold me responsible, in a measure, for his future conduct.”
“Just so,” agreed Herbert, smiling somewhat cynically. “Have you
baptized him yet?”
“No, not yet,” returned the vicar. “All being well, I hope to perform
the ceremony on Sunday week.”
“Well, before you do so, Milnes, I should advise you to ascertain
whether he has ever been baptized before,” said Karne, his brows drawn
together in a frown. “I am very sorry to have to destroy your good faith
in the man, but I am not going to stand by and see you taken in by a
scoundrel like Strelitzki. There exists, unfortunately, a certain class
of low Jews--mostly foreigners--who will change their religion until
they have joined almost every recognized sect, so long as there is some
pecuniary advantage to be gained by their doing so. They are generally
men out of work, being unable or too lazy to get employment; and so they
prey upon these various missionary and conversionist societies, who, in
their misguided zeal, welcome them with open arms. Their material
necessities are attended to, as well as their spiritual needs, so that
they find that, at least temporarily, conversion is a paying game. That
Strelitzki belongs to this class, I am confident, and the less you have
to do with him the better.”
The good vicar was inexpressibly shocked. He thought, however, that his
friend was slightly prejudiced against converted Jews, for, in the many
arguments they had had on the subject, they had never yet been able to
agree.
“This is a serious allegation, Karne,” he said gravely. “I have been
greatly deceived if such is indeed the case. About these conversionist
societies I know very little; but I hope--and, yes, in spite of what you
say, I believe--that the majority of their converts are sincere.
Unfortunately there are black sheep in every fold. But I certainly
thought that Jacob Strelitzki was a genuine seeker after truth. Are you
sure that you have not misjudged him, Karne? His character may not be
irreproachable in other respects, I admit, but in this, at least, his
motive may be pure?”
“Shall I tell you why Strelitzki left the factory?” said the artist, his
eyes kindling with indignation. “Because he was turned away on account
of his persistent drunkenness. You know me pretty well, I think, Milnes:
I’m not the sort of fellow to give a person a bad character if I can
possibly find anything good to say about him; on the contrary, I am
always ready to take into consideration a man’s up-bringing, and to make
allowance for the special temptations with which he may have had to
cope. But I cannot sufficiently express my contempt for Jacob
Strelitzki. He is not worthy of the name of Jew, And as for caring aught
about his soul--why he has no more soul than this dog here; nay, not so
much, for look into Dandy’s eyes and you will find honesty and integrity
reflected in their depths, whereas Strelitzki possesses neither of these
virtues. He has attempted to sponge upon me times without number; and
now that I refuse to render him any further assistance, he uses threats,
and curses me behind my back. That’s the kind of man Strelitzki is, and
I am very angry indeed that he should have tried to impose on such
generous-minded men as you and Squire Stannard.”
The vicar had never heard Karne speak so trenchantly before, and
although he still felt half inclined to give Strelitzki the benefit of
the doubt, he knew that his friend would not give vent to such a
vigorous denunciation without good cause. He was terribly disappointed
in what he had heard, for he was a simple-minded man with a great faith
in human goodness, and it always pained him to have his favourite theory
upset.
He looked quite worried as he adjourned with Karne and Salmon to the
library, where his daughter was the last remaining visitor.
“Of course I shall have to refuse Strelitzki baptism for the present,”
he said, when he had informed her of Herbert Karne’s opinion. “And we
can give him no further help whilst he continues to be such a
reprobate.”
“I told you I thought he was not really a Christian, didn’t I, father?”
said Gladys, who prided herself on her perception of character. “We saw
him loitering outside the King’s Arms the other afternoon, and he was
using abusive language in connection with Mr. Karne. Geoffrey wanted to
go and punch his head, but I restrained him, because I thought the man
was drunk. I should advise you to carry a revolver about with you,” she
added, turning towards Herbert. “He might try to murder you, one of
these dark nights. Such things do happen, you know, and he is such a
nasty-looking man.”
Herbert laughed. “I don’t think he would attempt that,” he answered
carelessly. “He is too much of a coward.”
“Cowards become quite bold when they are drunk,” put in David Salmon, as
if he knew all about it. “You really ought to be careful, Karne, if he
is indeed such a scamp.”
