CELIA’S AWAKENING
In due course came Sunday. The boys appeared at breakfast in their best
suits, with faces that seemed to have caught the reflection from their
patent leather shoes, for they had received an especial Sunday shine.
The little girls were attired in embroidered silk frocks, with strict
injunctions not to soil them. A sense of best clothes and quiet
behaviour pervaded the air; Woodruffe was enveloped by an atmosphere of
Sunday.
Celia was given the option of accompanying the family to church, or of
going for a walk with Enid, who, with her eldest brother, had already
attended the early Communion Service. She chose the former alternative,
partly out of interest, partly because Ralph had been invited to preach,
and she knew that Enid would like to hear him. With the exception of two
weddings at Durlston, she had never attended a church service before,
and hoped she would not shock the congregation by her ignorance of
Church customs. She felt quite uncomfortable when they arrived within
hearing of the deep-toned bells and in sight of the pointed spire. She
almost wished she had not come.
But this feeling was quite dispelled when they came within the precincts
of the sacred edifice, and a strain of organ music fell upon their ears.
It was an air from Mendelssohn’s _Elijah_--“If with all your hearts,”
and because it was familiar to her, Celia felt less strange.
She could scarcely restrain an exclamation of surprise as they passed
through the swing-doors and up the aisle; she had had no idea that a
church could be so beautiful. The altar, with its brass cross, tall
candles, and white flowers; the richly painted window above it reaching
right up to the wainscoted roof; the ornamental inscriptions on the
walls; the brass eagle-shaped lectern; the elaborately carved altar
rails, choir stalls and pulpit;--all these excited her admiration; and
when, a little later, the white-robed procession of choristers and
clergy filed to their places in the chancel, she considered the scene,
as a beautiful picture, complete.
Throughout the service Celia was deeply impressed. The dignity of the
Liturgy, the solemn beauty of the music, and, most of all, the evident
sincerity of the worshippers, moved her strangely. Presently she began
to consider the religion itself. Judaism, as practised in the present
day, she had found impossible. Deism was unsatisfactory. What of the
religion from which she had always been kept aloof? She was not entirely
ignorant of the doctrines of the Christian faith; and from early
childhood had cherished the deepest respect for the Founder of
Christianity, just as she had admired all the great men who have made
history. But now it was gradually dawning upon her that in Christ’s
religion she would find that spirituality she had sought so long in
vain. She knew the principles it inculcated: love, charity,
self-sacrifice, peace, and piety--all that conduced to the development
of man’s spiritual nature.
During her week’s stay at Woodruffe she had already discovered that
religion was, to the Wiltons, a practical reality; that it tempered all
their actions; that they were as certain of its truth as they were of
life itself. She found herself wondering if, although she had been
taught to the contrary, Christianity were true after all; and as the
service came to a close, determined to study the subject to the best of
her ability.
She would have liked to discuss the subject with Enid, but, although she
could not have explained why, felt shy of introducing the subject.
In the afternoon, however, an opportunity occurred. They were out for a
stroll on the cliffs with Irene and Doris. A fresh breeze was blowing,
covering the waves with foam. Enid found a nook sheltered from the wind;
and the four girls threw themselves down on the long dry grass to rest
awhile.
Far out at sea a small fishing-vessel was battling against the tide,
tossed hither and thither by the force of the wind and waves. Shading
their eyes with their hands, the girls watched it. Celia was of opinion
that it was too frail to weather a storm, should one arise.
“It looks so tiny, and the sea is so vast,” she said meditatively. “I
wonder if any one would miss it if it were to sink?”
“Yes, I think so,” Enid replied. “There is a man in it, and he probably
has a wife and children at home. Just imagine how they would feel if he
went out and never came back!”
Celia gave a little shudder. “The sea is cruel,” she said. “It looks
grey and hungry. Don’t you get tired of being always near it, Enid?”
“No; I love it. It is ever changing; it always seems to have some new
tale to tell. And it isn’t cruel when one remembers the protecting
Providence above.”
“You believe in that protecting Providence above,” said Celia, with a
sigh. “I wish I had the same kind of faith.”
For answer Enid sat up with her elbows resting on her knee.
“Irene,” she said, turning towards her small sister, “say that little
passage about the sea which Ralph taught you this morning.”
The child thought a minute, and then recited in a clear voice--
“‘They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in
great waters:
These men see the works of the Lord: and His wonders in the deep.
For at His word the stormy wind ariseth: which lifteth up the
waves thereof.
They are carried up to the heaven: and down again to the
deep: their soul melteth away because of the trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man: and
are at their wits’ end.
So when they cry unto the Lord in their trouble: He
delivereth them out
of their distress.
For He maketh the storm to cease: so that the waves
thereof are still.
Then are they glad, because they are at rest: and so He bringeth
them unto the haven where they would be.’”
“What beautiful poetry!” exclaimed the girl, who had listened with
interest. “Who is the author of it?”
“Don’t you know?” answered Enid, with surprise. “It was written by one
of your own people: it is an extract from the Book of Psalms.”
