[CONTENTS]
[FOOTNOTES]
[TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE]

NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK

NEITHER JEW NOR
GREEK

A STORY OF JEWISH SOCIAL LIFE
BY
VIOLET GUTTENBERG

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

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 geniass, 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.

CHAPTER II
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.

CHAPTER III
FITZJOHN’S AVENUE, HAMPSTEAD,—OR JERUSALEM?

On the following Sunday, David Salmon called at Great Cumberland Place to take his beloved to an evening party, which Mrs. Mike Rosen was giving in her honour. Mrs. Rosen possessed a large circle of friends, and entertained with lavish hospitality, especially on the first Sunday in the month, when her house was thrown open from three o’clock until midnight for the reception of her guests. On this occasion, being an off Sunday, the guests had been specially invited “to meet my friend Miss Celia Franks,” and Celia had received a particular request to bring her music and her voice—as though she were in the habit of leaving the latter at home.

The opportunity which David sought had now arrived. As the hansom bowled smoothly along the wood-paved streets he pressed his claim, and urged Celia to name an early date for the wedding. He had waited so long, he said, because he did not wish to interfere with the musical studies necessary to her professional career; but there was now no longer any reason for delay that he could see, and he was tired of being an engaged man; he was anxious to marry and settle down.

His desire was reasonable, and Celia admitted that it was perfectly just. She had been expecting him to introduce the subject for some time past, and should have been prepared. She was prepared in a sense, and yet—

“Can’t you wait a little longer, David?” she pleaded diffidently, looking into his face with troubled eyes.

“There is nothing to wait for now,” he answered. “It is only natural that I should wish to claim my bride.”

He was quite right; there was nothing to wait for. Celia admitted that too, with a little tightening at her heart. Gazing straight in front of her at the trotting horse and dusty road, she tried to find some excuse for asking for a further delay, but except the possible production of Guy Haviland’s play, no excuse was forthcoming. She could not tell him, very well, that the thought of marriage awakened no joyful anticipation of future bliss, and that she would much prefer the freedom of spinsterhood for, say, another five years. Nor could she still plead her youth—she was twenty-three now; quite old enough to be married.

“Say September,” he urged, as the cab turned into Fitzjohn’s Avenue. “That will give you plenty of time to make all arrangements, won’t it?”

“Oh no. Why, it’s July already. I must ask Herbert and Lady Marjorie——”

“What has Lady Marjorie to do with it?” he broke in almost petulantly. “Whenever I ask you to decide anything, you always put it on to Lady Marjorie. She seems to have got you completely under her thumb. There is no need to ask her advice in everything.”

Celia’s courage returned. “Why not?” she said warmly. “Lady Marjorie is about the truest friend I have. She has known me since I was quite a little girl, and has almost taken the place of the mother whom I lost. I shall never do badly if I take her advice; she is quite the cleverest and the dearest woman I know.”

David saw that he had better leave Lady Marjorie out of the question.

“Well, can’t you give me any idea of the date?” he said, determined not to be put off this time. “The Rosens are sure to ask us about it to-night; they always do. Such a long engagement as ours is quite exceptional amongst Jewish people. They will begin to think there is something fishy about it soon.”

Celia shrugged her shoulders; it was a regular little Jewish shrug.

“It doesn’t matter to us what they think,” she replied, as the cab drew up before a pretentious-looking red-brick house half-way up the hill. “But you can tell them that it will take place next spring, if you like. When we have consulted Herbert we shall be able to say more definitely.”

And with that David was obliged to be content; but he made up his mind to write to Herbert Karne without delay. He would not rest until the actual date was fixed.

Mrs. Rosen’s house presented quite a festive appearance. Although it was not quite dark, lights gleamed from every window, and the front door, which stood invitingly open, disclosed a profusion of plants and flowers in the hall.

Inside the porch stood Mike Rosen himself. He was in evening dress, an ample expanse of shirt-front being adorned by a large and dazzling diamond stud. When he caught sight of Celia alighting from the hansom, he came down the steps to greet her, and leaving David to settle with the perspiring Jehu, escorted her gallantly into the house.

“Well, I am pleased to see you, my dear,” he said, as a maid relieved her of her wraps. “I’ve just been reading about you in the Society Gossip. Good gracious me, the number of lords and ladies you’ve been hobnobbing with! It will be a wonder if it doesn’t make you proud. I suppose you haven’t brought an earl or a duke in your pocket now, have you? We might exhibit him behind the nursery guard, penny a view.”

Celia did what was expected of her; she laughed, then followed her host into the dining-room to have some iced coffee. There were others there for the same purpose, including Lottie Friedberg, now Mrs. Woolf; and in a high chair, playing with an indiarubber dog, sat Adeline’s son and heir, aged eighteen months. Mike adored the baby even more than his beloved “ferniture,” and had kept him up past his bedtime on purpose to show him off before his guests: to hear them praise his little son was like music to his ears.

Celia again did what was expected of her; she said he was the finest boy for his age that she had ever seen, and kissed him on the top of his head, and allowed him to play with her tiny jewelled watch. Mike’s face positively beamed with good humour. He wanted his son to exhibit his infantile accomplishments, to call the pussy, and clap hands, and various other things which he had taught him; but his wife suddenly appeared upon the scene, and commanded him to give the baby over to his nurse.

“They are making up the tables for us in the library,” she said, when she had given Celia an effusive welcome. “You had better join the gentlemen in the smoke-room, Mike; they are playing bluff. Celia dear, you don’t play cards, do you? Will you watch David for a little while—they want him for a fourth until Mrs. Joseph comes—or would you like to join the young folks in the drawing-room? We shall all come in to hear you sing a little later on.”

Celia did not mind either way, so at David’s request she went with him to the library. A number of small tables covered with white damask cloths filled the room; and at each table sat four players, ready to start their usual game of solo whist. They all seemed to be talking at once, apparently indifferent as to whether any one listened to them or not; but a sudden silence fell as Celia entered. They had heard so much about her that they knew by instinct who she was, and did not scruple to favour her with a prolonged stare, which might have embarrassed her, had she been less self-possessed.

Mrs. Friedberg, resplendent in black satin and Guipure lace, received her with a kindly dignity assumed for the occasion, and having given a general introduction, invited her to sit at her own table and watch the play.

Solo whist is undoubtedly a fascinating game to those who take part in it, but to an outsider it has not much charm. Celia’s interest soon flagged, and she found herself watching the players rather than the game itself. Most of them were buxom matrons of comely appearance and cheerful manner. Their fingers were covered with rings, which flashed and sparkled as they dexterously manipulated the cards. Celia thought they made too much of a business of the game, for large sums of money changed hands during the course of the evening; and she could not help noticing the evident satisfaction of the winners, and the disagreeable expressions of the losers, although to some of them it seemed a matter of indifference whether they won or lost. A breathless silence reigned whilst each round was being played, only to be followed by a noisy passage-at-arms between two or more of the players as soon as it was over.

Mrs. Friedberg was constantly in trouble, for she was so busily engaged in gleaning the latest bits of gossip from her friends, that she was not able to give her undivided attention to the game. On one occasion she revoked, just when her dearest friend Mrs. Solomon had gone a misere. The lady resented it, and told her she ought to be more careful, whereupon Mrs. Friedberg’s ire was aroused, and she began to be personal. An unpleasant quarrel seemed imminent, until David Salmon threatened to leave the table if they did not amicably settle the dispute.

