CHAPTER V

THE FRIEDBERGS OF MAIDA VALE

They were quite delighted with Celia when she came. She was so different to what they had imagined her to be, and her sweet face and gentle manners quite won their hearts. They did all they could to put her at her ease, and very soon came to look upon her as one of the family; but Celia was shy and reserved at first, and it took her some time to become accustomed to the novelty of her surroundings.

Herbert Karne brought her to town, and stayed for a few days in order to go with her to the entrance examination at the Academy. The principal was delighted with her voice, and arranged for her to go to M. Emil Lambert, the eminent professor of singing. She was also to be taught elocution, pianoforte, harmony, and counterpoint, and was to attend the various classes and lectures in connection with the Academy curriculum. Herbert was glad that her time would be so fully occupied, for she would have no opportunity for feeling the pain of separation.

“You will be a musician to your finger tips by the time you have finished studying,” he said, as they came away.

Mrs. Friedberg gave Celia a sitting-room at the top of the house, where she could practise without the least fear of being disturbed. It was light and cheerful, and looked out upon the front of the road. Celia liked to sit by the window and watch the omnibuses pass; and she would speculate as to where all the passengers were going. The life and movement in the streets quite fascinated her: it was so entirely different from the quiet seclusion of the Towers.

When Herbert had gone, and her first attack of homesickness had been overcome, the girl amused herself by unpacking and arranging some of the little treasures she had brought from Durlston. The room looked more homelike when her cuckoo-clock was on the mantelpiece, and her own little knick-knacks were arranged on the sideboard. Then there were her numerous books and music, which, with their familiar bindings, greeted her like old friends as she sorted and put them in their places.

The piano had been placed against the wall, but Celia had it moved into the centre of the room; and draped the back of it with stiff ivory silk, on the centre of which was a beautiful representation of St. Cecilia at the organ, the handiwork of her brother.

The appearance of the room was quite transformed by the time she had finished, and she called Lottie Friedberg up to see the changes she had made. A large painting of Herbert Karne, done by himself, rested on an easel of carved oak, and close by was a panel portrait, in the Rembrandt style, of Lady Marjorie Stonor in evening dress. Celia had instinctively placed these two in close proximity to each other, though she did not know why she had done so. There were other pictures and paintings in evidence as well, and Lottie examined them all with keen interest.

“That’s rather a nice-looking fellow,” she observed, pausing before a cabinet photograph in a silver frame; “he looks like an actor, and his eyes are just a wee bit like George Alexander’s, don’t you think so?”

Celia smiled. “I don’t know Mr. Alexander, so I can’t say,” she returned. “But this gentleman does not belong to the dramatic profession. He is a doctor—a great friend of my brother’s.”

“I suppose you met a good many Christian johnnies in Durlston, didn’t you?” queried Lottie, as she turned over the pages of an autograph album. “We don’t see many here. Ma doesn’t like them, because, as they are no good for matrimonial purposes, she thinks it is not much use knowing them. There’s one lives next door, Harold Brooke, and we sometimes meet him at the Earls Court Exhibition with some more fellows. Maud and I got stuck on the big wheel with them once, for more than an hour, and Ma was down below shouting up to us, and looking as wild as can be. Oh, it was such a lark, I can tell you! I must introduce you to the Brookes. Harold is rather good fun, and not so insipid as most goyeshka[2] fellows, but he’s got two stuck-up sisters, and they always pass us by with their noses in the air—because we happen to be Jews, I suppose. They have a cousin staying with them, Enid Wilton, who is rather a nice girl. She is studying music at the Academy, too, so I expect you will meet her there.”

She sat down at the piano, and began to strum a popular ditty. Lottie always made it a rule to learn the latest song directly it came out; she would have considered it quite a crime to have played anything belonging to one of last season’s comic operas.

Celia watched her as she played. She was a well-built girl of eighteen, with very dark hair and eyes, a slightly aquiline nose, and full red lips. Her forehead was low, and not particularly intelligent, and her mouth indicated sensuality. She wore a number of bangles at her wrists, which jingled and knocked against the keyboard as she played. The jingle quite irritated Celia, and she was not sorry when the gong sounded somewhere in the lower regions for supper, and Lottie closed the piano with a bang.

The two girls went downstairs arm-in-arm. Lottie seemed inclined to be very friendly, and showed her affection in a somewhat demonstrative manner.

As they were entering the dining-room, Mr. Friedberg passed in just before them, rubbing his hands dry from his ceremonial ablutions, and mumbling some prayers as he did so. Then he took some bread and dipped it in salt, whilst he said the Hebrew grace, after which he took his seat at the supper table. He was a short thick-set man with a grey beard; and he habitually wore a black velvet skull-cap.

The other members of the family sat down with a great deal of chatter, and minus the grace. Mrs. Friedberg immediately collared the eldest boy, Montie, and ungently pushed him out of the room.

“Go upstairs and wash your hands, you lazy young jackanapes!” she called out indignantly. “And take Victor with you, and ask Mary for a clean collar. How dare you come to table looking like chimney-sweeps! I am quite ashamed of them,” she added, turning to Celia, apologetically. “They give me more trouble than all the girls put together.”

She took her place at the head of the table, and began to carve some smoked beef; whilst Maud, her eldest unmarried daughter, who sat at the other end, served the boys to liberal helpings of cold fried fish.

There was very little resemblance between Maud and her mother, for Mrs. Friedberg was stout and florid, with prominent cheek-bones and a loud high-pitched voice. Maud, on the contrary, was thin, and of insignificant appearance. Her eyebrows receded from her eyes, and made her look as if she had once been surprised and had never quite recovered from it; and she was in the habit of going about with her mouth open.

Dinah, the youngest girl, was the prettiest of the bunch; for her eyes were large and expressive, and she could smile very naïvely on occasion. She had long cork-screw curls, which reached almost to her waist and were tied by a piece of ribbon. These curls were the plague of her life, for the boys could never resist the temptation to pull them whenever they approached her vicinity, and a quarrel nearly always ensued.

