Title: Neither Jew nor Greek
a story of Jewish social life
Author: Violet Guttenberg
Release date: November 1, 2023 [eBook #72000]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1902
Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)
CONTENTS
FOOTNOTES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK
A STORY OF JEWISH SOCIAL LIFE
BY
VIOLET GUTTENBERG
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1902
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
TO
MY FRIEND
MARIE CORELLI
AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO HER
GENIUS
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
“If you ever do get married, girls,” Adeline was saying, as she contemplated her wedding-dress, which lay spread out on the bed, “see to it that you get men, and not broomsticks.”
“I think I would rather have a broomstick than some men,” said the youngest sister Di. “Because a broomstick is at least inoffensive; whereas a man with a temper would be a positive nuisance.”
“I wouldn’t give a halfpenny for a man without a temper,” put in Lottie, with a shrug. “Look at old Solomon, for instance. He is as meek as Moses. Whenever Mrs. Sol tells him to do anything, he folds his hands, and says, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ and goes and does it at once. If she told him to go and drown himself, I believe he would say, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ from sheer force of habit.”
“That shows Mrs. Sol’s cleverness,” said Adeline with a sigh. “She must have broken him in when he was young and pliable. My future husband is neither young nor pliable. Oh, girls, I wonder what sort of a husband Mike will make.”
It was the eve of Adeline’s wedding. She was the eldest daughter, and the first to leave the parental roof. “Adeline is a smart girl, and will do well for herself,” her fond mother had been wont to say: and Adeline certainly had done well, according to her parents’ ideas, for she had secured Michael Rosen, the proprietor of the Acme Furnishing Company—a man who had come over from Poland twenty years ago to start life (English life) as an itinerant vendor of jewellery, and who was now at the head of the furnishing trade in his particular line. Adeline’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg, had been introduced to him by the minister of the synagogue which they attended, with the understanding, that if the parties came to terms, and a marriage ensued, the Rev. Isaac Abrahams should pocket an ample commission.
At the wedding-breakfast, which took place at the Hotel Cecil, the Rev. Isaac, in the course of his speech, lightly mentioned the fact that marriages were made in heaven, and unblushingly thanked Providence for having brought the happy bridal couple together. Every one remarked how touchingly and beautifully he spoke.
It is not so difficult to give an eloquent speech when the champagne flows as freely as water, and one has a substantial cheque snugly reposing in one’s pocket-book. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams was a happy man that day; he possessed feelings of benevolence towards all mankind.
Adeline looked very charming in her bridal finery, and excited envy in the hearts of a good many mothers and daughters present. She had a choral and floral wedding, a full account of which, including a list of all the wedding presents, would appear in the Jewish World and the Queen; and she was the prospective mistress of a beautiful house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead, and another in Brunswick Terrace, Brighton. Could any girl wish for more? True, the bridegroom would never see forty again, and he was neither good-looking nor well-bred; but wealth covers a multitude of other deficiencies, and one cannot have everything. So, every one agreed that Adeline was a very fortunate girl, and Adeline herself thought so too.
She was ecstatically happy for exactly twenty-four hours after the ceremony.
The first part of their honeymoon was spent at a farm-house ten miles from anywhere, where, if they had been so inclined, they could have made love to their heart’s content, without the least fear of any disturbance. Mike chose this place because his bride had once remarked in his hearing that she adored the country—which she did in the abstract.
It is so nice to think of green fields, and leafy lanes, and bleating lambs, and twittering birds—when one is in town.
Adeline had never spent a whole day in Mike’s company before, and very soon grew tired of his society. During their short engagement he had come to see her every evening, but had spent most of his time in the smoke-room with her father, and she had seen very little of him. Perhaps, if she had seen more of him, she would not have become his wife. Now that she was entirely dependent upon him for companionship, however, she wondered how they would get on together. His sole topic of conversation was furniture—“ferniture,” he pronounced it. His had been one of the first firms to introduce the “easy payments” system on an extensive scale, and Mike was justly proud of the fact. Adeline wondered, a trifle contemptuously, if he considered her part of his household “ferniture.” She was at least ornamental, if not altogether useful.
Life at the farm was not exciting, and at the end of the third day, the young bride had a bad attack of the blues. She was not particularly interested in watching the pigs fed and the cows milked; and what was the good of all her pretty frocks and lovely jewels when there was no one to see and admire them. It was all very well for Mike. He sat on the top of a haystack, dressed in flannels, nearly all day; and as long as he had a fat cigar to smoke, a glass of whisky to drink, and a furniture catalogue to read, he was perfectly happy. But even he was bored when, on the fourth day, it began to rain, and forgot to leave off; and when Friday came round, he suggested a trip to Blackpool, to which his wife willingly agreed.
Blackpool was a decided improvement to the farm, but the wet weather followed them even there, so, at the end of a very dull fortnight, they turned their faces homewards. It was quite delightful to see dear old smoky London once more.
