“NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK”--ONE GOD OVER ALL
An unmistakable air of gloom hung over the factory club at Durlston. The
members, instead of playing cards or chess as usual, gathered round the
fire and smoked their pipes in silence; whilst one of them sat over in
the corner, and with his velvet cap carelessly donned, droned prayers to
himself out of a well-thumbed Hebrew book. They were all anxiously
awaiting the result of the medical consultation concerning their
benefactor, Herbert Karne; and could settle to nothing until their
suspense had been relieved. Now that they had relinquished their enmity
towards him, they went to the other extreme, and exalted him into a kind
of demi-god. If he lived they would do all in their power to make amends
for their past ingratitude; if he died they would lament him as a
martyr, for it was by one of themselves that he had been struck down.
Presently the door swung open to admit the foreman, Emil Blatz; and at
his appearance the men looked up with expectancy plainly written on
their faces.
“Well, what news?” said one, as though half afraid to ask the question.
The new-comer closed the door and came forward. “The Manchester
physician has just gone back,” he answered. “Strelitzki has been sent to
the Prestwich asylum.”
“And the doctors’ verdict?”
“Mr. Karne will live.”
“Gott sei dank!” ejaculated the man in the corner. He had wanted Herbert
Karne to change his name, so that the Angel of Death would be deceived,
and pass on without claiming his prey.
There was not a man in the room who was not intensely relieved by the
news. Each clamoured for further particulars, and went to the Towers to
read the bulletin for himself. Once more they were able to enter into
their various pastimes and pursuits without feeling that to laugh or
chat would be to exhibit callousness or bad taste. A load had been
lifted from their hearts. Mr. Karne would live.
For nine days he had hovered ’twixt life and death--a time of
heartrending anxiety to his sister, who attended him with untiring
devotion, and scarcely ate or slept until the crisis had been overcome.
On the tenth day Lady Marjorie arrived; and by a coincidence it was on
the tenth day that he began to mend.
“He will get better quickly now that you are here,” Celia said
optimistically; and her prophecy was, happily, fulfilled. Herbert had so
much to live for now, that he was determined to make a good fight for
life and health. He recovered quickly and thoroughly, quite astonishing
Dr. Forrest by his unusual obedience to his orders.
Lady Marjorie looked thin and pale; and quite unlike the vivacious
little woman of a few months ago. During her stay abroad she had
suffered both mentally and physically, the sorrow on her mind having
greatly retarded her recovery from the fever. But as her lover grew
stronger, she also picked up health. The roses returned to her cheeks,
and the sparkle to her eyes; until by degrees she regained the
sprightliness which had been hers of old.
“It was a good thing Strelitzki did not quite finish me off just as our
happiness was on the horizon,” Herbert said to her half playfully one
day. “Just imagine if you had come back to find a nice little urn
awaiting you, labelled ‘Concentrated essence of Herbert Karne.’ I am an
advocate of cremation, you know!”
But Marjorie’s eyes filled at the very thought. “Oh, darling, I can’t
bear to hear you jest about it,” she rejoined seriously. “If that
wretched lunatic had killed you, I should have died too.”
And her lover, although he persisted in making light of the whole
affair, knew that her words were no vain exaggeration. He began to
wonder what Marjorie could see in him, that she should love him so. He
considered himself quite the luckiest man in the world.
A fortnight before Christmas the good people at Durlston were somewhat
surprised to hear that Durlston House was about to change hands, the new
owner being a Mrs. Thornton, of Sydney. One or two of them went to Lady
Marjorie expressing their regret; and asked her if she were leaving the
town for good.
“Oh no, not for good,” she answered with a merry twinkle in her blue
eyes. “Only for about six weeks.” And more she would not divulge.
But somehow the news leaked out, and there was quite a crowd of
well-wishers outside the registrar’s office on the following Monday
morning. They were mostly the tradespeople who attended at Durlston
House and the Towers, probably drawn thither by the fascination which
always seems to hover round a bridal couple, whatever their degree.