Celia sat between Victor and Lottie, much to the former’s discomfort, for he was shy and awkward in the presence of a stranger. Mrs. Friedberg watched him with the eyes of a ferret, and worried him with so many “don’ts” that the poor boy became quite flustered, and accidentally upset a glass of claret over Celia’s dress. His mother was furious, and broke into a tirade of wrath, though Celia assured her that her skirt was an old one, and that it was not of the slightest consequence. Victor subsided under the table, and boohooed lustily; and although Celia felt very sorry for him, she did not like to interfere.

She found the social amenities of family life a little bit trying at first, for she was so unused to anything of the sort. The Friedbergs as a family possessed exuberant spirits, and did not mind telling each other home-truths, which had the effect of making Celia feel exceedingly uncomfortable. She often thought they were quarrelling, when in reality they were only indulging in affectionate banter, but there had never been anything of the kind between her half-brother and herself, and she was not able to understand it.

As the meal progressed, she noticed that each piece of bread and butter which she transferred to her own plate, Lottie immediately turned over, with the buttered side downwards. Celia was quite mystified, until Lottie told her the reason after supper, when they were out for a stroll in the garden.

“You must have thought it very rude of me to touch your bread,” she said laughingly. “But I was so anxious to prevent Pa from seeing the butter. Of course you can do as you like, and have butter with meat if you want it; but Pa is so particular, and it would have upset him dreadfully if he had noticed it.”

Celia was genuinely surprised. “How stupid of me!” she exclaimed, quite vexed with herself. “It never occurred to me to consider that at all. Herbert and I do not observe the Jewish dietary and ceremonial laws, so you must excuse any blunders I may make.”

“But surely you keep a Jewish house, don’t you?” asked Di, looking quite shocked. “I suppose you have kosher[3] food, and all that; though I should think it must be rather difficult to procure in a little place like Durlston?”

Celia shook her head. “No, we don’t keep what you call a Jewish house,” she answered frankly, “although we could do so if we wished, for there is a Jewish provision shop in Durlston, where all the people at Mendel’s factory buy their things. Whenever we give an entertainment for the factory people, we always provide kosher food for them, otherwise they wouldn’t come; but we never trouble about it for ourselves. You see, Herbert does not believe in it,” she added, almost apologetically. “And he is so sincere, that he would not keep it up simply for old association’s sake.”

Di and Lottie exchanged glances. They began to foresee trouble; for unless Celia intended to conform to their customs, there would be constant dissension in the house. They knew their father so well. He was an orthodox Jew of the old school, and had no patience with the new-fashioned way of making religion fit in with the usages of modern Jewish society. His wife and children, however, held entirely different ideas; and in order to satisfy him as to their vigilance in religious duties, they were obliged to have recourse to all kinds of petty deceits. They knew exactly how far they could bamboozle him without running the risk of detection; for woe betide any member of the family whom Mr. Friedberg found disregarding some item of the law. Lottie wondered what course her father would adopt where Celia was concerned. He certainly had no right to interfere with her, so long as she did not offend his religious susceptibilities in any way; but, in the matter of ceremonial religion, he was so arbitrary that he would most probably take it upon himself to act as her mentor. She deemed it advisable to give Celia a few hints about her father’s rigid surveillance, and how best to avoid it; but Dinah interposed, and skilfully changed the subject, for she thought that her sister was telling a little more than was necessary.

They had said enough between them, however, to set Celia thinking; and by the time she retired to rest that night, she had made up her mind, that neither Mr. Friedberg nor any one else should ever become the keeper of her conscience.

CHAPTER VI

AN ACADEMY STUDENT

She gradually came to divide these girl critics into two classes—those who raved over the latest long-haired musician and designated him as “such an artist, don’t you know!” and those belonging to the nil admirari set, who methodically pulled to pieces every one who possessed more talent than themselves. Celia herself was prepared at that time to admire everybody and everything. She had not yet overcome her first feeling of awe at actually having become an Academy student—of being able to meet in person those “lions” of the musical profession, whom hitherto she had regarded but as names. She sat in the concert-room, and listened to the orchestra almost reverently, for there was no saying how many embryo Beethovens and Mozarts there might not be among that medley of players. Then she managed to lose herself in the labyrinth of passages with which the Academy abounds, and was obliged to ask a dyspeptic-looking youth the way back to the entrance hall. He was lanky and narrow-shouldered, but he might be a genius for all that—perhaps a second Wagner even,—so Celia addressed him with respect accordingly.

Her first singing-lesson—to which she had looked forward with much trepidation—was not such an ordeal as she had expected it to be. She had been told that Lambert was a bully and a boor; and when she noticed the pupil who came before her quit the room in tears, her spirits sank to zero. Lambert, however, received Celia quite graciously, and leered at her in a manner which he seemed to consider irresistible. He was a little man with shaggy white hair, and a face reminiscent of a bull terrier; and he had a way of grunting his remarks, which considerably strengthened the canine effect of his personality.

Had Celia been of a more nervous temperament, she would certainly have been disconcerted by his repeated attempts to flurry her, but his caustic remarks only served to put her on her mettle, and she was determined not to be over-awed.

“Who did you say was your master?” he asked for the fourth time, as she prepared to take her leave. “Bemberger? H’m. Don’t think much of his method. Too much tremolo; sounds like shaking a water-bottle. Practise those exercises I gave you; don’t attempt a song for six months. Good-day!”

Celia was aghast. Not attempt a song for six months. What a decree! All her visions of fame as a successful singer melted into thin air; she was a humble little student at the bottom of the ladder, and nothing more.

Her fellow-pupils, however, thought she had got on capitally. She could not possibly have expected Lambert to present her with a laurel wreath straight off, they said; and as he had not thrown the music at her, or told her to go and keep a tripe and trotters shop in preference to entering the musical profession, as he had been known to do to others, they thought she had done very well.

“Wait until you’ve seen him in a royal rage, my dear!” said one of them, encouragingly. “He was just as mild as butter to-day.”

In spite of her reserve, Celia had already made several friends at the Academy. There were half a dozen little cliques of girls—either vocalists, pianists, or violinists—who pretended to adore each other, and formed a mutual admiration society amongst themselves. They competed for the same prizes and scholarships; and although the lucky winners were congratulated and fêted by their associates, they were quite aware that behind it all lay a vast amount of jealousy and heart-burning.