Celia looked on in silent disapproval. The constant chink of the money seemed to get on her nerves, and she found that the play made her fiancé irritable. She was not sorry when Adeline asked her to sing, and the cards were thrown down for a time. A general move was made to the drawing-room, where a number of young people, led by Dinah Friedberg, were amusing themselves in a somewhat noisy manner.

David took Celia’s arm with an air of proud possession. Her fair and delicate loveliness formed a striking contrast to the pronounced features and olive complexions which constituted the predominant type of beauty present.

Mike Rosen vociferously sounded the gong—not for supper, but in order to command silence. Then he asked Celia what she was going to sing.

“I will tell you what I should like to hear, and that’s ‘Jerusalem,’” he said. “I heard a man play it on the cornet the other day; it was grand. I went at once and bought the music for Adeline.”

“He means the ‘Holy City,’” explained his wife. “Mike likes anything with a good swing about it.”

She found the music, which happened to be in the right key, and Lottie played the accompaniment. Celia considered the song unsuited to a Jewish audience, but she sang it with appropriate feeling, nevertheless, and no one appeared to realize that the words were quite contrary to Jewish belief. They made her sing the last verse over again, some of them lustily joining in the chorus.

Mike Rosen was delighted. “It quite makes me want to go to Jerusalem,” he said. “David, give me another brandy and soda on the strength of it.”

“Well, why don’t you join the Zionists?” said Lottie’s husband, facetiously. “I believe they are on the look-out for people who want to go there.”

“I do belong to the Zionists,” returned Mike, promptly. “Didn’t I subscribe fifty pounds to the trust only last week?”

“Did you, indeed? Then I suppose you have already engaged a Pullman-car to take you to Palestine. When do you start? We will all come and give you a hearty send-off.”

A general titter of amusement went round the room. Mike chuckled good-humouredly.

“Ah, that’s a different thing,” he said. “I will gladly pay to send the poor Yidden[13] there, but as for going myself, I think I would rather wait until they’ve got the electric light, the telephone, and the ‘tuppeny tube’ before I go, thank you. There is no Fitzjohn’s Avenue in Jerusalem. I wouldn’t mind going there on a visit, though. Don’t we say, ‘next year at Jerusalem?’”

“We don’t always say what we mean,” answered his wife. “Be quiet, Mike, Celia is going to give us another song.”

Mr. Rosen obediently remained silent, and Celia proceeded to charm her audience once more with her full, sweet voice. She sang entirely without affectation of manner, and the natural ease with which the tuneful notes issued forth from her slender throat elicited surprise and admiration.

The song concluded, supper was announced. Mike Rosen gave his arm to Celia, and called her “little Tommy Tucker,” because she had sung for her supper. He considered that very funny, and felt somewhat aggrieved that no one else appreciated his wit. With great dignity he took her into the dining-room, and gave her the place of honour at his right hand.

On her left sat David Salmon, with Dinah Friedberg as his partner. Dinah had grown into a very stylish girl, with plenty of what her mother called chein.[14] She had lovely dark eyes, which she used as a kind of battery to enforce the homage of the opposite sex, and was not averse to boasting of the conquests she had made. She snubbed David unmercifully, and teased him with a pertness of manner which put him on his mettle, but she was very fond of him all the same; and, although she would not have confessed it, was terribly jealous of his fiancée.

As the meal progressed, her flippancy increased, and she insisted on drinking his health in champagne. Then when order was called for the Rev. Isaac Abrahams to say grace, she made a dunce’s-cap out of her serviette, and stuck it on David’s head. This proceeding quite shocked Celia; but she found to her surprise that many of the young men followed suit. They were obliged to cover their heads while grace was being said; and as serviettes met the needs of the case, they did not trouble to fetch their hats. The Rev. Mr. Abrahams, who wore a black silk cap, smiled at them indulgently as he chanted the long Hebrew prayers. He evidently saw no irreverence in adorning one’s head like a guy in order to praise one’s Maker, although to Celia’s way of thinking it was little less than an insult to the majesty of God. The young people, however, seemed to consider it a good joke, for it created a diversion, and lightened the tedium of the grace.

In talking over the events of the evening on the drive back to Great Cumberland Place, Celia commented on the incident, and expressed her disapproval.

David was greatly amused. “What a curious girl you are!” he said. “I wonder what makes you notice these things? You always seem to be picking Jewish habits and customs to pieces. You take everything so seriously, Celia. A little incident like this isn’t worth talking about; it is such a trifling thing.”

It was indeed a trifling thing, but a straw shows how the wind lays; and it was just those trifling things which filled Celia with disgust, and ratified her opinion of the lack of spirituality in modern Judaism.

However, it was of no use to discuss the question with David; he would not, or could not, understand.

CHAPTER IV
A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA

“David is growing impatient,” Celia said the next morning, after breakfast. “He thinks we have been engaged long enough, and wants me to name the day.”

“I am not surprised at that,” returned Lady Marjorie, looking up from her work. “What are you going to do?”

That was just what Celia did not know. She sighed heavily, and remained lost in thought. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, for she had lain awake all night in uneasy deliberation of the question. Souvie jumped on her knee and demanded her attention; he never allowed his mistress to leave him unnoticed if she happened to have any spare time on her hands.

Lady Marjorie was artistically arranging some flowers in a bowl. She looked just as nice in her morning blouse as she did in a Parisian toilette. When she had finished, she came over to the couch where Celia was sitting.

“Girlie,” she said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”

Celia looked up in surprise.

“I have been watching you for the past few months, and I don’t quite know what to make of you. When you became engaged to David Salmon, I supposed it was because you were in love with him; but it seems to me now that you are not quite happy in your engagement. Now listen, Celia. Either you mean to marry him, or you do not. If you do, why have you this unnatural desire for procrastination? I consider, honestly speaking, that you have kept him waiting an unreasonable length of time. If, on the other hand, you do not intend to marry him, the sooner you break off the engagement the better, both for his sake and your own. Perhaps, during your long courtship, you have found out that he and you are not so suited to each other as you thought you were, and yet you do not like to hurt his feelings by telling him so? You long for freedom, but you are reluctant to strike the blow that will set you free. Girlie, darling, tell me the truth as it is in your heart. Am I right?”

She sank on to the couch, and looked into the girl’s face with a tender solicitude in her kindly blue eyes.

Celia’s heart gave a leap. How exactly had her chaperon diagnosed the case, and how she despised herself that it should be so! The blood rushed to her cheeks, as, hiding her face in Souvie’s silky coat, she murmured, so low that it could scarcely be heard, the single monosyllable, “Yes!”

Lady Marjorie did not exhibit surprise. She had guessed as much for some time. But she thought, and did not hesitate to say, that Celia had done very wrong in allowing the engagement to continue, when on her part she did not intend it to terminate in marriage. She came to the conclusion that the girl had not possessed the courage to face the question out; she had always put away the thought of her marriage with David as a disagreeable necessity of the future; she had dissembled with her own conscience.