“Psalm one hundred and seven,” put in Irene, who liked to be exact.
“I am dreadfully ignorant of the Bible,” said Celia, half ashamed to
make such a confession. “I know my Shakespeare twice as well. The Bible
is not much read amongst Jewish people, except in Hebrew, which most of
them can barely translate.”
“How strange!” Enid rejoined. “Why, if I were a Jewess, I should claim
it as my special heritage. Do you know, I have sometimes wished I were a
Jewess. It must be so inspiring to think that you belong to the same
race as the holy men of old--the patriarchs, the prophets, and the
apostles.”
Celia looked doubtful. “I don’t think you would like to give up your
Christianity for Judaism,” she said.
“No, of course not. But if I were a Jewess, I should be a Christian too.
I can scarcely conceive of a religion that excludes Christ.”
“That is because you have been brought up to it,” Celia replied. “I wish
I possessed your faith.” She paused to pluck a little field-flower, and
continued a trifle nervously. “If I could be convinced of Christ’s
Divinity, I think I should become a Christian. I feel the need of a pure
spiritual faith; and Judaism does not satisfy me. I’ve been thinking
about it a good deal lately.”
“Have you really?”
Enid’s face lit up with eagerness. She had often wished that her friend
followed the same creed as herself; but being aware how prejudiced most
Jewish people were against Christianity when applied to themselves, had
hitherto refrained from touching on the subject.
“You must have a talk with Ralph,” she said. “He will be able to explain
all you wish to know so much better than I can. I am sure he will be
able to convince you of the truth.”
Such was indeed the case. Celia introduced the subject at the first
opportunity, and the Rev. Ralph, being greatly interested, did his
utmost to enlighten her. She proved an apt and intelligent pupil, and,
although inclined to be shy at first, soon unbent under the influence of
his tactful kindliness, so that it was not long before he was aware of
the exact nature of her ideas. Although she had scarcely been conscious
of it, the spark of faith had been kindled in her soul long years
before; and it only needed this encouragement to make it develop into a
pure and steady flame.
Her teacher wished her to approach the subject so far as was possible
from the Jewish standpoint, and to this end advised her to study the New
Testament side by side with the Old. Very carefully he pointed out the
numerous Hebrew prophecies--particularly those of Isaiah,--together with
their marvellous fulfilment in the incidents of the Gospel.
With the light of Christianity thrown upon it, the Old Testament
became, to Celia, a much more interesting and comprehensive book. By
degrees she was able to trace through its pages how wonderfully God had
educated the Israelites of old: giving them at first a narrow and
material conception of Himself--a conception which was not too far above
the level of their understanding,--preparing them by types and shadows
for the fuller manifestation that should afterwards appear; then
gradually weaning them from their crude ideas of His nature and
attributes, until, after many generations had passed, they were,
although unworthy, permitted to receive the sublime teaching of the
Incarnation.
She discovered also that each important rite instituted by the Mosaic
law had its counterpart, only with deeper spiritual significance, under
the Christian dispensation; and that Christ’s religion did not oppose
Judaism, but was a fuller, nobler, and grander expansion of the same.
Ralph Wilton was astonished at the fallacious opinions she had held
respecting Christian doctrine, and which she informed him were common to
the majority of Jews.
“It seems to me,” he said on one occasion, “that the Jews will not seek
enlightenment simply because, on account of their foolish prejudice,
they _don’t want_ Christianity to be true;” and Celia was obliged to
agree with him on that point.
“There are none so blind as those who wilfully shut their eyes,”
remarked Enid, who happened to be present. “But do you know what I was
thinking, Ralph? That Celia’s friends will consider it rather mean of us
to have won her over to our religion. I can just imagine, for instance,
what Mrs. Friedberg will say.”
“Yes, I am afraid that Miss Franks will have some unpleasantness to
face,” returned her brother, regretfully. “But that cannot be helped. If
we owed a duty to her friends, we owe a still higher duty to our Master.
I know that in certain quarters it is regarded as ‘bad taste’ to
interfere with the religion in which a person happens to be born; but I
could not possibly have withheld from our friend the instruction she so
eagerly sought.”
“Please do not dream of reproaching yourself,” said Celia, earnestly,
turning towards the vicar with a bright smile. “I can never be
sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, and I shall thank God
every day of my life for this visit to Woodruffe. As for what my friends
will say--that does not trouble me in the least. My greatest friend,
Lady Marjorie Stonor, is herself a Christian, so that she cannot
possibly blame me for my change of faith.”
“But your brother and Mr. Salmon?” put in Enid, with hesitation. “Don’t
you think they will receive the news with anger?”
“Herbert will not; he is too sensible,” replied the girl, readily. “But
about David I cannot say. However, I trust he will take it in the right
light. I really cannot see that my religion need make any difference to
him.”
But Enid was not so sanguine; she knew that David Salmon possessed a
lofty contempt for everything pertaining to matters spiritual.
“I hope he will be nice about it,” she said doubtfully. “But--I can’t
help wishing that you were going to marry a Christian, Celia dear.”
And in his heart her brother re-echoed her wish.