It was a dreadfully plebeian way of getting married, they said to each
other; in fact, it was hardly respectable. “No banns, no church, no
wedding-bells, no cake, no free drinks, no nothing.”
“And it’s not as if they couldn’t afford it, neither,” said Mrs. Smith,
who kept the chandler’s shop in the High Street; “she being a hearl’s
daughter and all.”
“Perhaps it’s because she were a widder,” hazarded Mrs. Jones. “Widders
ain’t so pertikler as spinsters, seeing as it’s their second try.”
At the station, however, Mr. Karne somewhat redeemed his character in
their eyes. The factory people, despite the fact that he was marrying
out of the faith, had sent a deputation to wish the bridal pair good
luck and a pleasant journey. In replying to their congratulations,
Herbert said that on account of the state of his health, he had been
obliged to have the marriage as quiet as possible; but when, in the
course of a few weeks, he brought his bride home to the Towers, he hoped
to be well enough to organize all the festivities generally associated
with a happy wedding.
His little speech elicited general satisfaction, and after some
consideration it was unanimously agreed throughout the town that he
could not very well have had a “big” wedding, when he had so recently
lain at death’s door.
“Although it do seem to me that a bride and bridegroom hev no more right
to put off their wedding breakfast than a dead Irishman has to postpone
his wake,” remarked Mrs. Jones to Mrs. Smith. “Seeing as one follows the
other quite natural-like, as you may say. Still, if them Jews at
Mendel’s is satisfied, it’s nowt to do with you and me.”
And there the matter rested.
Celia drove back from the station with Lord Bexley and Mr. Harry
Barnard, who had been the witnesses of the marriage. She could not help
looking a little bit woe-begone in spite of Mr. Barnard’s jocularity.
Although not begrudging Herbert and Marjorie their happiness--on the
contrary, she was deeply thankful for it--she felt that Marjorie was the
most enviable woman in the world, for she had gained her heart’s desire:
she had married the man she loved.
At lunch Mr. Barnard suddenly bethought him of a letter which had
arrived for Herbert that morning.
“It was a black-bordered envelope, so I advised Higgins not to deliver
it, in case Bert should take it as a bad omen, coming on his
wedding-day,” he said in explanation. “What the dickens did I do with
it, though? Ah, here it is!” extracting it from the depths of one of his
numerous pockets. “I suppose we had better forward it, Miss Franks?”
Celia examined the envelope. “I can open it,” she replied, with a sigh.
“I know where it comes from. Poor Mrs. Neville Williams----”
“Do you mean to say she is----” asked Lord Bexley, in a tone of awe.
The girl nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” she rejoined solemnly, as she read
the letter. “I am glad that you did not give this to my brother, Mr.
Barnard.”
“But I saw Dr. Milnes last week,” pursued Bexley, as though he could
scarcely believe it. “He told me that the operation was quite a
success.”
“Yes, so it was, according to the nurse’s account also,” answered Celia.
“She says: ‘The operation in itself was entirely successful, but the
unfortunate lady succumbed to weakness following a relapse.’ Poor Mrs.
Neville Williams! I am sorry she is dead!”
“She was a slap-bang and a dash kind of woman, if ever there was one,”
remarked Harry Barnard, unfeelingly. “Never happy unless she was up to
some sort of a lark. Great Scott, the tricks she used to get up to when
Bert and I were in Paris! As flighty as a two-year-old she was, but as
cunning as they make ’em. She would have made up to you if you had given
her half a chance, wouldn’t she, my lord?”
Bexley looked over at Celia and felt uncomfortable. “Mrs. Neville
Williams is dead,” he said with quiet emphasis. “_Requiescat in pace._”
And then Celia, who considered Mr. Barnard’s remarks in somewhat bad
taste, tactfully changed the subject.
The “Voice of the Charmer” had but another week to run, for the theatre
was wanted for the Christmas pantomime. Celia had promised to return to
the cast for the final performances; and accompanied by the two
gentlemen, caught the afternoon train to London.