Celia became the centre of one of these cliques by reason of her striking personality. Her fellow students would turn round and stare at her as she passed up and down the stairs, and, when she had gone, they would argue as to whether her hair was dyed and her complexion artificial. Then, when it became known that she was one of Lambert’s pupils, they vested her with a certain amount of prestige on that account, for Lambert only troubled to take exceptionally gifted vocalists.

One day, as she was coming up from her harmony lesson, trying not to look self-conscious under the keen scrutiny of her companions, one of the girls, also a Lambert pupil, accosted her, and, after having cross-examined her as to her name, age, and place of abode, introduced her to the clique of the “elect.” Celia found herself surrounded by would-be friends after that, and eventually became one of the most popular students at the Academy.

There was only one among all her numerous acquaintances, however, whom she ever considered a friend in the true sense of the word. This was Enid Wilton, the girl who was staying next door to the Friedbergs in Maida Vale.

Enid did not belong to the “elect,” for she was neither smart nor brilliant, but there was something so sweet and spirituelle about her, that Celia fell in love with her at their first introduction. Whenever the hours of their lessons tallied, the two girls went to and from the Academy together; and although neither of them was inclined to be communicative, they were in possession of each other’s family history before they had been acquainted a week. Enid was two years older than Celia, and the second daughter out of a family of eight. Her father was a solicitor, and lived near Brighton; and her eldest brother Ralph was curate at a poverty-stricken church in the East End of London. Mrs. Brooke, with whom she was staying, was her mother’s sister. Enid took Celia home with her one day to be introduced to her aunt and cousins, and, in due course, Celia received a formal invitation to Mrs. Brooke’s “At Home” on the first Wednesday in the month.

Celia wanted to take one of the girls with her when the day came round, but Maud and Di were otherwise engaged, and Lottie declined with thanks.

“I am not fond of the Brookes,” she said in explanation. “They are very cordial one day and snub us the next, and I don’t like people of that description. Besides, their ‘At Homes’ are so dreadfully stiff. I went once with Ma just after Adeline’s wedding. There were several visitors there, and nearly all the chairs were occupied, but Harold managed to find one for Ma. It was a stupid little spindle-legged thing—I believe the wicked boy chose it on purpose,—and directly Ma sat down, it went bang; you know Ma’s weight. Fortunately, she didn’t hurt herself; but her bodice was tight, and split at the seams, and her bonnet went all awry. She looked just as if she had been having a fight; and we both vowed that we would never go there again.”

So Celia went alone, and, although she was not of Mrs. Friedberg’s dimensions, she avoided the spindle-legged chairs and sat on the sofa, next to Enid Wilton, holding a diminutive cup of tea in one hand, and a minute piece of cake in the other.

The Brookes were freezingly polite at first, but unbent just a little when, in the course of conversation, they discovered that Celia was related to Mr. Herbert Karne, R.A., whose picture, “The Dawn of Love,” they had seen at the New Gallery last year. The younger Miss Brooke was quite enthusiastic about it, for she liked knowing celebrated people or their relatives. She herself possessed some little ability for painting, and showed Celia some plaques on which she had painted some impossible birds on the wing.

“I can really do better work than that,” she hastened to explain, as Celia did not appear to be overcome with admiration, “only the worst of it is that I feel most inspired in the middle of the night, when I am in bed, and mother does not like me to get up and paint then. By the time morning comes, I haven’t a single idea left.”

“That’s because you are such a geniass, Mildred,” said her brother Harold. “Geniuses are always supposed to burn the midnight oil, are they not, Miss Franks?”

“I really don’t know,” answered Celia. “My brother always works in the morning; but then, perhaps, he isn’t a genius.”

“I wish you would tell me all about Mr. Karne’s method of work,” said Miss Brooke, eagerly. “It is so very interesting to know the ideas of a well-known artist.”

“Herbert has written a little book on ‘Modern Art’ which may interest you. I believe I have a copy of it somewhere. I will look it out for you if you like,” returned Celia, always anxious to please.

Mildred Brooke effusively expressed her thanks; and that she might not forget her promise, Celia searched for the book directly she arrived home.

She did not know exactly where to look for it, but, after some amount of rummaging, found it at the bottom of a trunk, underneath a pile of old music. It was very dusty, and looked as if it had not seen daylight for some time. Celia dusted it carefully, and shook the leaves. As she did so, a small sheet of foreign writing-paper dropped out on to the floor. She picked it up and examined it. It was evidently a note of some description, but was not addressed to any one by name. The calligraphy was English in character but was barely legible, and the ink was faded. With difficulty Celia made out the following words:—

“9, Rue d’Alençon, Neuilly. Longchamps an utter frost. Auteuil ditto. Bonne Bouche a dead cert this time. Hurry up, old man, and send a hundred by return, or I come to England for change of air.—Ninette.”

She read it over twice, but could make nothing of it. To whom was it addressed, and who was “Ninette”? Ninette—the name seemed strangely familiar, yet she was unable to remember where or when she had heard it before. Perhaps Herbert had lent the book to somebody, and the note had been inserted as a bookmark. She would ask him about it some day, if she did not forget. Meanwhile she locked it away in her desk, and gave the book to Montie to take to Mildred Brooke.

Then she sat down to write a letter to her brother. Mrs. Friedberg had asked her if she intended to take a seat in the synagogue for the forthcoming Yomtovim,[4] and she wished to have Herbert’s advice. She was undecided whether to observe the holydays or not. Hitherto she had never done so, for lack of opportunity; but now that she was living with a Jewish family, within easy reach of several synagogues, she had no such excuse.

This was a matter which had caused her some serious thought of late. It was not only the question of keeping the approaching holydays, but of practising the Jewish faith as a whole. If, a month ago, anybody had asked her what religion she professed, she would have replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “Judaism.” She was not so sure now. She had come to the conclusion that, if she would be a true Jewess, she was bound to observe all the ceremonial laws, honestly and thoroughly. It would not do to keep some and reject the others. Either she must place herself under the yoke of the law, or she must cast it off altogether. The question was, which was right in the sight of God?