Adeline lost no time in going to see her family, and went the same afternoon that they returned. Mike was obliged to go straight off to business, but she was not sorry to have to go alone. Her visit was quite a surprise, for they were not expected home for at least another week. Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg were out, she was told, but the girls were at home, and received her with rapturous exclamations of delight and astonishment. They carried her off to her old bedroom to take off her things, and plied her with questions which she could not possibly answer all at once. She hugged them all round, Prince, the pug, included; then she sat down on the bed, and indulged in a good cry, after which she felt considerably better.
The girls were filled with consternation. They had never seen Adeline cry before. Had Mike been doing anything to vex her? No? Then, what on earth was she crying for? Di ran for smelling-salts, and Lottie fetched brandy; in vain Adeline protested that she needed neither.
“You must think me a little fool, girls,” she sobbed, copiously drying her tears. “It was the excitement of seeing you again, I suppose. I shall feel much better when I have had some tea.”
She made them promise not to tell her parents what a silly girl she was; and then brightened up, and told them of all she had seen and done.
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg arrived, she was all smiles again, and they were delighted to see her looking so well.
“Married life agrees with you, evidently,” her mother remarked, as she gave her a prolonged and audible kiss on either cheek. “You are looking splendid, Addie. Mr. Cohen’s nephew—not the one who married Sol Benjamin’s niece, but the other one—saw you on the pier at Blackpool, and said that you and Mike were so taken up with lovemaking, that you never even acknowledged his existence.”
“It was very windy on the pier,” said Adeline apologetically. “It was all I could do to keep my hat on. I did not notice any one who was passing.”
“No, of course not,” put in Mr. Friedberg, with a wink. “No one would expect you to. By-the-by, what do you think of your house, Addie? It’s ’ansome, isn’t it? That’s the best of having a husband in the furnishing line. Mike let me have everything at cost price. When these girls get chosanim,”[1] with a sly look at his other daughters, “they shall set up housekeeping in grand style too.”
Was she never going to get away from that wretched furniture? Adeline was sick of the very word.
“The next wedding we have in the family,” remarked Mrs. Friedberg, apropos of nothing, “I shall put out a notice—‘No electro plate received here.’ It’s simply scandalous the number of fish-carvers you received, and hardly any of them silver. And fancy that Mrs. Moses sending a rubbishing cake-basket, after all the kindness and hospitality we’ve shown her. I don’t know how people can be so mean.”
The clock struck six, and Adeline rose to go. She must be home to have dinner with Mike, she said, and it was a good way from Maida Vale to Fitzjohn’s Avenue. She wanted to take Lottie and her young brother Victor back with her, but her mother was sure Mike would prefer to spend his first evening at home with his wife alone.
Mrs. Friedberg possessed some curious ideas. She knew, and did not pretend to ignore the fact, that her daughter’s marriage with Michael Rosen was a made-up match, and that, had the bridegroom been less wealthy, or the bride less attractive, the marriage would have never taken place; yet she persisted in thinking and saying that the bridal pair were very much in love with each other.
Adeline, like most Jewish girls of the present day, had been taught to place her affections in accordance with her parents’ wishes. The idea of falling in love with anybody had never occurred to her. She was a sensible girl, and knew that even if she so desired—and she did not desire it—she could never marry a poor man, or a Christian, so she had resigned herself to the inevitable, and had accepted Michael Rosen without a protest. Mike was as good as any other rich Jew she had met, and even if he were of the “broomstick” order of men, he was at least, as Di had said, inoffensive.
If only she could break him of that detestable habit of talking “shop” wherever he went! She would have to teach him that there were other subjects of interest to the generality of people as well as his beloved “ferniture.”
If you had asked who was the most popular man in Durlston, you would have been told, without a moment’s hesitation, that his name was Herbert Karne. Broad-chested, large-hearted, and liberal-minded, Herbert won the hearts of all with whom he came in contact, by his cheery geniality and his consummate tact. He was a Jew, but he was also an English gentleman, and was treated as such by the members of the social circle in which he moved.
Durlston was an uninteresting little town not many miles from Manchester. There was a very large boot and shoe manufactory at one end of the tiny High Street, and the population of the town was considerably increased by the factory labourers and their families. These were mostly Jews, very poor Jews, who had recently emigrated from Roumania and were glad to get work, even though it were at almost starvation wages. Mendel & Co. secured them directly they arrived in Houndsditch, and packed them off to the Durlston manufactory as occasion required. They were easily satisfied and obsequious, these poor Jews, and seemed to be able to exist on next to nothing.
Herbert Karne lived with his half-sister in a pretty country house—The Towers—just outside the town. He was an artist by profession and a romancist by nature. He took the greatest interest in the little Jewish colony which had sprung up almost beneath his windows, and it was his pleasure to protect the rights of the colonists against the cut-throat practices of their employers. He agitated for shorter hours and better pay, and, for fear of being boycotted, Messrs. Mendel & Co. were obliged to make concessions.