Celia began to look anxious. “You make me quite nervous,” she said. “I
shall be worried every time Herbert goes out alone. Perhaps Strelitzki
will go away from Durlston though, when he finds he cannot get work
here.”
“Not he,” rejoined her brother, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“When he finds that his bogus conversion scheme won’t work, he will see
the error of his ways and return to Judaism, and I dare say he will
persuade Mendel’s to take him on again. But you need not be anxious on
my account, I assure you, dear; I am quite capable of defending myself
against Jacob Strelitzki even should he become obstreperous, and I do
not for one moment think he will.”
He spoke lightly, but Celia was not altogether satisfied. From what Anna
had told her on various occasions, she could gauge Strelitzki’s
temperament fairly well, and feared that, if he had taken it into his
head that her half-brother was his enemy, he would do his utmost to pay
him back in some way.
She was not far wrong. Jacob Strelitzki went back to the factory in due
course, as Herbert had surmised he would: and although he was generally
civil to the artist when they met, he never forgot that he owed him a
grudge. If time should ever give him an opportunity to retaliate, he
meant to use it to the utmost; and if he did hit back at all, he would
hit hard.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SOCIAL ETHICS OF JUDAISM
David Salmon’s visit to the Towers, just that week, was rather
unfortunate so far as Celia and Dr. Milnes were concerned. Geoffrey was
very desirous of having another interview with Celia before he went
abroad, but he could not bring himself to meet her _fiancé_; and feeling
himself to be in an equivocal position, he stayed away. Celia was both
glad and sorry that he did not come--glad, because under the
circumstances it was best that her peace of mind should not be further
disturbed; sorry, because Geoffrey was her old friend and playmate, and
he was soon to go so far away.
On the day before he sailed, her brother took her to the vicarage to say
good-bye. There were two or three visitors present besides the Milnes
family, so that she was unable to get a word with him alone: but his
eyes scarcely left her face all the time she was there; and he gazed at
her so pathetically that once or twice she nearly broke down.
Before she left, he presented her with a living memento of his
friendship, in the shape of a tiny Yorkshire terrier, with its silvery
hair tied up with ribbon of the colour of forget-me-nots. He knew how
fond she was of animals, and noted with gratification that her face lit
up with pleasure as she lifted the little creature up and fondled it in
her arms. He could not have chosen a more obtrusive reminder of himself,
for any inanimate object might have lain unheeded after a time; but
Souvenir or “Souvie,” as the little dog was called, remained a living
witness to his quondam master’s existence. Such a reminder was quite
unnecessary, however, in Celia’s case: she was not in the least danger
of forgetting the gallant cavalier of her childhood.
She had wished him good-bye and God-speed in few and simple words, said
in the presence of his family and friends; but her heart had been very
full. If, at the last moment, he had come to her and persisted in his
declaration of love, she might have been persuaded to break off her
engagement with David Salmon and accept him, no matter what the
consequences. But he had not done so--he had gone without a word,--and
therefore she was inclined to think that he had said more than he meant
on the night that the news of her father’s death had been received;
perhaps he had repented later that he had said so much.
Celia’s state of mind was decidedly paradoxical. She liked David Salmon,
and he was her _fiancé_, and she was content therewith--or so she made
herself believe. On the other hand, she also liked Geoffrey Milnes (she
would not confess even to herself that she loved him), and she could not
help wishing that fate had been more propitious to them both.
Before she returned to London she threshed the question out thoroughly,
and tried to come to an honest understanding with herself. The one great
reason why she had never allowed herself to even think of Geoffrey
Milnes as a lover, was because he was a Christian; she would have
regarded him in quite a different light had he been a Jew. If he really
loved her, however, he ought to have stayed at home and fought for her
like a man, instead of letting her go without an effort; therefore she
came to the conclusion that he did not care for her, or that his was
merely a platonic kind of affection. And if such were indeed the case,
it was clearly of no use for her to waste her time in vain regrets of
what might have been; besides, her pride would not allow her to be
guilty of unrequited affection. In justice to David, she would have to
get Geoffrey’s image out of her mind, for it was certainly not right to
be engaged to one man, and to be continually hankering after another.