Herbert Karne answered her letter by return of post. “This is a matter in which you must decide for yourself, dear sis,” he wrote. “You know my views. I do not believe in revealed religion, according to the Pentateuch, at all; and still I call myself a Jew. I worship God only as I find Him in nature, in art, in all that is beautiful; this is the grandest of all creeds. If, however, you think that these Jewish ceremonial observances will help and comfort you, use them by all means, and get all the good you can out of them. If, on the other hand, you find them but meaningless and empty forms, do not submit to them under any consideration, but shake them off for ever. Whatever you do, Celia, be true, be sincere. Shun hypocrisy as you would a pest, for there is nothing more weakening to the whole moral and spiritual nature. At the same time, I do not want you wilfully to offend Mr. Friedberg’s religious susceptibilities; it is not at all necessary to tell every one what you think and believe. In any case, it will not hurt you to go to the synagogue on New Year’s Day, and the Day of Atonement. It will be a new experience for you, and if you have any religious feeling in you at all, you ought to be profoundly moved by the intensity and solemnity of the services. I have promised, as usual, to assist at the services for the men at Mendel’s factory on those days. It seems strange, but although my views are to them so heretical, they always ask me to give the lecture.”

He then passed on to other subjects, and asked several questions about her Academy work. Celia put the letter away, and went down to tell Mrs. Friedberg that she would like to have a seat in the synagogue for the holydays.

Mrs. Friedberg was pleased. “Lottie said you didn’t care about Yiddishkeit[5] at all,” she said. “But I think you do, don’t you, Celia?”

“Yes, I think I do,” answered the girl, slowly. “I am afraid that I have been very lax in the past, but I am going to try to be a true Jewess now.”

CHAPTER VII

ENTER—DAVID SALMON

“You see, it’s absolutely necessary that my girls should marry well,” Mrs. Friedberg said confidentially. “Business has been bad of late—there has been a slump in the trade, you know,—and Ben’s position is not what it used to be. Of course, I can’t expect them all to do as well as Adeline; but I must see that they are properly provided for. Otherwise, I am sure that there is no one I should like better for a son-in-law than you, Dave, having known your poor pa when he was a barmitzvah[6] boy, and you from the time you were eight days old.”

David Salmon smiled good-humouredly. He was a curly-headed young fellow of about five and twenty, with nothing but his good looks and easy-going temperament to recommend him. Mrs. Friedberg would have liked him very much as a husband for Maud or Lottie, had it not been for his unfortunate aptitude for spending money as quickly as he earned it.

He had just returned from South Africa, where, instead of making a fortune, as he had intended doing, he had lost the little money he had possessed. Yet he was not by any means despondent, for in the dim future there loomed forth largely, a hope—the substantial hope of an ample balance at the bankers, and immunity from certain blue documents which found their way to his address with irritating persistency.

On the strength of this hope, he played bluff on board ship with the nonchalance of a millionaire, and when it came to squaring up, proffered a gold nugget as security. The nugget was not his—it had been committed to his care by Bernie Franks, and was intended as a present for Bernie’s daughter,—but it brought him luck, and, by the time he landed at Southampton, he was over £30 in pocket.

He had never troubled to consider what he would have done if he had lost the nugget or part of its value. It was characteristic of David Salmon never to think of the consequences of any rash act of his. If he muddled into a scrape, he managed to muddle out of it again somehow; and always relied on his indomitable bounce to carry him through.

It was by means of a letter of introduction from Ben Friedberg, that he had made the acquaintance of Bernie Franks. The financier lived by himself in a house that was little more than a shanty, and subsisted on a sum which the least of his clerks would have considered very poor salary. Most people were of opinion that money-grabbing had turned his brain. He was certainly eccentric and miserly, and looked on all men with suspicion. David Salmon found it hard to convince him that he wanted nothing out of him, and that, although he possessed scarcely a brass farthing of his own, he would not accept a penny from the financier, either as a loan or as a gift. By dint of perseverance, he won himself into the old man’s good graces; and by the time he left the Cape, was quite satisfied with the result of their acquaintance. So far as actual money was concerned, he was not one penny the richer; but he had gained Bernie Frank’s consent to his marriage with his daughter Celia, and therein lay the fulfilment of his great hope.

“I should certainly have liked to marry one of your girls,” he said to Mrs. Friedberg; “but I’ve scarcely a sixpence to bless myself with, so of course I must marry some one with money. I regard it as almost providential that Celia Franks should be under your very roof. I hadn’t the slightest idea, when I left Capetown, that I should find her with you.”

“Yes, it is lucky for you, David,” returned Mrs. Friedberg, complacently. “You will find it much easier to do your courting here than you would if she were in Durlston. I am sure you have my best wishes, and I will do all I can to help you. I can’t say more than that, can I?”

“No, indeed not; and I’ll give you a very handsome present on my wedding-day. I shall be able to afford it then; for, however niggardly Bernie Franks may be about his own personal expenditure, he is generous enough where Celia is concerned. He has promised to give her a dowry of thirty thousand pounds—providing she marries a Jew; and there will be the prospect of a fortune at his death.”

“Providing she marries a Jew!” repeated Mrs. Friedberg, as she paused in the act of threading a needle. “That is a very sensible stipulation, and I think that Celia ought to be made aware of it. She has been talking a good deal about a young Christian fellow in Durlston—a doctor, I believe; I hope she hasn’t any idea of marrying him, though.”

“Do you think I shall have any difficulty in getting her consent to our engagement?” asked Salmon, somewhat anxiously. “You must remember that I don’t know a bit what sort of girl she is, and I haven’t even seen her yet.”

For answer, Mrs. Friedberg walked over to a console-table and lifted up a framed photograph. “There she is,” she said, handing it to her visitor. “She is a lovely girl, as you can see, and she will be a still more lovely woman. She has a good voice too—I believe she will make her mark in a few years’ time. You will have to mind your p’s and q’s, David, I am sure of that. Celia is not an ordinary girl, by any means, and she has curious ideas about some things. She seems to have been mixed up with a regular English churchy set of people in Durlston; you would scarcely take her for a Jewess.”