These poor Jews had no spirit of their own; they were utterly downtrodden with the effect of oppression and destitution: so Karne was determined to defend their cause, and he became their firm friend and ally.
Whenever a new batch of Jews arrived in Durlston, he took them in hand at once. He anglicized them, and made them suppress their Jewish idiosyncrasies. With the help of his half-sister Celia, and a few friends, he organized a night school, and taught them to read and write. He managed to enlist the sympathy of the most influential people in the county on their behalf, and got up all sorts of literary and musical entertainments, in order to brighten their empty lives. The educating and uplifting of these poor waifs of humanity was Herbert’s hobby; he entered into it heart and soul.
There was no synagogue in Durlston, the nearest one being in Manchester, so he arranged to have divine service in the schoolroom every Saturday morning, at which Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory, officiated. Herbert himself gave the lecture as a rule, and preached not from a religious so much as from an ethical standpoint. He endeavoured to instil into his hearers his own high standard of honour and equity; he wanted to broaden their ideals, and to make them true to the noble instincts of their ancient race and faith.
And in a great measure he succeeded. There were very few who came under Herbert Karne’s influence who did not benefit by it. He imbued them with self-respect, and gave them back their sense of manhood. When they left the factory—generally to better their position in some way—they were, most of them, better men and nobler Jews than when they had entered it. Their backs were no longer bowed with the yoke of oppression. They held their heads erect, and were able once again to look the whole world in the face.
It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and Karne’s grounds were thrown open to receive his friends and protègèes. A small piano had been brought out on the lawn, and somebody was playing one of Strauss’ most inspiriting waltzes. The men smoked, and nodded their heads to the music, and talked to each other of the hardships of bygone days. The women darned their stockings, and watched pretty Miss Celia flitting about in her white dress, with a sweet smile and a kindly word for each one of them. The dark-eyed children chased each other over the turf, danced round the piano, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. Some of them wandered towards the studio, and, standing before the long French windows, gazed with feelings of awe at the paintings which were the handiwork of their benefactor. How lovely it must be to be able to paint wonderful pictures like those, they thought!
Herbert Karne was employed in amusing the babies. They kept him fully occupied, and demanded all his attention. One little olive-skinned maiden sat on his knee; another tugged at his hair; and a third played with his watch-chain. Their host enjoyed it all quite as much as they did themselves; he was passionately fond of children.
A gentleman was coming out of the house and across the lawn. Mr. Karne handed the children back to their mothers, and came forward to greet him.
“Glad to see you, Geoffrey,” he said, as they shook hands. “Celia was just wishing that you were here. They wanted her to sing, but she was quite at a loss without you to play her accompaniments. By-the-by, Geoff, it’s quite decided; she is to go away.”
The young man’s face fell perceptibly. “I am very sorry,” he said, and his voice was quite husky. “But I think you are quite right, Karne. Celia has a great future before her, and she is utterly wasted here in this sleepy little place. With her voice, and her personality, she will have all London at her feet some day. You will send her to Marchesi in Paris, I suppose?”
“No; Professor Bemberger thinks she will do just as well at the Academy in London, or, at least, until her voice is more fully developed. I did not like the idea of sending her abroad. We have friends in London, and she will not feel so isolated there.”
They moved up to where Celia was standing—a tall and well-developed girl, with a quantity of red-gold hair, hazel eyes, and fair complexion. She had a short high-bridged nose, and a sweet refined mouth. Her half-brother had once painted her as Hypatia; her features were distinctly Grecian in type.
She turned round at their approach, and extended her hand to the new-comer with a cordial greeting.
Geoffrey Milnes was the son of the Vicar of Durlston, and junior partner of the chief doctor in the town. He was one of Herbert Karne’s most intimate friends, and spent a good deal of his spare time at the Towers, where he had established himself as Celia’s accompanist-in-chief. He possessed the happy knack of being able to make himself useful in almost any capacity, and was always so eager to assist in any way he could, that it was quite a pleasure to accept his services.
Celia offered him a chair and a cup of tea. “What brings you here to-day?” she asked. “I thought you always spent Sunday with your father.”
“So I do,” he answered, nibbling a tiny piece of cake. “But I happened to be passing, and, hearing the music, I could not resist the temptation to look in. If you don’t want me, though, I’ll go away.”
“Of course I want you, and I am very pleased you have come,” she hastened to assure him. “Only you must think us such Sabbath-breakers.”
“Not at all. You had your Sunday yesterday. We cannot expect you to keep ours as well.”
“Yesterday was not our Sunday,” Celia corrected him with a smile. “We had our Sabbath yesterday, but our Sunday is to-day. I have heard so many people say that we keep our Sunday on Saturday. It sounds Irish to me.”
“It is rather silly, certainly,” he admitted. “But you see we generally connect Sunday with the Sabbath in our minds. What are you going to sing?” he added, as Celia selected some music from a portfolio. “Something of Schubert’s?”
