Neither Jew nor Greek

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

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—

“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

“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

“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

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 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!”