So she went back to the Academy, and plunged into her work with renewed
vigour; and tried her very hardest to banish Geoffrey Milnes from her
memory. She was kinder to David than heretofore, and only allowed him to
see the lighter side of her nature, so that he found her greatly
improved for the better. He had obtained a good post as commercial
traveller to a large firm of manufacturers, and was only in London at
the week-ends--an arrangement which suited Celia very well, for it left
her free to follow her own devices during the week, and also prevented
her from seeing too much of him. He tried to persuade her continually to
give up her musical studies, and marry him as soon as her term of
mourning expired; but she was determined to go on with her music, and
seemed less inclined to think of marriage than ever.
She was making good progress at the Academy, and thoroughly enjoyed her
musical life. Mr. Lambert still refused to allow her to sing at any
concert, but she was coming to the fore with her elocution and acting,
in which she was greatly encouraged by the dramatic author, Guy
Haviland.
The Havilands lived in a pretty house in St. John’s Wood, within easy
distance of Maida Vale. Celia went there frequently, either to have a
good romp with the children--which she enjoyed immensely,--or to recite
a fresh poem to the master of the house, or to sing a new song with Enid
Wilton at the piano, and Grace Haviland to play a violin _obliggato_.
Miss Haviland was a fresh-looking girl, five years younger than her
brother, and, besides being a very fair violinist, was a writer of
verse. One or two of her lyrics Celia sang, to music composed by Enid
Wilton; and as they had so much interest in common, the three girls were
great chums.
Mrs. Friedberg felt a little bit piqued that Celia was not more friendly
with her own girls. She took them with her to the Academy, it was true,
and gave them tickets for concerts, but she never told them anything
about herself; and after she had been with them a year, they knew her
very little better than on the day she had arrived. Adeline had
introduced her to some of her friends, and had given her frequent
opportunities for going into young Jewish society, but Celia was
unresponsive, and held herself aloof--or so it seemed to Mrs.
Friedberg.
She took her to task for it one day, and read her such a lesson on her
unsociability, that the poor girl was quite distressed.
“You know I haven’t time, really, Mrs. Friedberg,” she said in
extenuation. “Besides, I am in mourning now. But I am going to pay Mrs.
Leopold Cohen a visit this afternoon, so you see I am not very
unsociable, after all.”
Mrs. Leopold Cohen was the only one of her new acquaintance with whom
Celia was on terms of intimacy. She was a very charming woman, and,
although quite young, had snow-white hair and a face on which suffering
had left its traces. Her husband was a confirmed and fractious invalid,
being afflicted with an incurable spinal complaint which necessitated
his being always in a recumbent position; and her two children were both
so delicate that she was in a perpetual state of anxiety concerning
their welfare. Yet, although there was so much to try her--for, besides
the ill health of her dear ones, she was worried about ways and
means--she possessed a calm and patient nature which was quite incapable
of being ruffled by the turbulent storm of adversity. Celia had been
struck by the sweetness and repose of her countenance, the more so as
she had once been a witness of one of Mr. Cohen’s splenetic outbursts,
and knew what the wife had to endure.
“I don’t know how you can stand it, poor dear,” the girl had said to her
on that occasion. “You must have the temper of a saint.”
But the brave little woman shook her head; she did not wish to be
pitied.
“One gets used to it in time,” she had answered with a wistful smile.
“And Leopold doesn’t mean all he says. He is in such pain, you know; it
is no wonder that he is fretful.”
On this particular afternoon, however, her husband was better than
usual, and peace reigned in the little household, at least for a time.
Mrs. Cohen received Celia with cordiality; and when she had attended to
the numerous requirements of the invalid, they settled down to a quiet
chat.
“Why did you not go to the Isaacsons’ last Tuesday?” she asked her,
reproachfully. “I made sure you would be there, especially as the
Friedbergs and Mrs. Rosen came.”
“Tuesday?” repeated Celia, thoughtfully. “Oh yes, I remember. I went to
recite at an entertainment in Hoxton for Mr. Wilton. Did you enjoy
yourself at the Isaacsons’?”
“Fairly well; only my husband sent for me rather early, as he felt ill.
I was very disappointed that you were not there, though. Mrs. Friedberg
tells me that you do not care for the society of Jewish people; but I
hope that is not true?”