He went to the piano and struck a few chords. His touch was light and facile, and he was an excellent accompanist on that account. Celia’s voice was a sweet and very pure soprano, and she already possessed remarkable power and flexibility for her age. She sang Beethoven’s “Kennst du das Land?” with expression and a pretty German accent. Her audience listened entranced. Some of the women put down their sewing; their vision was clouded by a mist of tears.
“You must not sing any more in the open air,” said Dr. Milnes, as he rose from the piano. “You will have to take very great care of your voice now that you have decided to become a professional singer. When are you going away?”
“On Thursday week,” she answered with a sigh. “The entrance examination at the Academy is on the Saturday following.”
“So soon!” he said regretfully. “And I suppose you will quite forget the unsophisticated Durlston people, when you are in the midst of the excitement of London life?”
“Indeed, I shall not,” she answered him earnestly. “I shall miss them all dreadfully, especially Herbert and—and you. I wanted Herbert to take a flat in London so that we could be together, but I cannot get him to leave Durlston. He thinks the factory people could not do without him, and he says that he cannot work anywhere but in his own studio. He is painting his big picture for the Royal Academy, you know.”
“Yes; I shall have to look well after him, or he will knock himself up, as he did when he was painting his ‘Dawn of Love.’ He allows his pictures to prey upon his mind, and an attack of insomnia is the usual consequence.”
Celia was about to reply, but the factory people were beginning to disperse, and their conversation was interrupted.
A little boy ran up to say good-bye. “You promised me a penny if I took all my medicine last week, Dr. Milnes,” he said, looking up into Geoffrey’s eyes with an anxious expression on his little Jewish face. “I’ve tooked all that nasty stuff, so I’ve come for my penny, please.”
Geoffrey felt in his pockets, but no money was forthcoming.
“I never pay my debts on Sunday, young man,” he said with mock gravity. “I am sorry, but I have no change. Can’t you wait until to-morrow, when, if you present your bill, it will be settled in due course?”
The child looked bewildered, and considered a moment. “If I wait till to-morrow, you ought to give me something extra,” he remarked at length; and then, as the doctor did not answer, “Make it tuppence,” he added persuasively, “I’ve waited a week already!”
“One hundred per cent. interest? All right,” agreed Geoffrey; and the boy went away perfectly happy.
“That boy will get on in the world,” observed Celia, smiling: “he has what Americans call an ‘eye to the main chance.’”
“I think we most of us have,” said the young doctor, thoughtfully, “only we don’t like to admit it, even to ourselves.”
“But some people possess it in a more marked degree than others,” she pursued, bending down to kiss a little dark-eyed maiden of two years old. “My people, for instance, are noted for their shrewdness. One seldom finds a Jew who is not a good man of business, and therefore people—Christian people—are inclined to think that every Jew must of necessity be a Shylock. Do you know, I can never quite forgive Shakespeare for creating such a character?”
“Why not? Shylock was a type of an avaricious money-lender, and there are many such, even in the present day. And a typical character, in order to make an impression, is bound to be overdrawn. I am sure that Shakespeare was not out of sympathy with the Jews. Do you not remember the famous speech—‘Hath not a Jew eyes,’ etc.? And then there was Shylock’s daughter Jessica, a sweet and lovable Jewish girl.”
He paused, suddenly recollecting that he was treading on somewhat dangerous ground, for Celia’s father, Bernie Franks, was a well-known Capetown financier and former money-lender, and his reputation was not of the best. Nevertheless, Bernie Frank’s daughter was, like Jessica, a sweet and lovable girl. Geoffrey Milnes thought her the sweetest girl in the world, but he had not the courage to tell her so. He had allowed himself to fall in love with her, knowing that such a love was quite hopeless, and could only cause them both unhappiness and pain. There was the barrier of race and faith between them, and he knew that neither his people nor hers would sanction their marriage, even if Celia really loved him—and he was not sure that such was the case.
The church bells were ringing for Evensong, and Geoffrey was obliged to take his leave.
Herbert Karne accompanied him part of his way, and Celia went into the house singing blithely. She, at least, was perfectly heart-whole as yet.
The studio at the Towers was built on elevated ground at the north side of the house; and was approached by a short flight of steps leading from the hall. From where the artist sat at his easel, he could obtain a bird’s-eye view of Durlston, which consisted of chimney-pots and church spires, relieved by a small park in the centre of the town, with grassy fields surrounding it; and, beyond that, the smoky haze of a manufacturing city.
There was not much in the prospect from which to derive inspiration, but it was all-sufficient for Herbert Karne. He liked to look up from his picture and note the varying aspect of his garden at the different seasons of the year. There was always something new to see and admire, for Nature is ever-changing, and Herbert knew of every bud that blossomed, and every flower that bloomed.