In this she was right. Celia had given way to weakness, but she had not intentionally done wrong; and when the matter was threshed out, as Lady Marjorie was threshing it out now, she saw the magnitude of the injury she had done to her fiancé.

One thing was certain: there must be no more equivocation.

“You will have to give David his congé as nicely as you can,” her chaperon said when it was all explained. “It will be a painful interview, of course; but it will have to be gone through, and the sooner you get it over the better.”

But Celia had decided otherwise. It became evident to her that, having plighted her troth, she was bound to abide by it. If she had acted foolishly in becoming engaged before she knew her own mind, she must be ready to pay for her folly. How could she, who almost prided herself on her fidelity and stability of character, allow herself to be accused of inconstancy, classed as a fickle coquette? Her cheeks tingled at the very thought.

“There will be no painful interview,” she replied, in a firm low voice. “I shall marry him before the year is out.”

“You will, after what you have admitted!” Lady Marjorie was genuinely astonished now.

“Yes, I will. I must! What would he think of me if I jilted him now, after three years? What would his friends say? Would they not have reason to condemn me? Oh, I couldn’t do it. I should never be able to hold up my head again.”

It was a difficult predicament. Lady Marjorie acknowledged that, from David Salmon’s point of view, Celia’s conduct would be looked upon as reprehensible; but, on the other hand, she did not consider that the girl was justified in making an unhappy marriage for the sake of saving some immediate unpleasantness. Secretly she thought that he was not worth the sacrifice; she had never been very favourably impressed with him from the first.

“I am sure it will be better for you to tell Mr. Salmon the truth now, before the irrevocable step has been taken,” she said, after a pause. “It will be unpleasant, I admit, especially if he is reluctant to release you from your promise; but it will blow over after a little while, and at least you will be free. Just think what a loveless marriage means: an uncongenial husband, an unhappy home. And, perhaps, when it is too late, you may come across a man whom you could really love. How would you feel then? Dear child, do consider well before you lay up for yourself a store of unhappiness which will last until your life’s end.”

But Celia’s determination remained unshaken. She would be true to her promise, and she would try not to be unhappy over it either. It seemed to her that the majority of Jewish alliances were marriages of convenience, contracted without much thought of love, yet the consequences were, as a rule, quite satisfactory. Adeline, for instance, had admitted to her in confidence that when she married Mike Rosen she had not cared for him in the least, but love had come in time; and now they were devoted to each other, and to their baby boy.

If Celia did not exactly love David Salmon, she possessed no feelings of animosity towards him; and, being a sensible girl, she would do her best to make him a good and dutiful wife. She felt relieved when she had thus settled the matter in her mind; but her tranquillity was again disturbed when the midday post brought her a letter which had been forwarded from Durlston, bearing the Sydney postmark.

Lady Marjorie, catching sight of the stamp, and Celia’s sudden blush, drew her own conclusions.

“You had forgotten him, girlie, hadn’t you?” she queried softly.

Celia slit the envelope. “No,” she replied; “but I thought he had forgotten me.”

It was a letter of congratulation. Dr. Milnes had read of her début in Paris, and could not resist writing to tell her of the pleasure the account of it had given him. About himself he said very little. He and his partner were rapidly increasing their practice, and had got on as well as they could have hoped. He was on the brink of some new discovery in connection with the prevention of tuberculosis. When it was made, he would probably come to Europe, first to Vienna, then to England. He liked Colonial life, but would be glad to see the mother-country once again. Meanwhile, he sent his kind regards, and remained, “Sincerely yours, Geoffrey H. Milnes.”

The girl passed the letter over for Lady Marjorie’s perusal; there was nothing in it that all the world might not read.

It was the first communication, with the exception of birthday and Christmas cards, that she had received from him since he went away. The sight of it brought back old associations, memories so tender as to be almost akin to pain. Geoffrey’s honest face rose up before her mental vision; his strong young voice almost sounded in her ears; his delightful companionship was brought back to her remembrance. She rested her chin on her hand, and lost herself in a dream of long ago. The pleasant rides and drives they had enjoyed together, the hot-headed discussions, the musical confabulations; with what force they all recurred to her just when she was most anxious to forget.

Why does everything change so, she wondered, half rebelliously? Why do all the sweet things of life pass away so soon to leave only bitterness behind? Why is there so much misunderstanding in the world; so much unhappiness brought about by cruel circumstance, so much heartache which could be avoided if we were all absolutely candid and truthful in our relations one towards another? Here was yet another side to that eternal question, Why?

Lady Marjorie’s voice recalled her to the present once more.

“Poor old Geoff!” she exclaimed, replacing the letter in the envelope. “I am glad he is getting on so well. I used to think that he and you——” she paused. “Ah, well, never mind; I suppose I was mistaken after all. It is so easy to make mistakes, isn’t it? Shall you send Geoffrey an invitation to your wedding?”

She did not mean to be unkind; but Celia felt as if she had received a sharp blow. Yet how foolish it was to be so sensitive.

“I shall certainly send him an invitation if he happens to be in England,” she answered quietly; and there the matter dropped.

When she saw David, a few days later, Celia told him that she was willing to be married before the close of the year. She was very quiet, very submissive: and when he proposed, that if all were propitious, the wedding should take place on her birthday, December 15th, she assented without a protest.

In the meantime she had accepted an invitation to spend the month of August with the Wiltons at Woodruffe, their place near Brighton. Enid had left the Academy some time ago to blossom forth as a professor of music at Hove; but although Celia had not seen her for nearly eighteen months, she still kept in touch with her by means of a regular correspondence. The Rev. Ralph Wilton had resigned his curacy at Hoxton—after having seen his parochial affairs greatly improved as the result of Celia’s munificence—to be promoted to a living in a quiet midland town; but he too would be at Woodruffe for his holiday in August, and Celia looked forward to meeting him there.

She would have to return to town in the autumn to attend the rehearsals of “The Voice of the Charmer,” which was to be produced at the beginning of November. Guy Haviland had found it no easy matter to coax Karne into giving his consent, for Herbert possessed some decided views anent the stage; but in the end he managed to overrule all his numerous objections, and returned to London in triumph and great glee.

Lady Marjorie received the news with dubious satisfaction. She was not enamoured of the theatrical life.

“Don’t let it spoil our girlie, will you, Haviland?” she said, when he had acquainted her with the details of his plans. “She is so sweet and unaffected as she is; it would be such a pity if she became imbued with the artificiality of the stage.”

Haviland assured her that she need have no fear.

“I am just as anxious for the welfare of your girlie, as you call her, as yourself,” he replied. “I will guard her as rigorously as any old duenna.”

And knowing that he would be as good as his word, Lady Marjorie was content.

CHAPTER V
THE WILTONS OF WOODRUFFE

Woodruffe was an old-fashioned country house, standing in a little valley of its own formation, and thus protected from the high winds which came from the sea. It affected the Gothic style of architecture, with long windows which opened outwards, and a porch like that of a church. From the front an extensive view of cliffs and ocean was obtained, while from the back one could gaze on miles of verdant meadowland.

When Celia pulled up her blind the first morning after her arrival, it seemed as though she were miles away from civilization. There was not a vestige of anything human to be seen, yet she knew that less than an hour’s walk would take her into busy Brighton. With a sigh of enjoyment she threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh morning air: the fragrance of flowers, the faint scent of hay, the strong salt breeze: how different from the stifling heat of crowded London.

