AN OUTCAST IN ISRAEL
“An outcast in Israel!” The words recurred to Celia with persistent
frequency during the next few weeks; for she went back to Durlston to
find herself ostracized by the little Jewish colony in whom she had
taken interest for so long a time.
Almost the first day after her return she went among them, as was her
custom when at home, taking with her toys for the children, articles of
adornment for the women, tobacco pouches for the men--all little
evidences of her thought for them whilst away. Never dreaming that her
conversion would make the slightest difference to them, the reception
they gave her stung her to the quick. The kindly greetings with which
she was wont to accost them died on her lips as she detected the look of
scorn on their faces. Mothers drew their little ones away from her, as
though her very touch meant contamination. Her gifts they regarded as so
many briberies to retain their good will, and therefore refused them
with disdain.
Almost dumbfounded, and grieved to the heart, the girl sought refuge in
Mrs. Strelitzki’s cottage. Surely Anna would not turn against her, she
thought confidently, remembering the many kindnesses she had performed
for her in bygone days.
But even Anna Strelitzki, although she did not slam the door in her
face, as some of the others had done, received her without the slightest
display of cordiality. With embarrassment plainly discernible in her
manner, she offered her a seat by the fire, and then bolted the cottage
door--a proceeding which struck Celia as decidedly strange. Then,
without speaking, she went on with her washing, occasionally glancing
furtively at the window, apparently apprehensive of some unpleasant
interruption.
“What is the meaning of all this, Anna?” Celia asked passionately. “Why
do they shun me as if I were some evil creature? I have done them no
harm!”
Mrs. Strelitzki trifled nervously with the corner of her apron, refusing
to meet the steady gaze from the girl’s clear eyes.
“_M’shumadas!_”[16] she exclaimed laconically, evidently deeming the
word sufficient explanation in itself, for she relapsed into silence,
and went on with her washing. Her manner was certainly strange.
Celia did not quite catch the meaning of the epithet; and, with tightly
clenched hands and compressed lips, waited for more. But no sound broke
the stillness save the ticking of the clock, and the measured breathing
of a sleeping child.
Suddenly the shrill toot of the factory horn, announcing the acquittal
of the workers, broke upon their ears. The child woke up with a fretful
cry; and the mother, drying her hands, came forward to quiet him.
“Oh, miss, I wish you would go home, if you don’t mind,” she said,
turning towards her visitor with an air of apology. “It’s getting near
Jacob’s dinner-time; and I dunno what ’ud happen if he were to coom back
and find you here. He’d half kill me, I think. He told me to have nowt
to do with you.”
“But why? I have done no harm,” the girl repeated, almost piteously. “Is
it because I have become a Christian?”
The woman nodded. “_M’shumadas_--traitress to the Faith,” she said in
the tone of one who repeats a watchword. “The people here are all good
Jews. They despise _m’shumadim_. They don’t want you to come and convert
their children, or give them tracts out of a black bag.”
“But I have no black bag,” Celia put in, with a faint smile, although
there were tears in her eyes. “And I have brought toys--not tracts. It
is very unkind of you all to treat me like this. I should not have
thought it of you, especially, Anna.”
“Good Jews despise _m’shumadim_,” the woman reiterated half sullenly,
and unbolted the door.
Celia drew on her gloves, and took her leave. With flaming cheeks and
quivering lips she hurried past the factory and down the high road. The
men were pouring out of the workshops, most of them wending their way
homewards. A few months ago they would have lifted their caps with a
courteous “Good morning, miss.” Now, they passed her with a scowl. Some
of the recently-arrived workers were informed as to her identity, and
Celia caught the word _m’shumadas_ as it passed from lip to lip.
Arrived at the Towers, she burst into the library, where her brother and
Enid Wilton were writing, and impetuously told them of the insult she
had received. It was so uncalled-for, so nonsensical, so absolutely
absurd, she declared tremulously. She had done nothing to merit such
treatment.
Enid Wilton listened with sympathy. Herbert Karne flung down his pen
with annoyance.
“So they mean war, do they?--the blockheads!” he exclaimed, with an
angry laugh. “I ought to have prepared you for this, Celia: you must not
go near them any more.”
“But why?” the girl asked quickly, as she threw her hat down on the
couch, and lifted Souvie up to be petted. “Do they not know that by
insulting me, they offend you also?”