It was autumn now, the season of decay. The richly tinted leaves were falling fast, and made quite a thick carpet on the gravelled paths. The trees, which but a few months ago had been so fresh and green, were adopting sombre hues of golden-brown. Some of them were already bare, and waved their gaunt arms in the breeze as though in warning. “Life and youth are short,” they seemed to say, “and all must die.”
The artist’s brain was busy as he worked. He cast his mind back to the time of his mother’s death, some twelve years ago. Her second marriage had not been a success, for Bernie Franks had never properly understood her refined and gentle nature; so that when, attacked by the money-making fever, he went off to Johannesburg to make his fortune, his wife, on the plea of delicate health, remained at home with her two children.
She never saw him again, for he enjoyed life out in South Africa so much, that he would not trouble to come home, even when he knew that she was ill. When she died, he wrote for little Celia to come out to him, but changed his mind before the next mail, and wrote again, saying that her coming would greatly inconvenience him, and asking Herbert to find a boarding-school for her.
Karne was studying art in Paris at the time, but he returned to England before the funeral, and, in accordance with his mother’s last wish, took charge of his little half-sister. He and Celia were devoted to each other, and the child begged so hard not to be sent away from him to boarding-school, that he engaged a housekeeper whom his mother had known, and sent the little girl to a high school. Her education became his greatest care; and when she showed marked ability for music, he had her taught by one of the cleverest professors in the county, in order to have her talent developed in the best way possible.
And now she had come to womanhood, and was anxious to spread her wings and see a little more of the world. Her teacher, Professor Bemberger, had imbued her with the idea that, with a voice like hers, it would be a thousand pities if she did not become a professional singer. He made her dissatisfied with her quiet life at Durlston; it was tame and dull, he said. In London, she would live, not vegetate; and in glowing terms he described what her life as a successful singer would be.
Her half-brother received the idea with disfavour. Celia had no need to earn money by her voice, he said, for she was the daughter of a wealthy man; and in professional life there was disappointment to be met with, as well as success. He painted the reverse side of the picture, the hard work and many worrying details which must of necessity arise; but Celia would not be discouraged, and, as she had so set her heart on it, he reluctantly gave his consent. Now, however, that her going was decided, and everything definitely arranged, he wondered if he had done right after all.
Celia, besides being an accomplished musician, was a beautiful and winsome girl, and although not altogether lacking in savoir faire, possessed very little knowledge of the world. Might not her beauty prove a danger to her in her new life? Hitherto she had been carefully guarded, for her brother had himself chosen her friends, and her tastes and ideas had been led in the right direction. Was he wise in sending her away from his influence, where she would come into contact with all sorts and conditions of people, and must inevitably pick up fresh ideas of evil as well as good?
He was so engrossed with these thoughts that he did not notice the click of the latch as a lady opened the French window from without, and only when he heard the rustle of silken skirts was he made aware of her presence. She was a very daintily clad little woman, with a bright face and vivacious manner. Her blue eyes sparkled with kindliness, and her small mouth betokened a keen sense of humour.
Lady Marjorie Stonor may have possessed a great many faults, but her worst enemy could not have accused her of being dull. She was in the habit of dropping in at the Towers when she knew that she would find the artist at work, and although she disturbed him seriously with her light chatter, Herbert could not but be glad to see her, for she had helped him a good deal with his work amongst the factory people, and was one of Celia’s greatest friends.
He rose to greet her, and she established herself comfortably in a low wicker chair. She had come, she said, firstly to bring him an order from the county hospital for one of the factory men, and secondly to discuss Celia’s future. She was anxious to know if Mr. Karne were aware that all the Durlston people were anticipating Celia’s engagement to Dr. Geoffrey Milnes!
Mr. Karne was not aware of it; he was most astonished; he had never dreamt of such a thing. He turned round and confronted his interlocutor with a look of consternation. How on earth could such a rumour have got about?
Lady Marjorie gave vent to a rippling laugh of amusement.
“Oh, you men!” she exclaimed. “You are as blind as bats, and have no more perception than a rhinoceros! You have allowed Celia to see Geoffrey Milnes constantly, to ride with him, drive with him, and sing with him. He is a nice young fellow, and she is a beautiful girl, and yet you are surprised that they should fall in love with each other. Do you mean to say, seriously, that you have never thought of such a contingency, Mr. Karne?”
“Indeed, I have not,” he answered with contracted brows. “I am very grieved indeed, if such is the case, for nothing but trouble can come of it; but I think and hope that you are mistaken, Lady Marjorie. If I had had the faintest idea of such a thing, I should have put a stop to their intimacy long ago.”
“But why?” she asked eagerly. “He is only a country doctor, it is true, and has no brilliant prospects, but if they really love each other——”
“You forget that Celia is a Jewess,” he interposed gravely, “and that Dr. Milnes is the son of a Christian clergyman. Do you think that, much as the vicar likes Celia, he would approve of his son’s marriage with one whom he terms an unbeliever? And even should he approve, I should not do so, for I think most emphatically that mixed marriages are a mistake.”