She had been thoroughly satiated with society during the waning days of the “season,” tired of being dressed up like a doll to attend Lady Somebody’s “crush:” of talking inanities to society worldlings, and of being patronized by great ladies on account of her voice.

Lady Marjorie, noticing her pale cheeks and weary languor, had been very wishful to take her with her to the Highlands, where she might breathe the mountain air; but Celia would not be prevailed upon to postpone her visit to Woodruffe, even though she would miss seeing her brother, who was also due at Lord Bexley’s shooting-box before the important twelfth.

She had a vague feeling, almost a presentiment, that her visit to Woodruffe would be fraught with importance; that it was one of those opportunities which, if once missed, can never be recalled. She had been invited by Enid on several occasions, but something had always occurred to prevent her from accepting the invitation, so she was quite determined that nothing should stand in the way this time. She never had reason to regret her decision, for in after years she regarded that month at Woodruffe as the turning-point of her life.

The Wiltons were a large family, with fresh complexions, high spirits, and healthy appetites. It took Celia some little time to distinguish one from the other, for there was a strong family likeness between them, especially amongst the elder ones. She had scarcely recognized Ralph when he met her at the station, for instead of being attired, as she had always seen him, in the garb of a London curate, he wore a straw hat and flannels, and his face and hands were almost as brown as a gipsy’s.

Ralph was the “big brother” of the family, and Celia soon discovered that he was prime favourite at Woodruffe. The girls danced attendance on him, and vied with each other in anticipating his wishes; the boys envied his splendid physique, and made him director of their sports. He was what they called “game for anything,” so full of activity, so humorous in his ways; yet, knowing what he had so nobly endured in that poverty-stricken East End parish, Celia could discern the deep earnestness which lay behind the apparently gay exterior.

At breakfast the first morning he introduced her to all the members of the family, for she had arrived late the previous evening, and had only seen Enid and himself. There were his parents, who gave her a kindly welcome; Cynthia, the eldest girl, who was engaged to be married; Claude the dandy, who was at a susceptible age, and fell in love with her at first sight; Jack, full of bluster and bounce, with a sharp tongue and tender heart; Eric, who was the leading treble in their church choir; and the two little girls, Irene and Doris, who were twins.

“What a crew!” exclaimed Claude, when Celia had shaken hands with them all. “But it is holiday-time; we are not always at home, you know. Parson Ralph lives away, Jack goes to Harrow—which is a mercy, for he is a noisy little beggar,—and I go to dad’s London office from Monday till Friday. You are not used to the ways of a large family, are you, Miss Franks?”

“Oh yes,” Enid answered for her. “Celia has stayed with the people next door to Uncle Brooke’s—the Friedbergs; and I think that their boys, Montie and Victor, are even worse than ours.”

“Which is saying a good deal,” put in Cynthia, with a smile. “Still I hope they will not annoy our guest in any way. Eric is as good as gold when Jack is away at school.”

The two boys stared at Celia somewhat awkwardly at first, and the little girls were very shy, but before the day was out she had made friends with them all. They admired her beauty; and she had such an ingratiating manner that each one of them fell captive to her charms. Even Jack, who possessed an avowed aversion to the generality of girls, pronounced her “ripping.”

She fell into their ways as easily as if she had been accustomed to them for years. A greater difference to her life in town could not be imagined; but she thoroughly enjoyed the change, and the colour returned to her cheeks. Up at seven every morning for an early bathe with Cynthia and Enid, she spent the rest of the day driving, boating, or engaging in field-sports with the boys. An enjoyable musical evening, to which all the elder members of the family contributed, usually terminated the day. Celia sang her prettiest songs; it was quite a pleasure to sing to such an appreciative little audience.

The high spirits and good humour of the Wiltons were contagious; she found herself becoming quite an adept at witty repartee. One thing she noticed: there was never a jarring note in their innocent fun. If any disagreement arose between the boys, it only needed a word from one of the elders to quell it in an instant. Unlike the Friedbergs, they were obedient to authority. In spite of their mischievous proclivities, Jack and Eric could always be prevailed upon to do what was right, not by threats of punishment or parental wrath—as had been the case with Montie and Victor—but simply for right’s own sake.

There was something about the whole family—a kind of high moral tone, as it were—which had been entirely lacking among the Friedbergs. Celia could not explain it, but she felt its force. There was a reason for it, however; it was the result of their early training. From their tenderest years they had all been taught to submit to a very high standard of right and wrong, in order to bring their lives into harmony with a life which was, to them, the very acme of perfection—a Divine Life which had been lived just nineteen hundred years ago. It was this which dispelled selfishness, and made them amenable to discipline; which gave them noble ideals, and imbued them with the love of all that was good. Their evident spirituality made a deep impression on Celia: she wanted to find out the reason of it; once again she began to think.

One morning, when the girls were promenading on the West pier, they passed a lady whose face was familiar to Celia, though she could not remember for the moment where she had seen her before. The lady smiled, and looked as if she wished to stop and speak; but Celia, not being sure of her identity, passed on. Presently she recollected that she had met her at two or three social functions, and had been introduced to her by Lord Bexley at Richmond.

By the band-stand they met her again, and this time she advanced towards Celia with outstretched hand.

“You remember me, don’t you, Miss Franks?” she said with a fascinating smile. “Mrs. Neville Williams, you know. I had the pleasure of hearing you sing so charmingly at Richmond. It is quite delightful to meet somebody one knows here. Brighton in August is so full of trippers and rich Jews—— Oh, I beg your pardon,” as Celia reddened. “I quite forgot. You are staying with friends?” with a glance at the Wiltons. “Is your brother here also?”

“No, he is in Scotland,” replied Celia, when she had introduced the girls. She wondered what made her ask after him, for to her knowledge the two had never met. “Do you know him?” she added as an afterthought.

“Just slightly. I met him some years ago, before he made his reputation as an artist. I do not think he would remember me. He is married, I suppose?”

She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her face.

The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held out her hand.

“Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave; I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;” and with another sweet smile she moved away.

Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like about Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their seats. “I fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie positively detests her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.”

They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time.

Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a dislike to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust of Mrs. Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.

There was a letter from Lady Marjorie waiting for her when she got back to Woodruffe. She was enjoying herself immensely, and Herbert was having good sport. Celia was surprised at the familiar way in which she wrote of him. The letter was full of “Herbert;” he was no longer “Mr. Karne.” Were they going to make a match of it after all, the girl wondered? She, for one, would be delighted if they did.

There was also a letter from David Salmon, who was spending his holidays in the Isle of Man. He would probably run down to Brighton before the end of the month; and he hoped Celia was having a good time.

Celia read the letter twice, and then absent-mindedly tore it up into little bits. Cynthia Wilton watched her in surprise.

“You naughty girl!” she exclaimed. “Is that what you do with your love-letters? What would your fiancé say? Look, this is where I keep my sweetheart’s letters.” She pulled one out from the inside of her blouse. “Just over my heart, you see.”

“I don’t know that I have a heart,” Celia answered, half playfully, half in earnest.

Then she sighed.