Haviland and Calhoun were glad to see her back, for the play without her
in it had been like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark, even though
Miss Graham had done her best to imitate the original _Mallida’s_
interpretation of the part.
Celia was not sorry when the last night arrived, although she was bound
to admit that all her co-workers had been exceedingly kind to her, from
the manager down to the call-boy. But when Mr. Calhoun asked her if she
would continue in the part if they resumed the run of the play in the
new year, she quietly but firmly declined; and neither he nor Haviland
could persuade her to alter her mind.
After Christmas, which she spent very enjoyably at Woodruffe, Herbert
and Marjorie wrote for her to come and join them in Bournemouth, both
assuring her that she need have no scruples about trespassing on the
seclusion of their honeymoon, for there were two or three people they
knew staying at the same hotel. The Wiltons, however, would not hear of
her taking her departure until after their annual Christmas party, which
was, to them, the great event of the winter season.
“Your brother ought to be able to spare you a little longer, now that he
has a wife to keep him company,” said Enid, with authority; and to this
all the other members of the family agreed.
But at length, after her sister-in-law had despatched three or four
more letters of invitation, Celia bade farewell to them all and went.
She found both her brother and his wife greatly improved in health; and
the cordial welcome they gave her quite dispelled the fear she had had
that her visit might be an intrusion. Their fellow-visitors at the hotel
organized various forms of social enjoyment; and as the weather was
genial--although it was January--they went about a good deal.
“There is somebody you know staying at Cliff Terrace,” Marjorie informed
her whilst she unpacked. “He came to Bournemouth because he knew we were
here. We scarcely expected you until Monday, and I told him so; but I
should not be surprised if he came round to-morrow.”
“Who is it?” asked the girl with curiosity, but Lady Marjorie only
smiled at her in a tantalizing manner, and refused to say.
The next day was Sunday. Celia expected the mysterious somebody all day,
but he did not arrive. She wondered if it were Lord Bexley, and hoped he
had not been trying to get his sister to intercede in his favour. She
scarcely thought he would do such a thing, for he had appeared to take
her decision as final, when she had rejected his proposal at the
Havilands.
In the evening she expressed her intention of going to church; and as
Marjorie was not allowed to inhale the night air, she went alone, her
brother promising to meet her at the conclusion of the service. He did
not scruple to allow her to go unaccompanied, for ever since she had
passed out of the hands of her governess, she had been used to go about
by herself.
The church was of modern build, fitted with electric light and numerous
creature comforts unthought of in the days of our fathers. Celia nestled
back in the corner of her pew, allowing the solemn stillness of the
sanctuary to pervade her spirit. Evensong always had the effect of
making her feel happy and restful; it was like a soothing lullaby after
a busy day. She loved especially the jubilant _Magnificat_ and the
solemnly sweet _Nunc Dimittis_, for they were of peculiarly Jewish
interest, and made her glory in her Hebrew descent.
After the service was over, and the bulk of the congregation filed out,
she still remained in her seat, dreamily listening to the exquisite
organ melody. It was one of Chopin’s most beautiful Nocturnes, sweetly
mournful and pathetic in parts, but occasionally displaying the fervour
of its restrained passion. Celia knew it well, but she had never heard
it played amidst such surroundings before. The building was now in
semi-darkness, the glare of the electric light having been replaced by
the softening shadows of night. At the altar a surpliced choir-boy was
extinguishing the six candles, one by one. He performed the action with
care and reverence; and then quietly withdrew.
And still the music played on, rising and falling like the throbbing of
a heart; and still, with her face turned towards the east--where the
sacred symbol stood out in bold relief--Celia listened. At last,
recollecting that her brother might be waiting, she passed on tip-toe
down the aisle and through the porch. But he was not there; so, knowing
that he would not like her to wait about alone, she began to make her
way towards the hotel.