Lady Marjorie’s blue eyes were quite troubled. “I don’t know about that,” she said musingly. “My dear husband was a Roman Catholic and I am a Protestant, yet we never had a single quarrel over religion; and he was a man with peculiar views, you know. I dare say you remember that, when he died, I had to send his heart to be buried in Jerusalem—that was just one of his religious fads, and he had many more, poor dear.” She paused a moment to raise a diminutive lace handkerchief to her eyes, and then added cheerfully, “But I let him go his way, and I went mine, and we were very happy together.”
“Yes, but in this case there is a difference of race as well as religion. Celia is not prejudiced in any way, nevertheless she would find many little things that would go against the grain, so to speak, and offend her inborn Jewish instincts. I do not think there can be perfect unity between a Christian husband and a Jewish wife, or vice versâ; there are bound to be certain jars for which neither is to blame.”
Lady Marjorie moved her position, so that he could not see her face.
“If you really loved a woman,” she said in a low voice, “it would not matter to you if she were a Heathen Chinee. Love knows neither nationality nor creed. Besides, Celia is not a Jewish Jewess, you know.”
“More’s the pity,” he answered, as he rose and paced the room. “I am afraid that I have not quite done my duty in allowing her to grow up without any Jewish society and influence other than my own. However, I am sending her to stay with an orthodox Jewish family in Maida Vale, where she will see more of Jewish home and social life than she has ever done before.”
He ceased speaking abruptly as the girl herself made her appearance. Her eyes were bright, and there was a slight flush on her cheeks. She sank on to a chair with an air of relief, for she had been for a long walk and was tired.
Lady Marjorie greeted her with warmth. “So you are going to leave us, naughty girl!” she said affectionately. “I hope that when you have become a second Patti, you will not forget old friends.”
Celia laughed merrily. “Oh no, I won’t forget you,” she answered lightly. “Besides, I am going to make my début at your ‘At Home,’ you know.”
“Yes, that’s right. I shall be in town at the end of April, and shall quite enjoy being the first to ‘discover’ the coming singer.”
“I don’t suppose she will be allowed to sing in public for several years yet,” said Herbert, doubtfully. “There is a great deal of hard work to be gone through first.”
Celia made a little grimace. “Herbert is a dreadful damper,” she said with a pout. “I don’t believe he wants me to go.”
“Ah well, he will miss you, dear,” said Lady Marjorie, kindly. “There will be no one to look after him when you are gone.”
“He ought to get married,” suggested the girl with a smile. “A wife is just the very thing he wants. I wish you would persuade him to look out for one, Lady Marjie.”
There was an awkward pause. Herbert grew crimson and embarrassed; and Lady Marjorie bent down to stroke the dog which lay at her feet.
Celia looked from one to the other in surprise, whilst a new thought came into her mind. Had she hit upon the true reason of Lady Marjorie’s constant visits to the Towers, and her interest in Herbert’s work at the factory, she wondered? True, Lady Marjorie had professed to be very fond of her husband, but he had been much older than herself; whereas Herbert was about her own age, and they had many tastes in common.
She thought she had better change the subject, and showed her friend a jewel case which had just been given her. It contained a gold brooch, the pattern of which was two hearts entwined, with a ruby set in the apex of each.
“Who gave you this?” asked Lady Marjorie, with a significant glance at Herbert Karne. “It is very pretty.”
“Dr. Milnes gave it to me for a keepsake,” she answered frankly. “Was it not kind of him?”
“Yes, very. I suppose you will prize it highly? You like Dr. Milnes, don’t you, Celia?”
“Oh yes, Geoffrey is a nice boy,” she replied, looking at them both quite innocently. “He is a great friend of Herbert’s and mine.”
Herbert Karne was greatly disturbed by what Lady Marjorie had told him; and he was vexed with himself for not having foreseen the possible consequences of Dr. Milnes’ frequent visits to the Towers. Now that he came to think of it, there were several little lover-like attentions which Geoffrey had paid to his sister before his very eyes, and he had been so dense that he had never noticed them before. He attempted to find out now how far the mischief had gone, and if any understanding had taken place between the two. He scarcely cared to ask Celia outright, for if Lady Marjorie were, after all, mistaken, he did not want even to suggest to the girl that such might be the case. He could hardly bring himself to believe that Celia would think of becoming engaged without having first consulted him, for she was of an open and confiding nature, and knew quite well that her half-brother was her best and truest friend.
The next few days passed like lightning, for Celia had a great deal to do and several farewell visits to pay. She began her packing several days in advance, assisted by her bosom friend Gladys Milnes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons. Gladys hated packing unless she were going away herself, and the only service she rendered was to sit on the top of the trunks when they were full, and to relieve Celia of some of the chocolate which Herbert had brought back from Paris. Herbert came upstairs occasionally to see how they were getting on, and found the two girls in a state of great excitement. Either they were squabbling about what should be taken or left behind, or else they were giggling over something quite absurd, or else they were in tears at the thought of parting; and the ways of girls being past his understanding, he decided to leave them severely alone.
