BOOK II

THREE YEARS AFTER

CHAPTER I

CELIA MAKES HER PROFESSIONAL DÉBUT IN LONDON

All roads seemed to lead to the Queens Hall that afternoon, and judging by the ornate escutcheons on the panels of some of the equipages, there were great people on the road. The occasion was the much-advertised charity matinée, organized by the popular dramatist, Guy Haviland, in aid of a well-known London hospital. Society had been pleased to bestow its patronage, and as the tickets had been disposed of at fancy prices, it was sufficiently select for the élite to honour with their presence.

The function promised to be a highly interesting and successful one, for Haviland had prevailed upon several stars of the musical and dramatic professions to give their services in the cause of charity. Moreover, the gifted young singer, Celia Franks, who had made her début in Paris—where she had finished her studies—was to make her first appearance before the English public; and as her wealth, beauty, and attainments had been so fully discussed in the society papers, society was curious to see whether the numerous eulogies of her merits were justified.

The hall was packed long before the concert began. Stalls and balconies were filled with women of fashion and men of note. Those who knew said it was one of the most brilliant gatherings of the season, and that the names of some of those present would have made a condensed edition of Debrett. Everybody seemed to know everybody else; and the hum of conversation buzzed loud and strong.

A well-groomed man of forty, with a gardenia in his button-hole, sauntered leisurely about the hall, stopping every now and then to greet an acquaintance, and chat about the weather and the opera. He was a popular man about town, being a peer in fairly prosperous circumstances, and still unmarried. Anxious mothers, with several daughters on their hands, made much of him, and the girls themselves declared him “so interesting, don’t you know.” But the wiles of the mothers, and the charms of the daughters were alike of no avail, for wherever he went he proclaimed himself a confirmed bachelor.

As he was about to return to his seat, a lady sailed up to him, her long silken skirts trailing on the ground. She was a regal-looking woman, magnificently dressed with perfect taste; and her bearing indicated that she was fully conscious of her own importance.

With a bewitching smile she invited the noble lord to buy a programme; she had only three left, she said, and was very anxious to sell them before the concert began.

“Mrs. Neville Williams a vendor of programmes!” exclaimed the peer with mock astonishment. “I am indeed sorry that it should have come to this!”

“One can do anything for such a good cause,” she answered sententiously; and then, with a coquettish glance from her dark eyes, “Of course I cannot hope to compete with the pretty actresses who are my colleagues, but will you buy a programme, Lord Bexley?”

She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and had a peculiar way of pronouncing her “r’s.” There was a suggestion of artificiality about her voice, as there was also about the brilliancy of her eyes, the bloom of her complexion, and the whiteness of her teeth. Bexley did not consider her beautiful, for what good points she possessed were due to art—the art of her French maid; but he admired her personality, albeit there was some thing about it which repelled him.

“Where have you been hiding yourself all the season?” he asked, when he had allowed her to sell him a programme for sixpence and keep the change out of a sovereign. “I really believe this is the first time I have seen you since we met in Cairo last winter.”

“Yes, I have been abroad for some time,” she replied, trying to cool herself with a small ivory fan. “I was in retreat at a convent near Cimiez for nearly three months, and since then I have been to Paris and Trouville. You see, the poor Duke’s death upset me terribly—we were to have been married a fortnight later, you know—and so I thought that a few months spent right away from society would prove beneficial to my health. My nerves seemed quite unstrung.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Bexley, sympathetically. “It was very sad about poor Wallingcourt’s death. I never had the slightest idea that he was consumptive. Do you feel better after your period of seclusion?”

“Oh yes. It was so quiet and restful at the convent. The very atmosphere breathed unworldliness and sanctity. I read no books and attended to no correspondence whilst I was there, but, in company with the Sisters, passed my time in prayer and meditation. It was quite a delightful change.”

Lord Bexley turned away his face to hide a smile. The idea of Mrs. Neville Williams as a kind of temporary nun tickled him immensely. He was far more inclined to think that her absence from society had been in order to undergo a treatment of rejuvenescence at the hands of a Parisian beauty doctor. However, it would never do to doubt the word of a lady.

“It must indeed have been delightful,” he said, glancing at her again, and noting the unwonted demureness of her countenance. “But I am glad that they have allowed you to return to the world. By-the-by, your niece, Miss Gladys Milnes, is here. She is up on a visit to my sister. Won’t you come and speak to her?”

Mrs. Neville Williams frowned. “No, thanks,” she answered tersely. “I scarcely know her. She is a gauche little country wench, is she not? My late husband’s relations have not treated me very kindly, and we are not on the best of terms.”

Her gaze suddenly became riveted on two gentlemen who were passing in front of the stalls to the artists’ room. They seemed to possess some fascination for her, for she stopped fanning herself, and her eyes dilated. Her expression reminded Bexley of a warhorse, when it scents the battle-field; he did not quite know what to make of it. In another moment, however, her sudden agitation had passed; she was demure and calm again.

“Those gentlemen,” she murmured, having noticed Bexley look over to them and bow—“you know them?”

“Yes. The one is Mr. Haviland, the giver of this concert.”

“And the other?”

“The other is Herbert Karne.”