The artist shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t much care if they do. For
some unaccountable reason I have lost my popularity amongst them. You
cannot imagine how terribly those people have disappointed me,” he
added, turning towards Enid Wilton with a touch of bitterness. “After
having spent much thought, time, and money on their education and the
improvement of their surroundings, I find them, in spite of it all,
still dominated by the instincts of the untutored savage: unprincipled,
ungrateful, uncouth, irresponsible, ignorant and superstitious in the
extreme. The first few batches of men I had down here responded
admirably, and appreciated to the full my efforts for them, but these
present ones are absolutely incorrigible. It is disheartening, is it
not?--for I was confident of success in my undertaking.”
“But what has happened to turn them against _you_?” asked his sister
with surprise. “Have you offended them also?”
“It seems like it. For the last six months there seems to have been an
evil influence among them; sometimes I think the poison of anarchy lurks
in their veins. They have taken a violent and senseless dislike to all
the influential men in the neighbourhood; they grudge them their wealth
and position, I suppose. Latterly, I have myself been included under the
ban.”
“How strange!” exclaimed Celia, deeply interested, but vexed withal.
“A little while ago,” Karne continued, “I was commissioned to paint two
pictures for the Duke of Downshire’s private chapel, one on the subject
of the Annunciation, the other on the Crucifixion. I do not go in for
religious paintings as a rule, you know, but for several reasons I
undertook these. Well, these people from Mendel’s factory happened to
see the pictures through the studio window when they visited my grounds
on the Sunday after their completion, and took it into their stupid
heads to imagine that because I painted pictures on those subjects, I
must of necessity be trending towards Christianity myself. The news of
Celia’s conversion coming on top of that must have strengthened that
idea, hence our unpopularity.”
“How narrow-minded they must be,” said Enid Wilton, thoughtfully. “But
surely it is against their own interest to offend you and your equals,
is it not?”
“Decidedly,” Herbert assented. “That is where their madness comes in;
they spite themselves, not us. However, I intend to close the
night-school, the dispensary, and the club for a few weeks. I must do
something to bring them to their senses.”
“What a pity!” Celia said, regretfully. “Enid and I were going to get up
such a nice concert for them next week; and Lady Marjorie had promised
to allow Bobbie to dance the hornpipe. The little fellow will be so
disappointed.”
She was disappointed herself--more keenly than she cared to confess--and
brooded on the inimical attitude of Mendel’s people, until the thought
of it quite distressed her. Had it not been for Enid Wilton’s
companionship she would have felt inclined to give way to depression;
but Enid was bright and entertaining, and did her best to divert her
friend’s mind into other channels.
The two girls avoided the vicinity of the factory as much as possible,
but were obliged to pass it on their way to Durlston House, whither Lady
Marjorie had recently returned. Occasionally they met some of the
workpeople or their relatives; but Celia always passed them without a
sign of recognition, for she knew that to speak to them would be to
invite an insult.
One day they came across a small Jewish maiden who was sitting by the
road-side alone in a sorry plight. She was some distance from the
factory, and had evidently been sent on an errand, for clutched in her
grasp was a basket of provisions. A bottle of olive oil, too unwieldy
for her to manage, had accidentally fallen out. She was surrounded by
broken pieces of glass, and her thinly-clad feet had been painfully cut
and scratched. Judging by her appearance, one might have credited her
with having taken an oil bath, for, from her curly black ringlets down
to her toes, she was literally covered with the greasy fluid.
The girls’ kind hearts were touched by the sight. Celia, forgetting all
strife in her compassion for the little one, bent down and inquired her
name. After some amount of coaxing, she discovered that it was “Blume
Horwitz;” that her feet hurt her so much that she could not walk; that
her mother was waiting for the oil to fry the fish, and that she would
be welcomed with a beating when she did arrive home. Her tale of woe
ended in a fit of sobbing and gulping pitiful to behold.
The girls consulted as to what they should do. They could not leave her
there, on the chance of one of her people picking her up, nor could they
carry her home, saturated with oil as she was.
At length Celia decided to go home as quickly as she could for the
pony-chaise, leaving her friend to stay with the child. This she
accordingly did, and in less than twenty minutes was back again with the
conveyance.
The coachman gingerly covered the little girl with an overall belonging
to the stable-boy, and lifted her into the chaise. Celia had brought
some lint back with her, and between them the two girls skilfully bound
up her wounds, which were not so severe as they had at first supposed.
When they arrived at the Towers, a messenger was immediately despatched
to inform Mrs. Horwitz of the accident, and to procure a change of
clothing for Blume. Meanwhile the child’s wants were attended to in
Celia’s pretty bedroom.
An hour later, the coachman, Roberts, drove her home; clean,
comfortable, and well-fed. He found the cottage shut up, for Mrs.