Dr. Milnes had been to Manchester for a few days, and only arrived home the day before Celia’s departure, when they met him at a little dinner-party at Durlston House, the residence of Lady Marjorie Stonor.
Celia was not in the drawing-room when he arrived, for she had gone up to say good night to Lady Marjorie’s little boy, Bobbie; but when she did make her appearance, looking very charming in a gown of the palest shade of blue, Geoffrey pounced upon her immediately, as was his wont, and, drawing her aside into a small alcove, they engaged in an animated conversation.
Herbert Karne watched them with some disapproval, for, however much he liked Dr. Milnes as a friend, he scarcely cared to regard him in the light of Celia’s lover. When dinner was over, he invited him to have a hundred up in the billiard-room before they rejoined the ladies, and Geoffrey, although a little bit surprised, readily agreed. The artist, however, had not the slightest desire for a game, and, after knocking the balls aimlessly about, put down his cue, and meditatively lit a cigar.
“I say, old man, I want to ask you a straight question,” he said; “will you give me a straight answer?”
Geoffrey Milnes looked surprised. “Certainly, if I can,” he replied, as he struck a match. “What is it? Fire away.”
“Well, it’s simply this. Have you been talking any nonsense to my sister?”
Geoffrey coloured up. “It depends on what you consider nonsense,” he replied. “Our conversations are not often of a weighty description, I admit, but——” He finished off with a shrug.
“You know what I mean,” broke in Karne, impatiently. “It has been brought to my knowledge that you have been indulging in a flirtation with Celia. I simply want to know if there is any truth in it or not?”
The young doctor looked him straight in the eyes. “There is no truth in it whatsoever,” he answered. “I hate flirtation, for it is not only in bad taste, but it is cruel also, and I never go in for it in the slightest degree. But as we are on the subject, Karne, I may as well tell you that I do love your sister very dearly—she is the one girl in the world for me; and, if all goes well, I hope, some day, to win her for my wife.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.” Herbert threw down his cigar, and leant against the mantelpiece. “Listen to me, Geoffrey. You are an old friend of mine, and I like you; I don’t know of any fellow that I like better, so I want you to take what I am going to say in good part. Celia is a pretty girl and a thoroughly good girl, but she would not be a suitable wife for you. Firstly, you are a country doctor, and, as the son of the Vicar of Durlston, you have certain social and parochial duties to fulfil, in the performance of which your wife should materially assist. Celia could not do this—she is not adapted to it; and when she has tasted professional and social life in London, I am quite sure that she will not be content to rusticate as a country doctor’s wife. There is no offence meant, Geoff, of course.”
“But I hope I shall not always be a country doctor,” interposed the young man, quickly. “I am not without ambition, Karne, and I mean to try and work myself up to the top of my profession. Besides, as you know, my uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, practises in Harley Street. He is getting old now, and has given me every reason to believe that I shall step into his shoes when he finds that his energies are flagging. I should not dream of asking Celia to become my wife until my position was assured.”
“I suppose you know that Celia will inherit a considerable fortune at her father’s death?” asked Herbert, as he watched the other’s face keenly. “Bernie Franks is one of the richest men at the Cape, and that is saying a good deal.”
Geoffrey’s countenance lengthened, and he puffed away vigorously at his cigar.
“I did not know of it, or if I did know it I had forgotten,” he said gloomily. “Of course that makes it harder for me. With wealth as well as beauty and talent, Celia can wed some one in a much higher position than I can ever hope to attain. This is your chief objection, I suppose, Karne? It was kind of you not to tell it me in so many words.”
Herbert ignored the last remark. “Another thing,” he pursued earnestly, “Celia is a true Jewess by faith as well as by race, and you are, so far as I know, a devout and earnest Christian. I contend that there cannot be absolute unity ’twixt husband and wife when difference of religious opinions exists between them. Of course you might endeavour to convert Celia to your own faith, but I do not think you would succeed. We Jews have deeply rooted opinions—call them prejudices if you will,—and we instinctively cling to the faith of our ancestors. However lax we may be in the performance of our religious duties, we like to remember that, in spite of everything that tends to draw us away from Judaism, we still are Jews, and we set our faces hard against any attempt at our conversion.”
“You may be sure that I should respect Celia’s religious beliefs, and I should certainly not try to convince her otherwise against her will,” responded Geoffrey. “I believe that conversion should be voluntary; it is seldom sincere and lasting when brought about by coercion or persuasion. And as for wishing Celia to become a Christian from motives of expediency, you ought to know me better than that, Karne.”
He paused. From the drawing-room there arose the sound of sweet music. His sister Gladys was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat, and although her rendering of it was not at all Chopinesque, and her technique faulty, her playing was not without charm. They listened in silence until the last note died away, and each was busy with his own thoughts.