CHAPTER VI
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.

CHAPTER VII
WHITE HEATHER

“I believe I must be losing my youth, Janet,” Lady Marjorie said half seriously. “This is the third grey hair I have found this week.”

She took up a silver-mounted hand-glass from the dressing-table and surveyed herself critically. The suspicion of a wrinkle lined her forehead; but her mouth was still as mobile, and her eyes as bright as ever they had been. The old servant carefully removed the offending hair, and went on arranging her mistress’s tresses. She had nursed Lady Marjorie as a baby, as well as Lady Marjorie’s boy, and knew the Bexley family almost as well as her own.

“Losing your youth indeed!” she exclaimed, inserting the last hairpin in its place. “Why, you are not nearly thirty yet, my lady, and as young-looking as can be.”

“Am I?” The young widow smiled. “I feel young, it is true; but I am twenty-eight to-day, Janet, and it will soon be ten years since my wedding-day. It doesn’t seem like ten years, does it, since we drove up to that great cold church in Mayfair? Do you remember how nervous I was, and how I shivered? But I was so young—only just out of the schoolroom; and poor Mr. Stonor was thirty; he seemed dreadfully old to me then. Do you remember, too, how my sister Olive pitied me for having to stand before the altar with a man with mutton-chop whiskers? Poor Denis! he retained those mutton-chop whiskers to the last.”

She glanced at a photograph which stood on her escritoire. Judging by his portrait, Mr. Stonor could scarcely have been the kind of man to attract the fancy of a young and pretty girl; but he had been considered a suitable match for Lady Marjorie, and her parents had hurried on the marriage almost before she had even realized the fact of her engagement.

Janet nodded. “Ay, I remember as well as can be,” she answered, shaking out the folds of a shimmering evening dress. “Didn’t I deck you out for the wedding myself, my lady? I shall never forget the bother I had with that French mam’selle who wanted to make you look like a doll.” She hung up the gown in a wardrobe, and continued significantly, “Maybe I shall have to dress your ladyship once again for a wedding? Pardon me if it’s a liberty I’m taking, but——” She hesitated.

“Well?” said her mistress, trying not to look conscious. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Karne——?”

Lady Marjorie paused in the act of clasping a bracelet on her wrist; and looked up at her old nurse with an enigmatical expression, half pleased, half shy, on her bright face.

“What of Mr. Karne, nursie?” she queried softly.

“Ay, my lady, what need to ask? Do you think I haven’t noticed the love-light in your eyes when you’ve spoken of him, or when he’s been anywhere near; or the little bit of white heather I’ve found under your pillow, which he has given you the night before? Folks say the Highlands is the place for romance, and I’m close on believing it. Anyway, I shall be mightily mistaken if there’s not a wedding before long!”

But the mistress shook her head, whilst a look as of pain came into her eyes.

“No, Janet,” she said quietly. “You are mistaken. Mr. Karne and I are very good friends, but he pays no more attention to me than he would to any other woman who happened to be his hostess.”

“Yet he gave you the white heather, my lady?”

“Yes, he gave me the white heather; but what of that? He did not tell me to put it behind my pillow—that was just a silly fancy of mine. We women are such fools, Janet. We have such an inordinate craving for love, that we magnify the slightest attention of any man for whom we possess regard, until we vainly imagine that we are really loved by him. That is what I’ve been doing—giving way to imagination. I’ve been indulging in the romantic day-dreams of a girl of seventeen.”

A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes.

Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead for mercy.

“How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought you were never coming down. We’ve had breakfast ages ago; and Uncle Bexley and the others, all except Mr. Karne, are already out on the moors.”

“How is it Mr. Karne has not gone?” Lady Marjorie asked wonderingly; for Herbert was an enthusiastic sportsman.

“I don’t know. He is having a smoke in the lounge. P’raps he’s waiting to give you your present. I mustn’t tell you what it is—it’s a surprise, you know,—but I’m sure you will like it awf’lly. Uncle says it’s a very striking likeness of me.”

“Tut-tut, Master Bobbie,” put in Janet, warningly. “You are letting the cat out of the bag;” and the boy promptly clapped his hand to his lips.

Lady Marjorie found Karne deep in thought, watching with half-closed eyes the smoke as it curled upwards from his cigar.

He rose at her approach, and having wished her many happy returns of the day, presented her with a beautifully painted pastel of her boy.

Her face lit up with pleasure as she thanked him, for the gift had evidently occasioned him much thought.

“I shall hang it up in my boudoir at Durlston,” she said, when she had expressed her admiration of the portrait, “next to the one you painted of Bobbie as a baby. Heigho, how time flies! I feel dreadfully old to-day—because it is my birthday, I suppose.”

“One is never old whilst the heart is young,” he answered, with a swift glance from his deep eyes. He was just thinking how delightfully fresh and young she looked.

Lady Marjorie met his eyes and blushed. Then she sat down at a small table and, unfolding a daily paper, glanced through the morning’s news.

“Are you tired of the shooting?” she inquired presently. “I was quite surprised when Bobbie informed me that you were still indoors.”

“I am afraid there will be no more shooting for me this year,” he replied regretfully, taking up a time-table which had recently occupied his attention. “I have just packed my traps previous to taking my departure. This morning’s post brought me two letters containing news which makes it necessary for me to go to Brighton immediately. I am more sorry than I can say to have to bring this enjoyable visit to such an abrupt termination.”

Lady Marjorie’s face fell perceptibly. “Then you are going away!” she exclaimed in dismay. “You have not received bad news, I hope?”

“Well, that depends on how one looks at it,” he answered, noting her crestfallen expression with a vague pang of self-reproach. “Celia’s visit to Woodruffe has cost her dear; it has probably been the means of making her lose her entire fortune.”

Lady Marjorie gave vent to an ejaculation of amazement.

“How could that possibly be?” she asked, her eyes distended in surprise. The announcement almost took her breath away.

“She has decided to become a Christian,” he replied, as if apprising her of some calamity. “And by doing so, according to the terms of her father’s will, forfeits all claim to his wealth, which will go to build a Jewish hospital in South Africa.”

Lady Marjorie stared at him blankly. “The little goose!” she exclaimed. Then she corrected herself. “No, I didn’t mean that. Of course she must act according to her belief. But I wonder what made her father insert such a nonsensical stipulation in his will. I suppose she is aware of it?”

“No; judging by her letter, I do not think she is,” the artist answered, with troubled brow. “I blame myself very much that I did not inform her of it when I received the copy of the will, but I never dreamt of such a thing as this happening. Her fiancé knows, however—Bernie Franks must have told him himself,—and he is in a dreadful way about it. He is staying at Mrs. Rosen’s house in Brighton, and begs me to join him there without delay. Celia’s baptism is fixed for next Sunday; and, of course, if that is allowed to take place, nothing can be done. Salmon writes that we must prevent that at all costs, but I don’t see how we can if the girl has thoroughly made up her mind to it.”

“No, I suppose not, as she is of age. But you may be able to persuade her to postpone her baptism for a few months or so. It is possible that her opinions may yet undergo another change. Does she seem very enthusiastic over the matter?”

For answer Herbert handed her Celia’s letter to read. It consisted of eight closely written pages; and judging by the frequent erasures, had evidently been a difficult one to indite.