Celia looked sheepish. “Did Mrs. Friedberg tell you that?” she said,
bending down to fasten her shoe. “She has just been lecturing me about
being unsociable. You see, I don’t care about going to card-parties,
because I don’t play cards; and even if I did, I could not play just
now, because I am in mourning.”
“Yes, but they don’t all play cards,” rejoined Mrs. Cohen. “I don’t, for
one. And there are always plenty of young people for you to talk to.
Haven’t you made any Jewish girl friends since you came to London?”
“No, only one or two. Most of them seem to me to be so shallow-minded,
and they talk of nothing but dress, and theatres, and the latest
matrimonial engagement. By-the-bye, I suppose you have heard that Lottie
Friedberg is engaged?”
Mrs. Cohen smiled. “Who is talking about the latest engagement now?” she
said banteringly. “But I have heard about it--Mrs. Friedberg told me the
other night. He is a Birmingham young man, isn’t he? I think Lottie is a
very lucky girl. I suppose the Rev. Isaac Abrahams managed the affair,
as he did Adeline’s?”
“Yes, that is what I think so horrid about it,” replied the girl with
disgust. “It was a made-up match. Lottie didn’t know him any more than
the man in the moon, until, by arrangement with her father, Mr. Abrahams
brought him over from Birmingham to be introduced, and a week later the
engagement was announced. I cannot understand how any self-respecting
girl can allow herself to be disposed of in that cut-and-dried manner. I
couldn’t, I know.”
Mrs. Cohen sighed. She was thinking of her own marriage, which had come
under the category they were discussing.
“Before I was engaged,” continued Celia, indignantly, “Mr. Rosen was
always offering to find a young man for me. Whenever I met him, no
matter how many people were present, he would always say, ‘Hello, Miss
Franks, I am on the look-out for a nice _chosan_[10] for you; one with
plenty of money preferred, eh?’ It used to make me so angry. To be
honest, Mrs. Cohen, I have not been much impressed with the Jewish
society I have met up till now. There seems to be so much
money-grubbing, and match-making, and card-playing about it. Can you
wonder that I prefer to be with my Christian musical friends? Their
company is so much more congenial to me.”
Mrs. Cohen began to look serious, and a little pucker appeared on her
usually placid brow.
“You must not judge all Jewish society by the few people you have met,”
she said thoughtfully. “There are many Jewish men and women who are
cultured and refined in the very highest degree; still I admit that
there is some truth in your estimate, unflattering though it seems. But
I hope you do not intend to put yourself out of touch with us, Celia. I
consider that you, especially, will have your duty to perform to your
own people.”
“Why me, especially?” asked the girl, with interest.
“Because, with your voice and your wealth, there is every chance of your
attaining a certain amount of fame,” answered her hostess, earnestly.
“And I trust that we shall consider you a credit to our race. And don’t
you think, Celia, that if such should be the case, and knowing that a
certain amount of narrow-minded prejudice always exists against our
People, don’t you think that it will be your duty to ever stand up for
the race to which you belong, and to say to those Gentiles who admire
your talents and your beauty, ‘I, who have won such golden opinions from
you all, I am a Jewess, and I glory in it’?”
Her words rang with enthusiasm, yet they awakened only a feeble response
in Celia’s heart. The girl’s mind was troubled and perplexed, and she
could not endorse a sentiment which was not honestly her own. Her eyes
sought the ground, and she remained silent for a moment.
“Are you really proud of being a Jewess?” she asked suddenly, with shy
diffidence. “Honestly glad and proud, I mean? I try to be, but somehow
I--I can’t!”
She blushed as she made the confession. Mrs. Cohen regarded her
musingly. Her sombre mourning-gown threw into relief the brilliancy of
her hair and complexion. Her eyes were deeply thoughtful, and her face
glowed with the health and ingenuousness of girlhood. It was a pity, the
elder lady thought, that this sweet and beautiful girl should have
picked up such strangely unconventional ideas.
“Don’t you think, dear child,” she said slowly, “that we have a right to
be proud of our ancient Race? Think of our great and glorious past. What
other nation has been through the vicissitudes and misfortunes which
have afflicted us, and yet come through them all uncrushed as we have
done? Surely you have read our history in the Old Testament--how we were
made the chosen people of God in Abraham’s time; and although the other
nations which surrounded us gave themselves over to idolatry and
lasciviousness, we ever remained faithful to our divine heritage, until
our pure Monotheism became the religion of the civilized world.