“Are you sure that Celia reciprocates your feelings of affection?” asked the artist, suddenly. “I know that she likes you very much indeed, but I doubt whether she has ever considered you as a possible lover.”
“That I don’t know,” said Geoffrey, with a sigh. “I wanted to find out before she went away.”
“Well, the best advice I can give you is to wait a while. You are both young, and have your lives before you. If you spoke to Celia now, you would unsettle her mind, and perhaps cause her pain. I want her to start out on her musical career without anything to worry her, so that she may give her whole attention to her studies. It will be much better for both of you to wait a few years. When Celia has met more people and has seen a little more of the world, she will be better able to judge whether she loves you or not; and, you know, love that will not stand the test of time and separation is not real love at all.”
“Yes, that’s all very well; but if I let Celia go without a word, she may think that I am indifferent to her. I feel that if I do not come to some understanding with her now, while her heart is free and she is unspoilt by flattery and adulation, I may lose her for ever. You speak so coolly, Karne. Have you never had a love-affair of your own? Cannot you understand how I feel?”
He spoke impetuously, and did not stop to think that his question was, perhaps, a presumptuous one. Although they had been friends for so long a time, Herbert had never been confidential so for as his affaires du cœur were concerned, and love was a subject he had hitherto tabooed. Yet to his nature love was a necessary adjunct, and without it his life would have been incomplete.
“My love affair was a fiasco,” he said slowly, while his face assumed a hard expression. “It is a painful subject to me, Geoffrey, and that is why I have never spoken about it. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you all, but not now. I am paying the penalty of it even yet; and therefore I am doubly anxious that Celia’s happiness should be assured. It is much better, so much better, to wait a few short years, than to make a lifelong mistake such as mine has been.”
Geoffrey Milnes was surprised and moved; and his face lit up with ready sympathy. He knew that there was some secret at the back of Herbert Karne’s life, some trouble that was continually weighing him down: and though he would have been glad to have found out what it was, so that, if possible, he might have helped his friend, he had the tact not to press for his confidence just then, but to wait until it was voluntarily given.
The drawing-room door was opened, and they heard the hum of voices on the stairs. Celia’s silvery laugh floated towards them; she was coming up to search for the deserters.
“Well, I will take your advice and say nothing to Celia at present,” Geoffrey said hurriedly, as he handled his cue and sent the balls rolling over the table. “But I am in earnest, Karne, and I shall remind you of this at some future time.”
The door was opened sharply, and Gladys Milnes entered with a bounce.
“There they are, the truants!” she exclaimed, as Celia followed more leisurely. “We all think it extremely rude of you to desert us in this unchivalrous manner. Lady Marjorie wants you to come and hear Miss Stannard recite. It’s something very tragic, so Celia and I thought we had better take our leave in case we were overcome with our emotions. The last time we heard her recite, we exploded in the middle of it, and she hasn’t forgiven us yet. Father said it was very bad manners, but we couldn’t help it, for Miss Stannard’s tragic recitations are too funny for anything. Come on, Geoff, you can sit just inside the drawing-room near the door, and Celia and I will stand outside and pull faces at you. I bet you anything we’ll make you laugh, especially when Miss Stannard comes to the part about the ‘ruddy gore,’ and the ‘br-r-reaking hear-r-rt.’ Won’t we, Celia?”
“Don’t be so silly, Gladys,” admonished her brother severely; “you get more babyish every day.”
He switched off the electric light, and they passed down the shallow staircase.
Miss Stannard had already begun her recitation, and, not wishing to disturb her, they lingered in the hall. Celia seated herself on the stairs with her feet resting on the lowest step, and, as a natural consequence, Geoffrey followed suit. He rested his chin on his hands, and heaved a deep sigh. It seemed so very hard to have to part with Celia without having told her of what was in his heart, when perhaps some other fellow in London would snap her up before she had time to look round. He had half a mind to tell her everything there and then, in spite of what Herbert had said, but he managed to restrain his desire, and contented himself with looking very forlorn instead.
Celia glanced at him curiously. “Whatever is the matter with you, Geoffrey?” she whispered. “You are sighing like some love-sick swain.”
“Supposing I were a love-sick swain,” he answered, with a faint attempt at a smile; “what would you advise me to do?”
“I scarcely know,” she returned without embarrassment. “But I will give you an antidote which Major Denham told me. It is to go and see your best girl before breakfast one morning when she does not expect you, and her hair is in curl-papers, and she is wearing a dowdy blouse. Major Denham says that a little touch of prosaic realism like that is the best thing to counteract the effect of romantic sentiment. He has found it a most efficient cure himself.”
“Yes, but if my best girl never wears curl-papers or a dowdy blouse, what then?”
Celia rose to join the others in the drawing-room. “In that case I’m afraid I cannot advise you,” she said, with a roguish glance from under her long lashes. “But if you consult Major Denham, perhaps he will be able to tell you what to do.”