Lady Marjorie perused it carefully, reading several passages two or three times in order to fully comprehend their meaning. At length she replaced it in the envelope, and returned it without comment.

“Well?” interrogated Karne, briefly. “What do you think about it?”

“I hardly know. You see, I’m a Christian myself—though not a good one, I’m afraid,—and I can understand how Celia feels about it. Religion is a strange and fascinating subject; and it has evidently taken strong hold of her. I do not think you will be able to deter her from carrying out her intention. She seems to take it for granted that you will not blame her for what she is doing. But I should not think she is aware of the loss of fortune her conversion entails.”

“Oh, I do not blame her,” he said quickly. “If she imagines she can be happier as a Christian, let her be one by all means. I do not suppose there will be anything gained by attempting to argue the question with her. She will probably prefer to be guided by the instinct she calls faith than to consider any reasoning of mine.”

A clock in the adjoining hall struck eleven. Herbert glanced at his watch.

“I suppose you will go by the 12.50?” Lady Marjorie said, with a sigh. “We must have an early luncheon; and then I will drive down to the station to see you off. I shall miss you when you are gone,” she added regretfully. “We’ve had a nice time up here together, haven’t we? Do you know, of all Bexley’s guests, you are the only one whose society I have really enjoyed. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I should have stayed in Scotland all this time. I am terribly outspoken, am I not? But one cannot always bottle up one’s feelings.”

Again a touch of self-reproach smote Karne’s breast. He glanced into Lady Marjorie’s eyes—such blue eyes, as clear and innocent as a child’s; then feeling that he was expected to say something, expressed the pleasure his visit had given him, and thanked her for her own and Bexley’s kindness.

He did not respond, however, in the way she had hoped he would; and his words struck coldly upon her ears. Why did he always repel her whenever she tried to make their friendship a little closer, she wondered, with a vague feeling of disappointment at her heart.

It was the same at the railway station, where she lingered until the train moved off. She gave him plenty of opportunity for pretty farewell speeches, but he didn’t make them; and as she drove home again with Bobbie, tears of mortification welled up into her eyes. It was quite ridiculous of her to care so much, she told herself, as she choked them down.

Bobbie noticing her emotion, endeavoured to console her.

“Don’t cry, mother dear,” he said sympathetically. “We shall see Mr. Karne again in Durlston next month. If you cry on your birthday, you’ll cry all the year round, you know.”

Lady Marjorie thought she detected amusement in the expression of the footman’s broad back.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with a feeble smile. “Crying, indeed! It’s a speck of dust in my eye.”

And another white lie was added to the list on her conscience.

CHAPTER VIII
THE RING RETURNED

“Well, what do you think of this d——d nonsense about Celia?” was David Salmon’s polite greeting when he met Herbert Karne in the King’s Road, Brighton, the next day.

He was so full of his grievance that he did not trouble to exchange the customary civilities with the artist. Instead, he broke into a torrent of abuse against the Wiltons, Lady Marjorie Stonor, and even Karne himself, for having combined to lead his fiancée astray. He had been up to Woodruffe that morning, he said, in order to give the Wiltons a piece of his mind, and to implore Celia not to persist in her tomfoolery; but the girl was as obstinate as a mule.

“Did you tell her what the consequence of her act will be, so far as money is concerned?” asked Karne, who was not favourably impressed with Salmon’s blustering manner.

“Yes, of course; but that didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. She just went a bit white, and looked at me in a queer sort of way; then said some stuff about ‘renunciation,’ and that was all. It’s my opinion that those Wiltons must have worked upon her until her mind has become diseased; and the sooner she gets away from them, the better. I have never heard of such an idiotic affair in my life.”

Celia did not look, however, as if she possessed a morbid or diseased mind. Her brother went over to Woodruffe in the afternoon, and found her playing tennis. The exercise had lent a healthy glow to her cheeks; and she looked much better and brighter than when he had last seen her in London.

The Wiltons received him kindly, although they were not sure whether his visit were hostile as Mr. Salmon’s had been, or whether he was disposed to be friendly; but their doubts were set at rest when he cordially invited Enid to accompany Celia back to the Towers for the fortnight before her rehearsals for the Haviland play began, and the invitation was accepted with alacrity.

After tea they tactfully left the brother and sister alone, thinking, with kindly consideration, that the two would have much to say to each other. They were not mistaken. Herbert immediately began to ply Celia with a volley of questions; and was some little time in eliciting all the information he desired. Then he bade her consider well the gravity of her intended action—an action that would cut her adrift from her own people, and make her, for ever, an outcast in Israel.

“Do you know what your father would do, if he were alive?” he said seriously. “He would sit shiva,[15] and mourn for you as one dead.”

But he did not blame her, nor did he cavil at her faith. He was kind, even sympathetic; and all he asked her to do, for the present, was to wait awhile.

Celia, however, would not hear of procrastination in this matter; for the Rev. Ralph Wilton was about to return to his parish, and she particularly desired him to assist at the baptismal ceremony before he left. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by waiting, she declared; her mind was fully made up, her determination taken.

Herbert then advanced the monetary consideration, urging her not to yield to a rash impulse she would probably live to regret; but, as he had expected, this plea influenced her not at all.

“If the early Christians had allowed themselves to be guided by social expediency, there would probably be little Christianity in the world to-day,” she returned convincingly. “I must do what I feel to be my duty. But you need not fear for me, Herbert. I am young and strong; and I have my voice.”

“And what of David Salmon? Have you considered him at all? You know, it comes rather hardly upon him, after having been led to expect that you would bring him a fortune.”

Celia’s eyes fell. “If he really loved me, he would be just as willing to marry me poor as rich,” she rejoined.

“True; but I am afraid that he is not so unworldly as yourself. Tell me, sis dear, would it hurt you very much if he were to give you up?”

Her heart beat fast; she had never thought of such a possibility.

“Do you think he would do that?” she asked, evading his question; and her brother did not omit to notice the eager light in her eyes.

“Well, I had a lengthy conversation with him this morning,” he answered slowly. “And it appears to me that this affair has brought out a new side to his character; not a very commendable one, either, I am afraid. Of course he, in common with the Friedbergs and Rosens, is shocked and disgusted; not so much because of your change of faith—although the idea of his marrying a converted Jewess is repugnant to them all—but because, by so doing, you are deliberately throwing away a fortune. He informed me that, on his marriage, Mr. Rosen intended taking him into partnership; but were he to marry you without your money, the scheme would, of necessity, fall through. Then he asked me what dowry I would give you, in the event of your losing your inheritance. Now, you may be sure, dear sis, that I shall always do my best to make ample provision for you; and you shall never want, I trust, whilst I am alive; but I thought I would just meet Salmon on his own ground. So I told him that I lived up to my income, pretty well—which is quite true,—and that, having never foreseen this contingency, I found myself utterly unable to provide you with a marriage portion. I don’t think he quite believed that; anyway, he suggested my raising a mortgage on the Towers, or something of that sort. Then, when he saw that I was obdurate, he said that, much as he likes you, he could not afford to marry a girl without money; so that, if you persist in what he calls your madness, the engagement will have to be broken off. Finally, he asked me to persuade you to reconsider your decision; and sincerely hoped that I would bring him back good news.”