“Think of our great men of bygone days--Moses, who received the
Decalogue, which is as potent to-day as when it was given on Mount
Sinai; Joshua, the mighty leader; David, the soldier-poet; Solomon, the
wise king; Elijah, the prophet. Is it not something to belong to a race
which has produced such men as those--a race upon whom God has set His
seal, and, in spite of assimilation, has kept a peculiar people unto
Himself?”
But Celia still looked doubtful. “You are like my brother,” she said.
“You look at Israel through a veil of idealism. I can only think of what
we are to-day. We have had a great past--yes; but what have we to link
us with that past? Our glory departed when Jerusalem was destroyed, and
since the dispersion we have surely fallen into disrepute. I always
feel, in reading over our history, that, from the call of Abraham, we
were working up to a climax, and no climax came, unless ’twere
overlooked; as if we were, so to speak, a building without a
coping-stone. We were established as a nation, we throve and grew great;
but our greatness was overthrown, and we toppled over from the eminence
on which we stood, with our divine purpose but half fulfilled. And we
cannot live in the past, grand though it may have been. It seems to me
that we must have degenerated greatly since then. Our national
characteristics of to-day are not such as should give us cause for
pride; and even though they have undoubtedly been exaggerated by our
Gentile neighbours, we cannot deny that there is some foundation for the
unfortunate reputation we bear.”
“That may be so,” rejoined Mrs. Cohen, impressed by her young friend’s
earnestness. “But you must not forget that for generations past our
people abroad have been persecuted and oppressed, and that the sinister
effects of that persecution will yet take many years to eradicate. How
could we develop our higher and nobler qualities whilst the heel of the
despot was upon our necks? Are we not redeeming our character here in
England, where, thank God, we are free? Look how steadily Jews are
coming to the fore in all the higher walks of life--in commerce, in
politics, in what we term high society, and in the fine arts. There is
scarcely a cause of national import in which our people do not
participate; and where will you find a more thrifty, sober, responsible,
law-abiding citizen than the modern English Jew? You see, Celia, I am
optimistic. I believe that there is a great future for us yet; and that
is why I am so anxious to encourage you, who are full of the impetuosity
of youth, to make up your mind to defend all that is highest in our
Jewish life, and to be an example of what the true type of a Jewess
should be. Then both Jews and Christians will respect you, and you will
feel that you have not lived in vain!”
She paused, for the tinkle of Mr. Cohen’s bell warned her that her
services were required. She had said quite enough, however, to give
Celia food for a wider range of thought. The girl began to wonder if,
after all, her own outlook upon Judaism were not a very limited one; and
when she left Mrs. Cohen that afternoon she resolved to try and cherish
more loyal feelings towards her own people.
It was a pity, perhaps, that so much of her life had been spent amongst
Gentiles, for she had unconsciously been educated in a non-Jewish school
of thought. She was unable as yet to discern the real goodness of heart
underlying the apparent self-interest and occasional vulgarity of the
average Jew of her acquaintance. She was not able, either to look below
the surface of the many Jewish rites and observances which struck her as
so meaningless and irksome; but she was a conscientious little soul, and
meant to persevere until her Judaism should give her the happiness and
contentment that she sought. Mrs. Cohen’s words had done her good.
BOOK II
THREE YEARS AFTER
CHAPTER I
CELIA MAKES HER PROFESSIONAL DÉBUT IN LONDON
It was the height of the season, and London was very full. One had only
to take a stroll “down west” to be convinced of the fact, for there was
scarcely a house to be seen in any of the squares that did not display
the window-boxes and sun-blinds, which signified that the owners were in
residence. The fashionable hotels were crowded, the restaurants
thronged; and big social functions were the order of the day.
A stream of carriages and hansoms rolled down Regent Street, giving the
weary pedestrian a panorama of gaily-trimmed hats and dainty sunshades.
Portly dowagers accompanied beautiful girls; and it was a noticeable
fact that whilst the dowagers sat bolt upright, alert and on the _qui
vive_, most of the _débutantes_ leant languidly against the cushions
with an air of supercilious boredom, the exacting demands of the season
combined with the oppressive heat having apparently drained their
vitality.
