A NEW PROJECT DISCUSSED
Celia’s _début_ was followed by engagements to sing at several concerts,
and numerous invitations to great ladies’ receptions. She was a decided
success, and became the fashion, at least, for that season. It was not
her voice alone--for many a singer has possessed one equally as good as
hers and yet has languished in obscurity; but her attractive personality
and her fortune combined, gained for her the good will of society, and
she was made much of in consequence.
Under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor, herself the leader of a
certain “set,” she underwent the routine of fashionable life; and
attended functions to which, without Lady Marjorie’s influence, it would
have been impossible, at the outset, to gain the _entrée_. Luncheon and
dinner-parties, receptions and balls, followed each other in rapid
succession, until Celia’s dreams at night began to consist of a blurred
panorama of red carpet and striped awnings, flower-decked halls and
plant-lined stairs, crowded rooms and lamp-lit conservatories. She
seemed to live in one constant whirl of excitement, and her pretty head
was almost in danger of being turned by the attention and adulation she
received.
Herbert Karne had intended to stay in town for the season, but he very
soon wearied of hotel life, and fashionable London possessed no
attractions for him. He remained just long enough to be present at
Celia’s _début_, to escort her to an artists’ _soirée_, and to see his
picture on view at the Academy. Then, considering that he had done his
duty, he returned to his quiet home at Durlston, leaving his half-sister
at Lady Majorie’s house in Great Cumberland Place, until the end of
July.
Celia had no qualms now about staying in a non-Jewish house, and of
partaking of food not prepared according to Jewish law. She had
apparently left her Judaism where she had found it--in Maida Vale. Had
she been truly convinced of the faithfulness of its tenets she would no
doubt have adhered to it with untiring zeal, but she had found much that
was unsatisfactory and inconsistent in its multitudinous laws and
regulations; and when there was no longer any incentive for her to keep
it up, she gradually let it slide. In Paris her religious observances
had been allowed to fall into laxity, until at last she ceased to
observe anything at all. Instead, she adopted the art religion of her
brother--the worship of God as seen in the Beautiful alone; and if it
were not so satisfying as true Judaism might have been had she been able
to discover of what true Judaism really consists, at least it entailed
no inconvenient obligations, and, in its vague indefiniteness, was an
easy creed to follow.
There was one person to whom Celia’s present mode of living gave ample
cause for dissatisfaction, and that was her _fiancé_, David Salmon. He
had been engaged to her for over three years now, and considered it high
time for the marriage to take place. He had scarcely seen her more than
a dozen times since she had returned from Paris, for her engagements
were so numerous that he seemed crowded out. He was at present employed
as manager in one of the departments of the Acme Furnishing Company, of
which Mike Rosen was the proprietor. It was a fairly remunerative post,
but David rebelled against having to plod on at business every day from
nine o’clock until six, when, as Celia’s husband, he might assume the
habits of a gentleman of means and leisure.
Besides, he did not feel secure of her now that she had launched forth
into smart society--in which he himself had no place. Lady Marjorie had
given him an invitation to come and see her at Great Cumberland Place.
He went occasionally, but he never seemed to be able to make himself at
home there. From the moment the powdered footman opened the great hall
door, he felt a sense of constraint creeping over him like a vice; and
it never relaxed until his visit came to an end. Surrounded by the
grandeur of Lady Marjorie’s establishment, hedged in by the rules of
social etiquette, Celia seemed a different being to the frankly
ingenuous girl he had known at Mrs. Friedberg’s house. She had,
unconsciously perhaps, imbibed something of the ultra high-bred manner
of the _grande dame_. She was very dignified, very graceful, very
charming, but she made him feel, in some indefinable way, that she was
moving in a different sphere to his own: he liked her better as she had
been before.
One day, as he was strolling down Oxford Street in his luncheon hour, a
neat victoria drove past him, just as he was about to cross the road. A
sudden instinct made him pause and look up, and with mixed feelings he
recognized the two occupants--Celia and Lord Bexley. It was the first
time he had encountered them together in this way, and a feeling of
annoyance took possession of him as he watched them. Celia was chatting
with evident enjoyment, her face lit up with animation. When she caught
sight of her _fiancé_ she bowed, and favoured him with the shadow of a
smile, but apparently did not deem it necessary to stop the carriage in
order to speak to him.
David strode on with resentment, whilst the first pangs of jealousy
awakened in his breast. In a thoroughly bad temper he sauntered over to
his customary restaurant, and, having given vent to his feelings by
swearing at the waiter’s dilatoriness, took up a paper to beguile the
time. It happened to be a popular journal descriptive of the doings of
society, and the first thing he opened it at was an account of church
parade in Hyde Park on the previous Sunday.