“Does she play solo whist?” he asked, as if that were a test.

“Not she. When we sit down to our game, she goes up to her own room and plays the piano, or moons about with a book of poetry. Do you know any poetry, Dave? If not, you had better learn a few yards.”

The young man made a grimace. He was not fond of poetry.

“Is she that kind of girl?” he said.

Mrs. Friedberg laughed. “I don’t know what ‘that kind of girl’ is like,” she answered. “But she is at home. You can come up and see her for yourself.”

She led the way upstairs, and David Salmon, with some curiosity, followed. The house was unusually quiet, for the boys and Dinah were at school. On the fourth landing she paused, out of breath.

“It’s like climbing up to heaven, isn’t it, Dave?” she panted. “I gave Celia a room up here, because the children make such a noise downstairs. She has her friend, Miss Wilton, with her; they study their music together. I hope they won’t mind being disturbed.”

She tapped lightly at the door facing the stairs, and, receiving no answer, opened it, and stood on the threshold. The two girls were kneeling at a low table at the far side of the room. Their fair heads were bent close together, and they appeared to be absorbed.

Suddenly Celia gave a sigh of relief.

“Got him!” she exclaimed jubilantly. “I knew I should be able to do it if I could only get him to jump.”

“So that is what you call studying,” said Mrs. Friedberg, preceding her visitor into the room. “We expected to find you both deep in the mysteries of harmony; and, instead of that, you are amusing yourselves on the floor. What on earth are you doing?”

Celia rose from her knees, and came forward smoothing her skirt.

“Playing tiddley-winks,” she answered promptly. “We were doing some counterpoint, but the canto fermo was a regular canto inferno, so we have given it up for to-day.”

David Salmon looked at her critically. Yes, she was undoubtedly a beautiful girl. Tall, erect, and graceful, her bearing had the effect of making him feel small and insignificant. And her hair—such wonderful hair! He wondered what its colour reminded him of; and, comically enough, could think of nothing else but Everton toffee. It was neither brown, nor auburn, nor golden; it was a blending of all three.

He glanced from her to Miss Wilton. She, also, was an attractive girl—she had splendid grey eyes; but her prettiness faded into mere insignificance when compared with the rich colouring of Celia’s hair and complexion.

Mrs. Friedberg introduced David to them both with some effusion. Celia gave him her hand, and favoured him with a smile which sent the blood coursing through his veins. It was quite a natural smile, disclosing a set of even white teeth, and there was a sweetness about it which was as fascinating as it was innocent. In after years, men came to regard her smile as a veritable danger-trap, but Celia herself was never conscious of its charm and power. She was genuinely pleased to see Mr. Salmon, and did not hesitate to tell him so. He had come straight from Capetown, and brought news of her father—that father whom she had almost relegated to the bygone era of her childhood, for he never came to see her and seldom wrote. She wanted to know all about him—how he looked, how he lived, and how he spoke; and David Salmon, with a great many mental reservations, answered her questions as clearly as he could.

Enid Wilton felt herself to be de trop; and would have left, but Celia absolutely refused to let her go.

David expressed a wish to be initiated into the game of tiddley-winks. It was a simple game, and required but little teaching, but he pretended to be very dense, and was a slow pupil. He was clumsy too, and his hand frequently came into contact with Celia’s, as he endeavoured to make his yellow counters spring into the cup.

Mrs. Friedberg watched them with a smile of gratification. David had evidently made a good impression, for Celia was more charming and vivacious than she had ever seen her as yet.

After the game was finished, he produced the gold nugget, which was carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. It had brought him luck, and he felt a little lingering regret in parting with it.

Mrs. Friedberg examined it with keen interest. “It must be worth a large sum,” she observed, turning it over. “What shall you do with it, Celia?”

“Keep it, I suppose,” she answered doubtfully. “It isn’t really of any use to me, but I shall value it as a present from my father. I can’t go about with it slung round my neck, can I?”

“You could realize on it,” suggested the young man. “I should think you would get quite £100 for it.”

“Yes; but Celia doesn’t want money,” put in Mrs. Friedberg. “Ben had better put it away in his safe for the present.”

The girl readily acquiesced; for except that the nugget came from her father, she felt no interest in it whatever. David Salmon half wished that he had delayed a little longer before giving it to her, for it was of much more use to him than it was to her. However, he had hopes of having it in his possession even yet, for when Celia was his fiancée, he would express the desire to keep it as a souvenir of his visit to Capetown, and of course she would be only too pleased to gratify such a wish.

He went home that evening well pleased with Celia and with himself. If she had been an ugly and ill-tempered old hag, he would have been willing to marry her just the same; but he was sincerely glad that, in addition to possessing a fortune, she was such an altogether charming girl. He saw that he would have to use some amount of tact during his courtship; it would never do to let her know that her money was of the slightest consideration, for instance; but he was confident that he would succeed in his undertaking; and already, in imagination, he beheld himself under the wedding canopy with Celia as his bride.

CHAPTER VIII

AT SYNAGOGUE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY

Very soon Celia began to treat him with the same frank cordiality with which she had delighted Dr. Geoffrey Milnes; yet there was a subtile difference. Geoffrey was intellectual, and more than her match as far as brain-power went, but she dominated him completely. David Salmon, on the contrary, was her inferior in intellectual power, yet his assertive personality overruled hers. The mere touch of his hand sent a thrill through her whole being; and by word and look he contrived to instil into her that sense of affinity which is usually the basis of love. He soon managed to discover her likings and aversions, and made it a rule to ratify all that she said. He encouraged her to speak on those subjects on which she thought deeply, and responded in such a way that she felt that his was indeed a kindred spirit. “That’s how I feel!” was the exclamation most often on his lips, and the suspicion that he was not quite sincere never once crossed her mind.

If she could only have seen him, when, after a conversation in which, perhaps, she had almost laid bare her very soul, he went away to chuckle over her “moonshine,” and laugh in his sleeve at his cleverness in humouring her fancies, she would have been spared much heartache and bitterness. But, being absolutely true herself, she credited him with the same sincerity and depth of character, and made the fatal mistake of trusting him with her confidence.