Celia was filled with indignation; but, because she had never really loved him, the avariciousness of her fiancé occasioned her no grief. Rather, she was relieved that his true nature was thus manifested before it was too late.

“It is a wonder he did not suggest my singing or acting as a means of support,” she said.

“He did; but I told him that I did not believe in a woman working to keep her husband, unless he happened to be incapacitated by illness, or there were some other urgent necessity. So it remains with you to decide whether you will marry him or not. From what Marjie—Lady Marjorie, I mean—has told me, I do not think your affections were deeply involved, so that I can guess pretty well what your answer will be—eh, Celia?”

The girl slowly drew off her engagement ring. “Yes,” she replied seriously, “I do not think I could marry him now, even were I to retain my inheritance. My respect for him seems to have been suddenly obliterated. Will you take him back this ring, please? And tell him that the man I marry must love me for myself alone. Say, also, that, as I mean to carry out my intention of joining the Christian Church, I am sure that there would often be contention between us on that account; therefore the best thing—the only thing—that I can do, is to dissolve our engagement.”

“And your decision is final?”

“Absolutely.”

Herbert made a wry face. “I cannot say I relish being the bearer of such a message,” he said, placing the ring in his pocket-book. “Still, as you have given it to me, I suppose I had better deliver it. I dare say Salmon will round on me for having incensed you against him; and perhaps he will prefer to receive your refusal from your own lips. I am afraid there will be a mauvais quart d’heure for me when I get back to Brunswick Terrace.”

There was. David Salmon received the news with an oath, and broke into a fit of passionate rage. After having cursed women in general, and Celia Franks in particular, he declared that he would take to drink. When he had calmed down, however, he thought better of it, and decided to console himself with Dinah Friedberg. Dinah, so he said, besides being madly in love with him, possessed no silly notions about religion, and her father, although he did not make a pretence of being well off—as did Karne—would at least endeavour to provide his daughter with a suitable marriage dowry.

The next morning he presented himself at Woodruffe as though nothing had happened. Celia would have preferred not to see him, but could not very well refuse him the interview.

It was a painful one for both of them; and Celia, at least, felt relieved when it was over. David implored, beseeched, and entreated her to reconsider her decision, and refused at first to take back the few presents he had given her, although he accepted them in the end. Finding that all his pleading was of no avail, he revenged himself by indulging in cheap sneers at her new-found faith, taunting her in the way best calculated to wound her feelings. Finally, he encountered Ralph Wilton just as he was going out, and told the clergyman what he thought of him in no measured terms.

Wilton himself was calm and unresentful, and his demeanour had the effect of making Salmon a little bit ashamed of himself. He had the grace to attempt an apology, at any rate, and even went so far as to shake hands when he left.

Mr. Wilton accompanied him as far as the gate; then returned to the drawing-room, to find Celia in tears.

The sight filled him with dismay. “Miss Franks!” he exclaimed, hardly knowing how to express himself. “I—I am so sorry. I wish I could help you. All this has been too much for you, I am afraid.”

Celia dried her eyes and smiled at him through her tears, reminding the young clergyman of a burst of sunshine after a shower of rain.

“It—was—dreadfully weak of me!” she murmured in a small voice. “But I couldn’t help it. Mr. Salmon did say such cruel things; and although I know it’s foolish, they—they rankle. He made me feel as if I were about to commit a crime.”

Ralph Wilton looked at her with deep sympathy in his eyes.

“The crown of thorns does indeed press hard upon your brow,” he said compassionately. “You are being deprived of your fortune and your lover at one blow. But do not lose heart, Miss Franks; I feel sure there is much sunshine in store for you yet. Who can tell? Your self-sacrifice may lead to happiness you know not of. Only trust and believe, and all will yet be well.”

“Oh, I am not at all unhappy,” she responded hastily, not wishing him to be falsely impressed. “There is really no self-sacrifice in what I am doing.” She did not add that the breaking of her engagement came as an unexpected and not unwelcome release. Nevertheless, she felt it to be such, although it was some little time before she could altogether realize that she was indeed free.

The news of her conversion and its pecuniary consequence spread with astonishing rapidity, even leaking into the Jewish and society papers. Jewish people criticized her action as disgraceful, non-Jews as quixotic; and both unanimously agreed that by foregoing a public confession of faith—meaning the ceremony of baptism—she might have retained her fortune. But public opinion caused Celia no concern, for she knew that no other course than the one she had taken would have been possible to her for any length of time. If she had acted foolishly according to the world’s standard, she had at least done what she had felt to be her duty in the sight of God.

If she left Woodruffe the poorer in one way for her visit there, she was richer in another; and never, during the whole course of her life, did she ever wish her action undone.

CHAPTER IX
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!”

CHAPTER X
STRELITZKI PAVES THE WAY FOR HIS REVENGE

The yard at Mendel’s factory was filled to its utmost capacity. Men jostled each other’s elbows, and trod on each other’s corns with good-natured indiscrimination. A jargon of Polish, Yiddish, Roumanian, and English of the Lancashire dialect smote the air with Babel-like confusion; and as each man spoke to his neighbour at the precise moment that his neighbour spoke to him, the amount of comprehension on either side was reduced to nil.

They had met for the discussion of a grievance. Herbert Karne, after further provocation, had put his threat into execution: the night-school, the dispensary, and the club were closed. A notice was pasted on the doors stating that they would remain closed until he received, signed by each one of the men, a full and satisfactory apology for the gratuitous insults levelled at his sister and himself; together with a promise of better behaviour in future.

The news produced a sensation, some of the men utterly refusing to believe it until they saw the notice for themselves. The club had been opened so long, and occupied such a prominent position in the recreative part of their work-a-day lives, that they had lost sight of the fact that it was kept up entirely at Herbert Karne’s expense. Nearly every evening they repaired thither to while away an hour or two in the comfortable reading or smoke rooms; which were always well heated in winter, well ventilated in summer. Here they could chat, or schmooze,[19] as they called it, to their heart’s content. They were also at liberty to play solo-whist, so long as they played for nominal stakes only, gambling being strictly prohibited; and in the winter evenings, Herbert Karne arranged numerous entertainments for their benefit, to which their women folks, in their Sabbath clothes, came as well.

The club closed, they would be obliged to have recourse to the bar-parlours of the public-houses; for the gregarious instinct was strong within them, and their home-life more or less unattractive. But they knew that, being foreigners and abstemious, they would not receive a cordial welcome there; nor, indeed, did they desire the society of public-house frequenters. They had the greatest respect for the British workman when sober; but they were aware that having waxed convivial by the aid of beer, he was apt to indulge in uncomplimentary remarks concerning “them furriners;” and being extremely sensitive, they did not care for jocularity at their own expense.

It became evident, therefore, that they must endeavour to get the club re-opened; and it was in order to effect this end, that the meeting was being held.

In the centre of the yard a number of heavy boxes had been piled up to serve as a rostrum; and from this a slender olive-skinned man addressed his fellow-workers. He was Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory and manager of the club.