All roads seemed to lead to the Queens Hall that afternoon, and judging
by the ornate escutcheons on the panels of some of the equipages, there
were great people on the road. The occasion was the much-advertised
charity _matinée_, organized by the popular dramatist, Guy Haviland, in
aid of a well-known London hospital. Society had been pleased to bestow
its patronage, and as the tickets had been disposed of at fancy prices,
it was sufficiently select for the _élite_ to honour with their
presence.
The function promised to be a highly interesting and successful one, for
Haviland had prevailed upon several stars of the musical and dramatic
professions to give their services in the cause of charity. Moreover,
the gifted young singer, Celia Franks, who had made her _début_ in
Paris--where she had finished her studies--was to make her first
appearance before the English public; and as her wealth, beauty, and
attainments had been so fully discussed in the society papers, society
was curious to see whether the numerous eulogies of her merits were
justified.
The hall was packed long before the concert began. Stalls and balconies
were filled with women of fashion and men of note. Those who knew said
it was one of the most brilliant gatherings of the season, and that the
names of some of those present would have made a condensed edition of
Debrett. Everybody seemed to know everybody else; and the hum of
conversation buzzed loud and strong.
A well-groomed man of forty, with a gardenia in his button-hole,
sauntered leisurely about the hall, stopping every now and then to greet
an acquaintance, and chat about the weather and the opera. He was a
popular man about town, being a peer in fairly prosperous circumstances,
and still unmarried. Anxious mothers, with several daughters on their
hands, made much of him, and the girls themselves declared him “so
interesting, don’t you know.” But the wiles of the mothers, and the
charms of the daughters were alike of no avail, for wherever he went he
proclaimed himself a confirmed bachelor.
As he was about to return to his seat, a lady sailed up to him, her long
silken skirts trailing on the ground. She was a regal-looking woman,
magnificently dressed with perfect taste; and her bearing indicated that
she was fully conscious of her own importance.
With a bewitching smile she invited the noble lord to buy a programme;
she had only three left, she said, and was very anxious to sell them
before the concert began.
“Mrs. Neville Williams a vendor of programmes!” exclaimed the peer with
mock astonishment. “I am indeed sorry that it should have come to this!”
“One can do anything for such a good cause,” she answered sententiously;
and then, with a coquettish glance from her dark eyes, “Of course I
cannot hope to compete with the pretty actresses who are my colleagues,
but will you buy a programme, Lord Bexley?”
She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and had a peculiar way of
pronouncing her “r’s.” There was a suggestion of artificiality about her
voice, as there was also about the brilliancy of her eyes, the bloom of
her complexion, and the whiteness of her teeth. Bexley did not consider
her beautiful, for what good points she possessed were due to art--the
art of her French maid; but he admired her personality, albeit there was
some thing about it which repelled him.
“Where have you been hiding yourself all the season?” he asked, when he
had allowed her to sell him a programme for sixpence and keep the change
out of a sovereign. “I really believe this is the first time I have seen
you since we met in Cairo last winter.”
“Yes, I have been abroad for some time,” she replied, trying to cool
herself with a small ivory fan. “I was in retreat at a convent near
Cimiez for nearly three months, and since then I have been to Paris and
Trouville. You see, the poor Duke’s death upset me terribly--we were to
have been married a fortnight later, you know--and so I thought that a
few months spent right away from society would prove beneficial to my
health. My nerves seemed quite unstrung.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Bexley, sympathetically. “It was very sad
about poor Wallingcourt’s death. I never had the slightest idea that he
was consumptive. Do you feel better after your period of seclusion?”
“Oh yes. It was so quiet and restful at the convent. The very atmosphere
breathed unworldliness and sanctity. I read no books and attended to no
correspondence whilst I was there, but, in company with the Sisters,
passed my time in prayer and meditation. It was quite a delightful
change.”
Lord Bexley turned away his face to hide a smile. The idea of Mrs.
Neville Williams as a kind of temporary nun tickled him immensely. He
was far more inclined to think that her absence from society had been in
order to undergo a treatment of rejuvenescence at the hands of a
Parisian beauty doctor. However, it would never do to doubt the word of
a lady.