It was a fine night, frosty and dry. There was no moon, but the stars
shone with dazzling splendour. Celia crossed over to the esplanade, and
stood contemplating the prospect for a moment, whilst the salt breeze
brushed against her cheek. As she gazed at the vast expanse of sky and
ocean, and listened to the dull roar of the waves, some lines she had
once sung in the “Golden Legend” recurred to her memory:
“The night is calm and cloudless,
And still as still can be,
The stars come forth to listen
To the music of the sea.”
She loved all the sounds of Nature, but especially that “music of the
sea.” Its chords were deep and resonant; and full of meaning to those
who had ears to listen to its ever-changing harmonies. All around was
mystery; mystery in the impenetrable height of the starry heavens;
mystery in the great depth of the moving waters. What was beyond and
below?--she wondered with reverential awe; and realizing--if ever so
slightly--the majestic grandeur of the great Creator’s handiwork, an
overpowering sense of her own littleness overcame her, until, with a
sudden longing for human companionship, she turned to continue her walk.
“‘_In maiden meditation, fancy free_,’” quoted a familiar voice close
behind her. “Star-gazing is a pleasant occupation for two, but rather
lonesome for one in solitude. May I join you, Celia dear?”
It was nearly four years since she had last seen him, but even in the
darkness, she recognized his stalwart form.
“Geoffrey!” she exclaimed. “At last!” And try as she would, she could
not keep the joy out of her voice.
There was nobody about, and he took possession of her arm as if it were
the most natural thing in the world. And the funny part about it was
that she did not feel the least surprise that he should do so. How he
came to be there she had not the faintest idea; she did not even wonder
about it. She only knew that his coming filled her with a delicious
sense of happiness, and that the song of the sea sounded sweeter than it
had done before.
“I arrived at your hotel just after you had gone,” Geoffrey explained.
“So Herbert sent me on to meet you. I was in church, quite near you, all
the time; but you looked so absorbed that I didn’t like to bring you
down from heaven to earth until it was absolutely necessary. Celia, has
Lady Marjorie said anything to you about me lately?”
“She told me that somebody I knew was staying at Cliff Terrace and
intended coming to see me; but she did not say it was you. I was
expecting the somebody all day.”
“Were you? Oh, if I had only known that you were here, I would have come
round early this morning. Lady Marjorie has been very good to me; she
has made me see what a timid ass I’ve been. It was not entirely my
fault, though. Stannard would have it that you were engaged to Lord
Bexley; and I was so busy looking after my poor aunt and Miss Thornton
that----”
“Miss Thornton!” interpolated the girl, suddenly shrinking away from
him. “I had forgotten Miss Thornton.”
Her sky was overcast again.
“You don’t know her, do you?” asked Geoffrey, wonderingly. “She is
Stannard’s _fiancée_.”
Celia drew a deep sigh. _Stannard’s fiancée!_ That made all the
difference. But how foolish she had been to have made such a mistake!
“She used to be subject to fits,” her lover went on to explain. “But
fortunately I have been able to effect a complete cure. She has been
under my supervision for some months.”
“And she is going to marry Dick Stannard?” Celia asked, anxious to hear
a corroboration of the statement.
“Yes, she is going to marry Dick,” he replied with satisfaction. “But I
don’t want to speak about Miss Thornton just now. Oh, you dear, sweet
girl, how nice it is to be talking to you like this after such a long
time!” This with an affecting pressure of her hand. “You do love me just
a wee bit, don’t you, dear?”
“I love you more than a wee bit, Geoffrey,” she answered, in the tone of
one who makes a great confession. “I have loved you ever since that
night when----”
“When I kissed you under the mistletoe? I remember. I’ve been living on
that kiss for four years. I am just aching and hungering for another
one. I am going to have it here and now.”
“Geoffrey!” she protested. “In the open street!”
“I don’t care,” he answered with determination. “There is nobody to see
except Nature, and Nature keeps her secrets well. Ah”--as he put his
desire into execution--“that was beautiful. But tell me, darling, if
you really loved me all that time ago, why did you become engaged to
another fellow?”