He did not trouble to read the list of social celebrities who had been
there, but two familiar names caught his eye--
“ ... Miss Celia Franks, accompanied by her favourite Yorkshire terrier,
and looking delightfully fresh and cool in a gown of white _mousseline
de soie_, sat under the trees on the ‘quiet side,’ talking to Lord
Bexley....”
“That reads all right,” he said to himself. “But I’ll take jolly good
care that I’m there next Sunday. I wonder if they will put ‘talking to
her intended husband, Mr. David Salmon’?”
He turned over the pages. A description of Lady de Smythe’s ball next
claimed his attention--
“ ... Lady Marjorie Stonor, gowned in ivory satin covered with old lace,
and wearing a magnificent diamond pendant, brought Miss Celia Franks,
the gifted singer, who afterwards joined in the cotillion, with Lord
Bexley as her partner....”
He flung down the paper with an impatient exclamation. Celia Franks and
Lord Bexley--how he hated to see the two names coupled together. A
sudden premonition of danger came over him. What if Lord Bexley should
try to oust him from his place in Celia’s affections? Where would he be
then? He was obliged to acknowledge that the peer was a more desirable
_parti_, from a worldly point of view, than himself, and he did not
credit Celia with being altogether above worldly considerations.
After some amount of cogitation, he came to the conclusion that the
sooner he and Celia were married the better, and he made up his mind to
confer with her on the subject at the first opportunity.
He managed to get away from his office an hour earlier that afternoon,
and, having smartened himself up, went in the direction of Great
Cumberland Place. He arrived at the house just in time to see Lord
Bexley leave it. With some misgivings, Salmon noted the peer’s military
bearing, his patrician face with its iron-grey moustache, his decidedly
aristocratic appearance. This man had apparently everything in his
favour except Celia’s promise of betrothal. David possessed that, and
he hoped and believed that Celia would not break it now.
By a favourable chance she was at home. David followed the footman
through the spacious hall with lightening heart. His spirits sank,
however, when he arrived at the great drawing-room to find Lady Marjorie
and Guy Haviland there also. Celia was leaning against the arm of Lady
Marjorie’s chair with her hand resting lightly on her hostess’s
shoulder. They appeared to be discussing something of importance, and
Haviland hailed his appearance with satisfaction.
“Ha, here’s Mr. Salmon!” he exclaimed, as David came forward to shake
hands. “I say, Salmon, you haven’t any objection to your intended going
on the stage for a short time, have you?”
“The stage?” repeated David, as he sank on to the chair which Lady
Marjorie offered. “That is a new idea, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly: I have just written a play for her--a capital play, though
I say it myself; and now that it is all done, Mr. Karne won’t allow her
to act in it, or at least he doesn’t approve, which comes to the same
thing. Isn’t that hard lines?”
David looked dubious. “This is the first I have heard of it,” he said, a
little frown appearing on his forehead. “To tell you the truth, I should
hardly care to see my intended on the stage either. What do you think
about it yourself, Celia?”
“I rather like the idea,” she answered readily. “I am very fond of
acting, as you know, though I am not sure how I should like it as a
regular occupation. However, as Herbert has put his veto on it, there
is nothing more to be said. I would not do it against his wish.”
“Quite right,” agreed David, with approval. A dutiful sister makes a
dutiful wife.
“I cannot understand why Mr. Karne objects so strongly,” said Lady
Marjorie, with a thoughtful expression on her bright face. “He seems to
have taken a positive antipathy to the dramatic profession. I told you
so, ages ago, didn’t I, Haviland? I have always found him amenable to
reason in everything but this. Of course I can understand his feelings
in some measure. He does not like the idea of Celia laying herself open
to receive the cheap compliments of any one who chooses to pay to see
her act. He doesn’t like the associations of the theatre, either, and
thinks they might have a deleterious effect. The life of an actress is
different to that of a public singer. He may be right, after all.”
Haviland rose from his seat, and folded his arms dramatically.
“‘_Et tu, Brute?_’” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Lady Marjorie, this is
too bad of you. I had quite relied on your co-operation in this matter.
