Neither Jew nor Greek

CHAPTER X

A GOLD NUGGET AND A DIAMOND RING

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

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:—

“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

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

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.