On the Jewish New Year’s Day he called for her to go to synagogue. The day was quite a sultry one for late September, and Celia had donned a summer gown of soft grey voile, whilst a black Gainsboro’ hat set off her rich beauty to perfection. David felt quite proud as he escorted her down Maida Vale, and noted with satisfaction the admiring glances which were cast in her direction. Maida Vale seemed to be quite astir with gaily dressed people, apparently bent on the same errand as themselves, for they nearly all carried large prayerbooks. Celia glanced at them with some curiosity, for it was the first time that she had come across so many well-to-do Jews together. Most of the matrons were inclined to embonpoint, and wore a profusion of showy jewellery. Celia wondered why they spoke to each other as if they were all deaf, and what it was that was so peculiar in their intonation; it was not unlike the Cockney accent combined with a dash of nasal Yankee. She also observed a peculiarity in their gait and bearing,—a side-to-side movement, which was as odd as it was ungraceful. She was quite vexed with herself for noticing these things, but she could not help discovering that some Jewish people had mannerisms peculiarly their own.

A few little ragged urchins were loitering by the doors of the synagogue, watching the people as they entered.

“Them’s Jews,” Celia heard one of them say. “It must be their Passover.”

“Garn!” exclaimed another. “They have Passover at Easter. I spec’ it’s their Christmas.”

“Tain’t then,” put in a third with authority. “It’s their New Year. That little Jew boy as lives in Lisson Street told me so.”

“Well, then, I ain’t far out,” retorted the other sharply. “They must have had their Christmas last week. Christmas comes a week afore New Year, don’t it, stoopid?”

In the vestibule Celia and David parted, Celia to go upstairs to the ladies’ gallery, David to take his place in the body of the synagogue. Mrs. Friedberg and her girls had just arrived, and joined Celia at the top of the stairs. The service had commenced; and the minister was chanting some prayers in a sing-song monotone, whilst the congregation accompanied him with a subdued murmuring.

Mrs. Friedberg was evidently a well-known personage, judging by the nods and smiles which greeted her appearance. She stood up with some importance to read her preparatory prayer; and then turned round to Maud, who sat immediately behind her.

“Do look at Mrs. Isaac’s new dress,” she exclaimed in an audible whisper. “Did you ever see such a sight? Looks as if it came out of an old clo’ shop.” Then she sat down with a smile of amiable benignity, and taking up a pair of tortoise-shell lorgnettes, critically scanned every lady within her range of vision.

Lottie and Dinah had not yet attained to the dignity of seat-holders, and went wherever there was room. They were constantly on the move, for, whenever the lady whose seat they were occupying arrived, they were obliged to vacate their position. Finally they settled themselves down on the steps, in a state of mind not at all conducive to devotion.

“Ma can shout at me as much as she likes, but I won’t come on Yom Kippur,”[7] exclaimed Lottie, indignantly. “I don’t see why Maud should have a seat any more than me. If I have to shift again, I shall go home.”

Celia, whose seat was next to Mrs. Mike Rosen’s, gazed furtively about her, with mingled feelings of reverence and interest. Adeline found the place in the prayer-book for her, and, though she possessed but a limited knowledge of Hebrew, she followed as well as she could.

She had come to the synagogue with the sincere desire to worship God according to the ancient customs of her people, and was willing to be impressed by all that she saw and heard. Fixing her eyes on the white-curtained ark, she tried to make herself conscious of the presence of God, and of the solemnity of the occasion.

New Year’s Day—the day on which her destiny for the coming year was foreordained, and her name rewritten in the Book of Life. Surely, here was ample food for meditation!

As the service proceeded, however, her thoughts began to wander away on irrelevant subjects. She looked over the ledge on which her prayer-book rested, and met the eyes of David Salmon below, who looked back at her and smiled. The other men wore silk hats with slightly curled brims. David’s brim did not curl, and she was glad of that. She was quite ashamed of herself for noticing such a triviality at such a time and in such a place, but she could not help it.

The mournful chanting of the white-robed minister, which, at first, had struck a responsive chord in her nature, began to jar upon her nerves. The unaccompanied choir sang out of tune, and their voices grated harshly on her well-trained ear. The small procession of men carrying the bell-topped scrolls of the law as if they were nursing dolls, struck her as droll. It might have been impressive had they worn the flowing garments of the ancient East; but silk hats, frock coats, and praying shawls in combination, seemed to her grotesque. Even the sound of the ram’s horn, which should have awakened her to a sense of the awe and majesty of God, failed to impress her, because the man who blew it spluttered over it, and his performance was a dismal failure.

Throughout the service the girl experienced a sense of keen disappointment. Either there was something radically wrong with the service, or there was some spiritual sense of appreciation lacking in herself. Perhaps she had not received sufficient Jewish knowledge to enable her to understand the mystic symbolism of Jewish rites and ceremonies.

After some consideration she discovered what might be the cause. It was not the service itself, for there could be nothing more majestic than those grand old psalms and supplications in the grand old Hebrew tongue;—but it was partly the way in which the service was conducted, and partly the irreverent demeanour of the congregation themselves.

A single glance around showed her that the true spirit of devotion was almost entirely absent from their midst. The men, with the exception of three or four grey-heads, who swayed to and fro with the fervency or their prayers, looked either bored or indifferent. The majority of the women seemed absorbed in contemplation of each other’s yomtovdic[8] clothes, whilst some of them, including Mrs. Friedberg, gently slumbered. The children conversed with each other in whispers, interspersed with occasional giggles and ejaculations; it was scarcely surprising that they should find the service long and tiresome, for there was no music, and it was almost entirely in a language they could not understand.

If these people had been truly devout, Celia would have been devout also, for she possessed a nature which was capable of being deeply moved. But she could not help feeling that this was a spurious form of worship from which the glory of God was almost obscured.

At the close of the service, Mrs. Rosen asked her what she thought of it all.

“It was very nice, wasn’t it?” she said convincingly. “I go to that synagogue every Saturday, and always like the service there so much.”