“Because you--you--didn’t----”
“Because I didn’t come forward and claim you?” he suggested, finishing
the sentence for her. “But your brother made me promise not to speak: he
thought it might hinder your career. He told me he did not approve of
mixed marriages either, although he has not practised what he preached.
Lady Marjorie is a Christian.”
“Herbert says now that love is more powerful than race and creed,” the
girl said softly. “Love breaks all barriers down.”
“Yes, he is right,” her lover rejoined with deepening earnestness. “But
there is no barrier of creed ’twixt you and me, now, darling; no barrier
of any kind. Did you notice the text of the sermon, to-night, Celia:
‘Neither Jew nor Greek’? Oh, it seemed to me as if the clergyman must
have chosen it because he knew we were in the church. ‘Neither Jew nor
Greek’ ... united, made one in Christ. No difference between the Jew and
the Gentile, for the same God is God of both!”
They had arrived at the hotel, and Herbert Karne was looking out for
them in the vestibule. Geoffrey’s buoyant manner and Celia’s happy face
told him, before he asked, that their meeting had been a satisfactory
one.
Lady Marjorie looked up from her book with a softened expression in her
blue eyes, when they made their appearance at the door of the private
drawing-room.
“So your visitor has come at last, girlie,” she said, as Celia bent down
and kissed her. “I told him that I thought you would give him a hearty
welcome. Was I right, Dr. Geoff?”
“Yes, quite right,” the young doctor replied, as he gripped her hand. “I
can never be sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, Lady
Marjorie.”
“You really were the silliest pair of lovers I ever came across,”
Marjorie said, as she glanced at them and thought what a well-matched
couple they made. “I knew that each of you was just longing for the
other; and yet you both held aloof, although there was no cause or just
impediment why you should not have come together long ago. So I
determined to intervene and make you happy. And, judging by the looks of
you both, I think I have succeeded.”
“You have, indeed!” rejoined Geoffrey, as he drew his sweetheart closer
to him; and Celia, whose heart was too full for words, expressed by her
shining eyes, the great happiness which was hers at last.
* * * * *
On the deck of a channel-steamer bound for Calais stood a young girl,
shading her eyes with her hand. She was watching the land as it receded
from view, yet with no feeling of regret, for she was making the journey
with the one she loved best in the world.
Less than twenty-four hours ago she had stood beside him at the altar,
and made her marriage vows. The “Voice that breathed o’er Eden” was
still ringing in her ears; the crashing chords of the Wedding March
seemed interwoven with the throbbing of the ship’s engines; the very
air seemed full of the far-off sound of wedding-bells.
It was a bright spring morning, a day fit for the renewing of energy and
hope. All around was sunlight: on the shimmering waters, the polished
deck, and on the girl’s bright hair. It seemed to her like a happy omen,
symbolizing the sunshine on the sea of life. With a deep sigh of
happiness she turned away; and, looking up, encountered the fond gaze of
her lover-husband.
“Why such a sigh, sweet?” he asked, tenderly placing her hand within his
own. “Of what were you thinking, my little wife?”
“Many things, Geoffrey,” she answered softly, her face lit up with a
radiant smile. And then, as they both continued to gaze landwards, she
added: “But--chiefly--that life is full of joy;--and God is good!”
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
[Illustration: colophon]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Bridegrooms.
[2] Gentile.
[3] Ritually clean.
[4] Jewish holydays.
[5] Pertaining to Judaism.
[6] Confirmation.
[7] Day of Atonement.
[8] Festive.
[9] Congratulation.
[10] Bridegroom.
[11] Sabbath.
[12] Money.
[13] Jews.
[14] Smart wit.
[15] Mourning.
[16] Converted Jewess.
[17] Sabbath.
[18] Holy-days.
[19] Converse with familiarity.
[20] Bridegroom.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
whether whether they be Jews or Gentiles=> whether they be Jews or
Gentiles {pg 84}
Jacob Strelitkzi=> Jacob Strelitzki {pg 107}
Is was so quiet=> It was so quiet {pg 128}
mental note or=> mental note of {pg 220}