Look here; I’ve set my heart on having this play produced. I wrote it
purposely for Miss Franks, and the part will suit her down to the
ground. It is called ‘The Voice of the Charmer,’ and Miss Franks is to
be the charmer. She has to look pretty with her hair down, to act, and
to sing, all of which she can do very well indeed. It’s a play that will
set off her talents to perfection. Now, as to the questionable
associations of the stage, and all that kind of nonsense, I’ll cast the
play myself, and every member of the company shall be of good repute; I
can arrange all that with the manager. I will also take the
responsibility of Miss Franks’s well-being on my own hands. Surely her
brother cannot object if I promise all that? I intend taking a special
trip to Durlston next week to tackle him on the subject myself, and I
shall be very much surprised if I do not succeed in overruling his
protestations. Mr. Karne is not an obstinate man, I am sure.”
“No, he is not obstinate,” said Lady Marjorie, decidedly; “but he is
very determined, and when he once makes up his mind to anything, he is
almost immovable. However, you have my best wishes; I hope you will
succeed.”
“If you do manage to obtain his consent, when do you think the play will
be produced?” asked David Salmon.
“Ah, that is more than I can tell you,” replied the dramatist, smiling.
“It depends on a good many things. Once we put the machinery in motion,
though, it will not take us so very long. We might have everything ready
by October, or we may have to wait until the pantomime season is over.
It entirely depends on the manager who takes it up, and on what his
arrangements for the coming months may be.”
David was not sure that the project pleased him. He intended asking
Celia to marry him as soon as the arrangements for the wedding could be
made, and this theatrical scheme might be an obstacle in the way.
When Haviland took his leave, the younger man lingered behind to try and
persuade her to give up the idea; but Lady Marjorie gently reminded
Celia that it was time to go and dress for a dinner-party to which they
were going, so that David was reluctantly compelled to leave also.
He strode out of the house, and passed the Marble Arch, deep in thought.
He was beginning to pity himself for being engaged to such a beautiful
and gifted girl; for, were she unattractive and dull, she would be
easier to manage--they would have been married long ago. He resented,
also, the influence which Lady Marjorie evidently possessed over her,
and determined that after the wedding he would treat her with coolness,
and try to make Celia do the same. It never occurred to him to be glad
that Celia should have such a good friend: instead of that, he was
mean-spirited enough to find at the bottom of Lady Marjorie’s friendship
a motive of self-interest; he knew that Herbert Karne would not allow
his sister to partake of her chaperone’s hospitality without making some
adequate return.
As he turned into Edgware Road, David became aware that somebody was
walking alongside him, and, looking up, he recognized, with disagreeable
surprise, Myer Apfelbaum, a man whose acquaintance he tolerated only
because he owed him money. Apfelbaum carried on business in the city as
a wholesale furrier, and had become rich by sweating his workpeople. He
loved his business, especially when opportunity occurred for him to get
the better of any one; he loved to boast about it, too. David did not
care to be seen walking with him--he never looked presentable except on
Sabbaths and holy-days,--but he was compelled to put up with his
society, and listen to an account of the stock he had sold for the last
week, and the bargains he had made. When Myer Apfelbaum was not
threatening to send him a writ--which happened about three times a
week--he was very friendly indeed.
“If any one t’inks they can swindle Myer Apfelbaum, they are moch
mistaken,” he wound up by saying. “Why, only last Friday, just before
_Shabbos_[11] came in, I sold a man a hundert pounds’ verth of stock,
blind, and he had the cheek to say----”
“Excuse me, this is my turning; I must go,” interrupted David,
impolitely. They had arrived at the corner of Hall Road.
“Oh yes, you live up here somewheres, don’t you? You’re a young swell,
you are.” He chuckled as if the thought amused him, and continued in a
wheedling tone, “Ain’t it about time you paid me the _geld_[12] you owe
me? Two hundert pound, and twenty-five pound interest; it’s been going
on a long time now. I can’t afford to lose two hundert and twenty-five
pound. Better give me five pound now on account.”
David glanced at him in contempt. “I am not in the habit of discussing
my business affairs in the street,” he answered shortly. “You shall have
every farthing of it if you will have a little more patience; if you
press for it now, you won’t get anything at all. It will be to your own
interest to wait two or three months longer; I am going to be married
soon.”
“That’s what you’ve said before,” returned the other, complainingly. “I
should t’ink it’s about time it came off now. If I were you, I wouldn’t
shilly-shally over it so long. I ‘spec’ there’s others waiting for their
money besides me.”
“That’s not your business,” said David, sharply. He was getting cross.
“No, that’s not my business, but the _geld_ is, though,” retorted
Apfelbaum. “And if I don’t get it soon, we’ll see what the law can do.”
He turned on his heel and walked away.
David marched up the Hall Road in high feather, and, when he arrived at
the top, gave vent to a vigorous expletive beginning with the letter
“D.”
Then he felt better.