The girl scarcely knew how to reply. Clearly there must be something wrong with her own way of looking at things. As the congregation poured out of the synagogue, she heard nothing but favourable comments on the service. It was so beautiful, every one said,—so impressive; and the Rev. Abrahams’ sermon was so interesting.

Mrs. Friedberg came down the stairs with another lady of the same proportions as herself.

“Oh, I did enjoy the service, Celia!” she exclaimed, with a deep sigh. “And they all liked my new bonnet, didn’t they, Mrs. Joseph?”

“Yes, my dear,” answered the other lady, soothingly. “It looks as if it had come straight from Paris in a band-box.”

“Fifteen shillings in the Grove, and not a penny more!” chuckled Mrs. Friedberg, confidentially. “It’s the best bargain I’ve had for a long time, my dear.”

David Salmon was promenading outside with Lottie and Dinah. Although a terrible tease, he was a great favourite with the girls. As soon as they caught sight of Celia, they very kindly marched off to hunt up Montie and Victor, and David escorted Celia home as a matter of course.

She was silent on the homeward journey, and her fair face looked quite troubled. When, at length, he asked if she had enjoyed going to the synagogue, she told him something of what was in her mind.

“I cannot think what was the matter with me,” she confessed quite sorrowfully. “Instead of entering into the service with all my heart, as I had meant to do, I pulled it to pieces and criticized it as if I were a rank outsider. And yet I am sure that there must be beauty in Jewish worship, only I seem to have overlooked it somehow.”

“Well, there is no harm in being critical,” he rejoined cheerfully. “To tell you the truth, I think that synagogue-going and all that sort of thing is a lot of silly humbug, only we keep it up for the sake of being social: that’s my candid opinion.”

Celia was shocked. “Do you really think so?” she asked with surprise. “Then why do you ever go to synagogue?”

David saw that he had made a mistake. “Well, I don’t mean exactly that,” he corrected himself hastily. “I can’t explain myself very well. But what was it that you did not like about the service? Was it the choir? I must take you to the Reform Synagogue, where they have an organ. It is more churchified there, and perhaps you would like it better.”

“No, it wasn’t the choir,” answered Celia, hesitatingly. “They did sing flat, it is true; but if one really wants to worship God, little details like that should not be of the slightest account. If the true note is in the heart, what matters it if the vocal sound be out of tune? I don’t know what it was, but instead of feeling ‘good,’ the service made me feel quite the reverse. I am afraid you think me very wicked, don’t you, Mr. Salmon?”

They had arrived at the gate, and the Friedberg girls were waiting for them in the garden. David gave Celia back her prayer-book, and looked up into the sweetly earnest face with a somewhat cynical smile.

“I would rather have you just a little bit wicked, Miss Franks,” he rejoined. “Very good people are apt to become bores. A little spice of the devil, like cayenne pepper, adds flavour to what might otherwise be quite wholesome—but insipid.”

Then, opening the gate for her, he pressed her hand, and, raising his hat, walked abruptly away.

CHAPTER IX

LUNCHEON FOR THREE

“But you will spend the rest of the day with me, won’t you?” asked Celia, anxiously. “Now that you have come, I don’t want to let you go.”

Lady Marjorie smiled. “I shall be able to inflict my presence upon you till six o’clock,” she answered. “I have promised to dine with my brother Bexley at Eaton Square this evening, but I am free until then.”

They passed up the stairs and into the waiting-room, where the girl students whiled away their spare time with musical causerie. Lady Marjorie expressed surprise that musicians should ever have any nerves left at all, for the medley of discordant sounds which surrounded them was enough to shatter the strongest, she thought. Pianos to right of them, pianos to left of them, violins and voices above them, and the low rumbling of the practice organ below them—it was just like a foretaste of Pandemonium.

On the ledge of the book-case in the waiting-room were several letters addressed to various students. Celia had never received one at the Academy as yet, but there happened to be one for her to-day. The envelope was black bordered, and the hand-writing large and round.

“It is from Gladys Milnes,” she said; “but I was not aware that she was in mourning.”

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Lady Marjorie, with surprise. “I made sure Mr. Karne would have told you. Their uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, is dead; he died about three weeks ago. Geoffrey came up to town for the funeral; it is almost a wonder that you did not come across him.”

This was news to Celia. She made Lady Marjorie sit down and tell her all about it. It was scarcely a suitable place for a confidential chat, for there were several students waiting about and passing through to the cloak-room; but there was so much noise going on all about them, that their voices were lost in the general hubbub.

“Fancy Geoffrey Milnes in London, without paying me a visit!” she exclaimed, almost vexedly. “He might have let me know that he was coming.”

“His uncle’s death was quite sudden,” said Lady Marjorie. “I suppose he was too busy and too much worried to come and see you. You know, we all thought that Geoffrey would succeed to Dr. Williams’s house in Harley Street, and that it would be a splendid thing for him to have a good West End practice. Well, it seems that the house is mortgaged, and the practice has gone down to nothing. I dare say you have heard of Mrs. Neville Williams—she is a well-known society leader, and has the reputation of being one of the most expensively dressed women in London. It was her extravagance that ruined poor Dr. Williams, and her debts, or rather her husband’s debts, are, I believe, something enormous. However, Bexley told me that she is already engaged, sub rosa, to the Duke of Wallingcourt, so no doubt she considered her husband’s death a happy release. She went about everywhere with Wallingcourt last season, and poor little Williams used to come running behind with her porte-monnaie, as if he were her footman instead of her husband. I am so very sorry for Geoffrey Milnes, though. He had quite counted on the Harley Street house and practice to give him a good start, and now he will have to go plodding on at Durlston instead.

“That is the worst of waiting for dead men’s shoes,” said Celia, sententiously. “But I am really sorry for Geoffrey. I will write him a letter of condolence as soon as I have time.”

“Then you do not correspond with him regularly?”

“Oh no. I have had two letters from him since I left Durlston, that is all.”