“It must indeed have been delightful,” he said, glancing at her again,
and noting the unwonted demureness of her countenance. “But I am glad
that they have allowed you to return to the world. By-the-by, your
niece, Miss Gladys Milnes, is here. She is up on a visit to my sister.
Won’t you come and speak to her?”
Mrs. Neville Williams frowned. “No, thanks,” she answered tersely. “I
scarcely know her. She is a _gauche_ little country wench, is she not?
My late husband’s relations have not treated me very kindly, and we are
not on the best of terms.”
Her gaze suddenly became riveted on two gentlemen who were passing in
front of the stalls to the artists’ room. They seemed to possess some
fascination for her, for she stopped fanning herself, and her eyes
dilated. Her expression reminded Bexley of a warhorse, when it scents
the battle-field; he did not quite know what to make of it. In another
moment, however, her sudden agitation had passed; she was demure and
calm again.
“Those gentlemen,” she murmured, having noticed Bexley look over to them
and bow--“you know them?”
“Yes. The one is Mr. Haviland, the giver of this concert.”
“And the other?”
“The other is Herbert Karne.”
“Ah!” The exclamation was short and sharp. Bexley was not sure whether
it implied surprise or relief.
“I dare say you have seen his ‘Farewell to the World’ at the Academy?”
he inquired. “It is a beautiful picture.”
“No,” she replied nervously. “I have not been to the Royal Academy this
season. I have only just returned to town.”
She toyed absently with her long neck-chain, from which were suspended,
in cheerful incongruity, a small ebony and silver crucifix, a tiny ivory
death’s-head with diamonds set in the eye-holes, a miniature horse-shoe,
and a diminutive champagne-bottle designed in solid gold. Bexley
wondered why she wore them; they were certainly not pretty, and, as
charms, he considered them out of place.
“Mr. Karne is the half-brother of Miss Celia Franks,” he informed her.
“Did you hear Miss Franks sing in Paris? She made her _début_ there.”
“Yes, I heard her sing. She sang very well. I had no idea, though, that
she was Herbert Karne’s half-sister. I was not aware that he had a
half-sister.”
“Then you do know him?” Bexley interpolated quickly.
“I just know him, that is all,” she answered evenly. “I do not suppose,
however, that he remembers me. Our introduction took place many years
ago.”
The performers were taking their places for the trio with which the
concert opened. Mrs. Neville Williams bowed and swept away. She carried
herself with more hauteur than usual, and there was a bright spot, which
was not rouge, on either of her cheeks.
Lord Bexley returned to his seat, and affected not to notice his
sister’s expression of disapproval. He passed the programme to Gladys
Milnes, and then leant back and appeared absorbed in the music. The trio
was one composed by Beethoven for piano, violin, and ’cello, all three
performers being skilled executants. When the second movement came to a
close, Lady Marjorie spoke.
“You seem to have found plenty to say to that woman,” she remarked
caustically. “I should advise you to be careful, Bexley, or you will
find yourself the next on her list.”
Bexley shrugged his shoulders. When one lady designates another fair
dame as “that woman,” it is an infallible sign that there is no love
lost between the two.
“I presume you mean Mrs. Neville Williams,” he answered _sotto voce_. “I
am sure I don’t know why you are so dead against her. It is not like you
to be uncharitable, Marjorie.”
“I remember Dr. Williams, and I remember the poor infatuated Duke of
Wallingcourt,” she returned in a whisper. “They were good men in their
way, and she ruined them both. I don’t like to see good men ruined,
therefore I am uncharitable.”
The musicians struck up the third movement of the trio. Bexley was
silent, and his sister gave her attention again to the music.
Gladys Milnes, who sat the other side of Lady Marjorie, also listened
attentively, her face aglow with interest and excitement. She might have
been what her aunt had termed her, a _gauche_ little country wench, but
she was very charming for all that. There was no deception about _her_
wavy golden hair and peach-like complexion; they were the gifts of
Nature--which her aunt’s were not. And if she were not a fashionable
young lady with the fashionable affectation of _ennui_, at least she
was genuinely healthy in body, mind, and soul--which, too, her aunt was
not. It was her first visit to the metropolis, and she had come for the
sole purpose of attending this concert. She was greatly impressed by all
that she saw; the brilliancy of the audience almost took her breath
away. Never before had she seen such a galaxy of fair women, such a
profusion of beautiful dresses and magnificent jewels. She began to
wonder if this were what her father meant, when from the pulpit he
denounced the “pomps and vanity of this wicked world;” for the elegant
“creations” and “confections” represented an amount of money which, it
seemed to her, might have been devoted to a much more useful purpose
than the display of dress. She enjoyed watching them, nevertheless, and
was keenly observant of all that went on around her.