Horwitz was always out at that time of the day; but a man was waiting at
the wicket in anticipation of Blume’s arrival. Possessing small cunning
eyes with an unpleasant leer in them, an aquiline nose, heavy jaw, and
cruel mouth, his countenance was decidedly unattractive; and his burly
form suggested an ample reserve of brute force. He was Anna’s husband,
Jacob Strelitzki, who had recently returned after a year’s absence from
the factory, spent no one knew where. Roberts pulled up at the wicket,
and alighting from the chaise, eyed the man with disfavour.
“Hello!” he said bluntly. “Strelitzki, is it? Thought I’d seen that ugly
face before. So you’ve come back, have you? Been in quod, I suppose?
Lost your curly wig, anyhow. Where is this kid’s mother?”
If looks could kill, the coachman would have been exterminated on the
spot. Scowling savagely, Strelitzki bade him hold his tongue, for the
child had fallen asleep, and he did not wish her to be awakened. With
more gentleness than was his custom, he lifted her out of the chaise,
and, unlocking the cottage door, laid her carefully down on the couch.
Then he returned to the wicket, and informed the coachman that he might
consider himself dismissed. Roberts, however, was apparently not quite
satisfied.
“’Ere, where’s the kid’s mother?” he asked again. “My mistress said I
was to see that the little girl was all right. She has cut her foot, and
has got to lay up. You ain’t any relation, are you?”
“Yes; I am her uncle,” the man replied briefly. “Rachael Horwitz has
told me all about the accident. She ought not to have sent such a little
thing so far on an errand. She’s got slipper-work at the factory, so
you’ll have to leave the child with me.” And without further remark,
Roberts drove away.
Strelitzki bolted the door after him, and quietly moved to where the
child lay. She was still fast asleep, but stirred uneasily as he watched
her. Fearing that the light might awaken her, Jacob carefully shut the
lattice. His movement suggested mystery; but all his caution was for the
purpose of performing an apparently trivial action.
Taking a small packet out of his coat-pocket, he cut the string and
unfolded the tissue-paper. Inside lay a tiny crucifix composed of black
wood and nickel silver--truly a strange emblem to be in his possession.
From another pocket he produced a piece of slightly-faded blue ribbon.
Then twisting the ribbon through the ring at the top of the crucifix, he
tied it securely round Blume’s neck, tucking it under her pinafore. This
accomplished, he gave a sigh--which was almost a chuckle--of relief.
The action disturbed the child, who awoke with a feeble cry of pain. For
the moment she could not quite take in her surroundings, and blinked at
the daylight in bewilderment. When she recollected what had happened,
she began to cry, fearing her mother’s anger on account of the broken
bottle of oil; but her uncle assured her that the accident had been
explained, and that her mother would be back directly, grieved to find
her in pain.
Strelitzki lit his pipe and professed to read the newspaper; at the same
time watching the little girl out of the corner of his eye. Her feet
still smarted painfully, and she moved her position frequently in order
to obtain greater ease. In doing so, the crucifix slipped out, and hung
suspended from her neck above her pinafore.
“Hello!” exclaimed Strelitzki. “Where did you get that?”
Blume examined it with wide-open eyes. She had not the faintest idea of
the meaning of the symbol, or, indeed, that it was a symbol at all; but
the blue ribbon and silver figure pleased her, and in her childish mind
she considered it a fine ornament, to be put on a par with her mother’s
lozenge-shaped earrings, and only to be worn on _Shabbos_[17] and
_Yomtov_.[18]
“I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, wishing it had escaped her
uncle’s observation.
“Nonsense!” said Jacob Strelitzki. “Of course, you must know. I expect
Miss Celia--the lady with the carroty-golden hair--gave it to you when
she changed your things, didn’t she?”
That seemed very likely, so Blume agreed to it. She did not remember
Miss Celia giving it to her, it is true; but she had given her a box of
chocolates and a “Cinderella” picture-book, so no doubt the ornament
came from her as well.
“Yes,” she assented, readily. “Miss Celia gave it to me.”
Strelitzki grunted satisfaction. “Well, tuck it under your frock,” he
advised. “Or some one may want to take it off you. If your mammy should
find it when she puts you to bed, say that Miss Celia said you were to
keep it and not give it away.”
The child acquiesced; and Strelitzki went on reading his paper. He
seemed to find it difficult to concentrate his thoughts, however, for he
soon tossed it aside, and stared into the fire with his shaggy brows
contracted, and an evil smile on his heavy face.
“So--so, Herbert Karne,” he muttered softly in his native jargon. “You
and I hate each other; and we have a long-standing account to settle.
Revenge grows keener with delay. It shall be settled soon!”