She glanced at the clock, which pointed to a quarter to one. “We must be going,” she continued, rising. “You don’t mind coming back with me to Maida Vale?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Lady Marjorie, hastily, “I met Guy Haviland this morning. You’ve heard of Haviland, haven’t you? He is a musical critic, and writes plays. I spoke to him about you, as I thought he might be of use to you in your musical career. He is a thoroughly good fellow, and always ready to encourage youthful talent. He expressed the wish to make your acquaintance, and has invited us to luncheon to-day. We are to meet him at Prince’s, in Piccadilly, at half-past one.”

The girl was delighted at the prospect of meeting Guy Haviland personally, for he was well-known in musical and dramatic circles, and she had heard him very highly spoken of amongst her friends. Suddenly, however, her face clouded.

“It is very kind of you and of him,” she faltered; “but I really think I ought to go home. You see, since I’ve come to London, I have made up my mind to practise the Jewish religion sincerely, and that forbids me to partake of food which has not been prepared according to Jewish law. Otherwise I should have been so pleased to lunch with you and Mr. Haviland.”

“But, my dear girlie, that is absurd. At that rate you will never be able to go into society at all. I don’t understand your beliefs, and I have no wish to make you act against your principles, but I really cannot see the connection between spiritual religion and what we eat and drink. Those dietary laws were excellent in their day, no doubt, but you must remember that civilization has advanced since then, and we are not living in the Holy Land.”

“That is not the question,” answered Celia, hesitatingly. “You do not understand, Lady Marjorie, and I am not qualified to explain. However, I will pocket my religious scruples for once. I must let Mrs. Friedberg know that I shall not be home.”

She put on her hat and jacket, and they sauntered down Regent Street to the post office, where Celia despatched a telegram. She was anxious for Mrs. Friedberg to see her friend, so they arranged to go to Maida Vale in the afternoon.

“How empty London is just now,” Lady Marjorie observed as they came out of the office. “There seems to be nobody in town.”

Celia glanced at the people who thronged the pavements, and at the ceaseless stream of traffic in the street.

“Nobody?” she repeated, questioningly.

“No society people, I mean,” explained Lady Marjorie, for her edification. “I suppose they are all away.”

It was quite half-past one by the time they reached Prince’s restaurant, for they made an exhaustive survey of the shops on either side of Regent Street, and purchased a few articles, on the way.

Almost simultaneously to their arrival, a gentleman drove up in a private hansom, and addressed Lady Marjorie with a cordial greeting. He was a man of about thirty-five, of professional appearance, with a genial clean-shaven face and clear-cut features. His manner betokened the polished man of the world, and he had a way of treating ladies with that old-fashioned courtly deference which in these days has, unfortunately, almost been relegated to a bygone generation.

Leading the way to a small table which had been reserved for him, he apologized for his wife’s absence, and plunged into a conversation on musical matters, which immediately put Celia at her ease. He was acquainted with most of the professors at the Academy, and knew Emil Lambert well.

“You are in good hands,” he assured her encouragingly. “Lambert is a splendid man. You may consider him somewhat dilatory in bringing you out, but you must not mind that. I do not suppose he will allow you to sing at a single Academy concert until you are quite qualified to start on your professional career. He is very jealous for his reputation, and always keeps his pupils in the background until he is sure that they will do him credit.”

“He won’t even let me try a song yet,” Celia complained. “I have to keep on at those wretched exercises, and I am so tired of them. Now, my elocution master is just the reverse to Mr. Lambert. He has already arranged for me to recite at the students’ concert on Saturday week, and I am to take the part of Lydia Languish in the ‘Rivals’ at the dramatic performance next term.”

Mr. Haviland was interested. “Then you evidently have talent for acting as well as singing?” he queried, helping Lady Marjorie to some mayonnaise.

“I am very fond of acting, but I am not sure that I have talent for it,” Celia answered modestly. “‘Lydia Languish’ will be my first attempt.”

“And have you any idea of going on the stage?”

“I am afraid Miss Franks’s brother would object to her doing that,” put in Lady Marjorie. “He is a most broad-minded man in other respects, but he is decidedly prejudiced against the dramatic profession.”

“A good many people are,” said Guy Haviland, with a smile. “Nevertheless, the drama nowadays is just as much recognized as an art as is music or painting; only, unfortunately, it is the most easily abused of the three.”

“That is true,” responded Lady Marjorie. “There are a great many actors and actresses, but how many real artists are there on the English stage? Not more than a dozen, all told. However, I would like you to go and see Miss Franks act, and if you think she has the makings of an artist, I will persuade her brother to modify his opinion.”

The restaurant was filling rapidly, even though, according to Lady Marjorie, there was “nobody” in town. Celia sipped her wine, and watched the people with interest; and Mr. Haviland pointed out to her those with whom he was acquainted. It was quite an enjoyable little luncheon party, for their host possessed a fund of entertaining anecdotes which he related tersely and with dry humour. Celia was in her element, and consequently spoke and looked well.

Before they parted, Mr. Haviland gave her his visiting-card, and invited her very cordially to come and make the acquaintance of his wife and sister. He was anxious to test her musical and dramatic abilities, and promised Lady Marjorie to take an interest in her career, and to give her all the advice he could.

Lady Marjorie informed her, later, that Mrs. Haviland was practically a nonentity so for as social life was concerned.

“I cannot understand a man like Guy Haviland marrying such a woman,” she said confidentially. “She hasn’t an idea beyond servants and babies. There has always been a baby at the Haviland’s ever since I have known them; and as soon as one is able to walk, another one appears upon the scene. Mrs. Haviland is seldom visible at their ‘At Homes,’ being otherwise engaged, and her sister-in-law, Grace, does all the entertaining. It is strange, is it not, how clever men come to marry such very insipid women? I have seen it over and over again amongst my friends.”

“Perhaps their husbands’ cleverness overpowers them?” suggested Celia, thoughtfully; “or perhaps a clever man finds that a homely kind of wife is more conducive to domestic happiness than one greatly gifted with intellectual powers. Even the cleverest men are human, and they appreciate home comforts.”

“That may be so,” agreed Lady Marjorie. “Anyway, Guy Haviland seems happy enough. I want you to keep in touch with him, Celia. His acquaintance is well worth cultivating.”