The trio was followed by a vocal duet, after which came a humorous
duologue. Gladys enjoyed them both, but she was longing impatiently for
Celia’s contribution to the programme, which did not come until just
before the interval. She had not seen Celia for nearly a year, and
wondered if her professional _début_ had changed her in any way. She
could not imagine how her friend could have the courage to face that
vast audience. Her heart beat quite fast when the short wait before
Celia’s appearance occurred.
By the steps at the side of the platform stood M. Lambert, the professor
of singing. He wore an antiquated opera-hat rakishly tipped on one side,
and a yellow rose in his dress-coat. Lambert always made a point of
getting into evening dress as soon as the clock chimed the midday hour,
and loftily refused to comply with the conventions of what he termed
“tin-pot” society. He was a Bohemian to his finger-tips. At a given sign
he took off his hat, and, having placed it carefully on the floor, made
way for the accompanists--there were three of them--to pass to their
respective instruments. Then with great dignity he himself escorted the
fair singer on to the platform, and, having favoured the audience with a
bow all on his own account, took his seat by the piano in order to turn
over the music.
“Isn’t she sweet!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie, almost tenderly. “She looks
for all the world as if she had just stepped out of a picture.”
Her remark was justified. Attired in a prettily made frock of shimmering
white silk, with roses at her belt and in her Gainsboro’ hat, Celia
stood, a charming representation of feminine beauty. She held herself
erect, with gracefully poised head and loosely clasped hands; and,
looking straight over the heads of her audience, awaited with composure
the close of the instrumental prelude to the French ballad, “La Voix
d’un Ange.”
It was the story of a forsaken and poverty-stricken mother, who, as she
is rocking her weakly babe to sleep one stormy night in her miserable
garret, receives an angelic visitation. Being asked to choose whether
the babe shall be left to grow up in puny ill-health, or whether the
angel shall take it before it knows aught of sorrow, she--although the
babe is the one bright spot in her life--chooses the latter alternative,
and with patient resignation watches the angel carry it away.
It was a dramatic little poem, and Celia told it well. Beginning in a
low but well-modulated voice, accompanied only by the low rumbling of
the organ, which depicted the approaching storm, she recited with
unaffected gesture the opening verses. It was the more difficult for
her, being in French, but she had acquired a good accent, and spoke
distinctly.
When, accompanied by the rippling _arpeggi_ of the piano and harp, and
the melting notes produced by the _vox humana_ stop of the organ, her
glorious voice burst forth in all its rich fulness--“La Voix d’un
Ange”--a thrill of pleasure ran through the audience, and with almost
breathless tension, they drank in every note.
Higher and with more intensity rose the voice, deeper swelled the organ,
more celestial sounded the sweet notes of the harp; the effect was
almost entrancing. Then, in a little minor melody of exquisite beauty,
the enchanting voice gradually died away; the organ resumed its low
rumbling, and a few lines of recitative brought the ballad to a close.
A sigh of keen enjoyment broke from the listening crowd, and, after a
moment’s silence, the hall reverberated with applause. There was not
another number on the programme which elicited such enthusiasm as this.
For once society was taken out of itself, for once it forgot its usual
placid indifference, and forebore to grudge the singer her success.
Again and again she reappeared to bow her acknowledgments, and still the
audience clamoured and thumped for an encore.
“You must sing something else,” Haviland said excitedly. “Quick! what
shall it be?”
“Sing ‘Allerseelen,’” suggested Herbert Karne.
“No; give ’em something popular. They are just in the mood for it,” put
in Lambert with authority. “Sing ‘Killarney’--that’s sure to take.”
He hastily found the music; then, turning round to the young singer,
gave an exclamation of dismay.
“The heat and the excitement have been too much for her,” said Haviland,
regretfully.
Celia had fainted.