Their present attitude to their benefactor, he told them—when he could command silence—was senseless to the last degree. They had been indulging in foolish spleen, and incurring serious harm to themselves, as the closing of the club and dispensary testified. They were simply running their heads against a brick wall when they imagined they could go against a man in Mr. Karne’s position. He advised them to sign an apology which he himself would prepare; and voted that they should do all in their power to renew their former friendly relations with Herbert Karne.

His address was received with expressions of mingled approval and dissent. The majority of them were half inclined to think that it would be wiser in the end to cease hostility, especially as the winter was approaching. They remembered the numerous creature comforts which had been provided every year at the artist’s expense.

Jacob Strelitzki, with a wild light in his eyes, elbowed his way through the crowd and sprang on to the platform.

“Mates!” he shouted energetically, “do you want to be turned into bacon-eating m’shumadim by Herbert Karne and his sister?”

A vigorous reply in the negative rolled towards him like the answer of one man.

“Well, then, don’t apologize, don’t play into their hands! Herbert Karne is no true friend of ours! He has taken an interest in our welfare simply that he might convert us all in the end! Four years ago he did his best to make a m’shumad of me, but I resisted before it was too late. We have our wives and children to consider—suppose he converts them against our will? Let us make a firm stand against it, and swear that that shall never be!”

Murmurs of indignation and applause came from every throat; but the foreman Blatz held up his hand to still them.

“It is false!” he cried in a voice that could be heard at the furthermost corner of the yard. “Mr. Karne is our true friend, and he is not a m’shumad. He has told us over and over again that he wishes us to be good Jews and upright men; he has never attempted to teach us any creed but our own. What right, then, have we to say that he is not a good Jew?”

“Every right!” replied the dark-bearded man vehemently. “If Herbert Karne were a good Jew, he would not have received his sister into his house after she became a Christian. He should have treated her as Bernie Franks would have done had he lived; he ought to have cast her adrift. Listen here, friends, Strelitzki is right. If we allow ourselves to be ruled by the people at the Towers, we shall find our wives and children being led astray. Only yesterday my little girl Blume met with a slight accident whilst out on an errand. Miss Celia Franks used it as an excuse to entice her to the Towers, where she kept her for some time. What she said to the child I do not know, but when my wife undressed Blume at night, she discovered this”—lifting a crucifix high above their heads—“hung round her neck. Comrades, are we to stand by without protest in the face of an insult such as this?”

“No, no!” responded the angry crowd, their ire aroused at the sight of the offending emblem. “Stamp on it! Crush the trumpery thing! Down with those who dare to tamper with our religion! Down with m’shumadim!”

A crucifix around a Jewish child’s neck! It was the worst indignity that could have been offered to them, for nothing could have shocked them more. Here was proof positive of Celia Franks’ intention to convert their children by force; here was virtually their call to arms.

Even the foreman Blatz knew not what to think; like the rest of them he was amazed and shocked. In vain now did he urge them to establish peace; the incident of the crucifix decided what their course of action should be.

They accused Blatz himself of apostasy when he again pleaded in favour of the artist. They would do without Mr. Karne’s gifts rather than be robbed of the faith of their forefathers. They would ask one of the Rothschilds or Montefiores to build them a club; they would accept nothing more from Herbert Karne.

The meeting broke up in noisy confusion, a motion being carried to arrange further proceedings the following night. The men dispersed in twos and threes, each discoursing volubly with his neighbour in whatever his native language happened to be.

Emil Blatz went on his way alone, with heavy heart and thoughtful brow. Usually he himself, as foreman, took the lead in factory affairs, but to-night he had been superseded. The men had been swayed by Strelitzki and Horwitz, who by common consent had established themselves as leaders, and their temper boded no good towards Herbert Karne.

Blatz possessed a strong admiration for the artist, who had done him many a good turn. He could not forget a certain eventful night, when his boy lay dying, and Karne had kept vigil with him for eight weary hours, until, at dawn, the little soul had fled into the dim unknown. He felt he owed him a debt of gratitude for that, which, if it were in his power, he must repay.

Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards the Towers, although he had only a vague idea as to what he intended to do. Without giving himself time for thought he pressed the visitors’ bell. Noiselessly the gate swung back, gaining him admittance to the grounds. The coachman’s wife peered out at him as he drew near the lodge, but offered no resistance: and with careful steps he passed along the gravelled path which bounded the lawn, until the house with its ornamental turrets loomed clear against the blackness of the night.

Presently the sound of music made him pause; the mellow tones of a piano, and then a woman’s voice, full, rich, and clear. Blatz listened with eager attention, for he was a musician born. Softly and sweetly the notes floated towards him through the half-open windows. He recognized the melody; it was an aria from Elijah.

Moving a few steps to the right he found himself in full view of the drawing-room. The blinds had not been lowered; and through the transparent curtains he could see the interior of the room.

The scene struck him strangely, being in such marked contrast to the one he had just left. It was as if, in the midst of turbulent strife, he had suddenly come upon a haven of rest. Here for one short moment he might breathe the atmosphere of peace and refinement. Although but a humble factory worker, Blatz possessed a passionate love of the beautiful; and this luxurious apartment, with its dainty touches of femininity, awakened a keen thrill of pleasure within his breast.

There were five occupants of the room, all of whom were known to the foreman, except the dark-haired girl at the piano. Herbert Karne stood with his back to the fireplace exhibiting a book of sketches to the white-haired vicar of Durlston. Seated on a low chair in the roseate glow of the lamp was the vicar’s daughter, her fingers busily plying a piece of fancy-work; and facing her, by the side of the grand piano, stood Celia Franks, singing with all her heart.

“Hear ye, Israel! hear what the Lord speaketh: Oh, hadst thou heeded, heeded My commandments!”

Sweetly and half reproachfully she sang the words to their melodious accompaniment. Her eyes were dimly fixed on the dark swaying trees in the garden; her thoughts were far from the lighted room.

Then more solemnly she enunciated the question: “Who hath believed our report? To whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?” Afterwards recurring to the exhortation, “Hear ye!” and closing with the pathetic appeal in the minor key, “Israel!... Israel!”

A wave of emotion swept over Emil Blatz as he listened; the mellifluous beauty of the melody almost carried him away. He knew not whom he envied the more: Mendelssohn for having composed such music, or the young singer for her power to interpret it in that way.

The words, too, sounded in his ear with peculiar significance; they seemed like a justification of the singer’s faith.

Suddenly the voice ceased its tender note of appeal; and after a few bars of recitative, burst forth into a triumphant assurance of divine protection, followed by the sublime meditation:—

“Say, who art thou, that art afraid of a man that shall die? And forgettest the Lord thy Maker, Who hath stretched forth the heavens, and laid the earth’s foundations? Be not afraid, for I, thy God, will strengthen thee!”

To Blatz there was a note of defiance in the girl’s rendering of the dramatic music: the very poise of her head, as she sang the “Be not afraid,” seemed like a challenge to those who were her enemies. In his simplicity he forgot that she was quite unconscious of her uninvited listener, and that the words were not her own.

When the last note died away, he moved towards the hall door: he had made up his mind that the artist must be warned.

Karne received him in the smoke-room, expecting that he had been deputed to bring him the written apology he claimed. He was disappointed to learn that such was not the case; but although he had no desire to remain at enmity with Mendel’s people, he fully meant to stand his ground.