“Ah!” The exclamation was short and sharp. Bexley was not sure whether it implied surprise or relief.

“I dare say you have seen his ‘Farewell to the World’ at the Academy?” he inquired. “It is a beautiful picture.”

“No,” she replied nervously. “I have not been to the Royal Academy this season. I have only just returned to town.”

She toyed absently with her long neck-chain, from which were suspended, in cheerful incongruity, a small ebony and silver crucifix, a tiny ivory death’s-head with diamonds set in the eye-holes, a miniature horse-shoe, and a diminutive champagne-bottle designed in solid gold. Bexley wondered why she wore them; they were certainly not pretty, and, as charms, he considered them out of place.

“Mr. Karne is the half-brother of Miss Celia Franks,” he informed her. “Did you hear Miss Franks sing in Paris? She made her début there.”

“Yes, I heard her sing. She sang very well. I had no idea, though, that she was Herbert Karne’s half-sister. I was not aware that he had a half-sister.”

“Then you do know him?” Bexley interpolated quickly.

“I just know him, that is all,” she answered evenly. “I do not suppose, however, that he remembers me. Our introduction took place many years ago.”

The performers were taking their places for the trio with which the concert opened. Mrs. Neville Williams bowed and swept away. She carried herself with more hauteur than usual, and there was a bright spot, which was not rouge, on either of her cheeks.

Lord Bexley returned to his seat, and affected not to notice his sister’s expression of disapproval. He passed the programme to Gladys Milnes, and then leant back and appeared absorbed in the music. The trio was one composed by Beethoven for piano, violin, and ’cello, all three performers being skilled executants. When the second movement came to a close, Lady Marjorie spoke.

“You seem to have found plenty to say to that woman,” she remarked caustically. “I should advise you to be careful, Bexley, or you will find yourself the next on her list.”

Bexley shrugged his shoulders. When one lady designates another fair dame as “that woman,” it is an infallible sign that there is no love lost between the two.

“I presume you mean Mrs. Neville Williams,” he answered sotto voce. “I am sure I don’t know why you are so dead against her. It is not like you to be uncharitable, Marjorie.”

“I remember Dr. Williams, and I remember the poor infatuated Duke of Wallingcourt,” she returned in a whisper. “They were good men in their way, and she ruined them both. I don’t like to see good men ruined, therefore I am uncharitable.”

The musicians struck up the third movement of the trio. Bexley was silent, and his sister gave her attention again to the music.

Gladys Milnes, who sat the other side of Lady Marjorie, also listened attentively, her face aglow with interest and excitement. She might have been what her aunt had termed her, a gauche little country wench, but she was very charming for all that. There was no deception about her wavy golden hair and peach-like complexion; they were the gifts of Nature—which her aunt’s were not. And if she were not a fashionable young lady with the fashionable affectation of ennui, at least she was genuinely healthy in body, mind, and soul—which, too, her aunt was not. It was her first visit to the metropolis, and she had come for the sole purpose of attending this concert. She was greatly impressed by all that she saw; the brilliancy of the audience almost took her breath away. Never before had she seen such a galaxy of fair women, such a profusion of beautiful dresses and magnificent jewels. She began to wonder if this were what her father meant, when from the pulpit he denounced the “pomps and vanity of this wicked world;” for the elegant “creations” and “confections” represented an amount of money which, it seemed to her, might have been devoted to a much more useful purpose than the display of dress. She enjoyed watching them, nevertheless, and was keenly observant of all that went on around her.

The trio was followed by a vocal duet, after which came a humorous duologue. Gladys enjoyed them both, but she was longing impatiently for Celia’s contribution to the programme, which did not come until just before the interval. She had not seen Celia for nearly a year, and wondered if her professional début had changed her in any way. She could not imagine how her friend could have the courage to face that vast audience. Her heart beat quite fast when the short wait before Celia’s appearance occurred.

By the steps at the side of the platform stood M. Lambert, the professor of singing. He wore an antiquated opera-hat rakishly tipped on one side, and a yellow rose in his dress-coat. Lambert always made a point of getting into evening dress as soon as the clock chimed the midday hour, and loftily refused to comply with the conventions of what he termed “tin-pot” society. He was a Bohemian to his finger-tips. At a given sign he took off his hat, and, having placed it carefully on the floor, made way for the accompanists—there were three of them—to pass to their respective instruments. Then with great dignity he himself escorted the fair singer on to the platform, and, having favoured the audience with a bow all on his own account, took his seat by the piano in order to turn over the music.

“Isn’t she sweet!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie, almost tenderly. “She looks for all the world as if she had just stepped out of a picture.”

Her remark was justified. Attired in a prettily made frock of shimmering white silk, with roses at her belt and in her Gainsboro’ hat, Celia stood, a charming representation of feminine beauty. She held herself erect, with gracefully poised head and loosely clasped hands; and, looking straight over the heads of her audience, awaited with composure the close of the instrumental prelude to the French ballad, “La Voix d’un Ange.”

It was the story of a forsaken and poverty-stricken mother, who, as she is rocking her weakly babe to sleep one stormy night in her miserable garret, receives an angelic visitation. Being asked to choose whether the babe shall be left to grow up in puny ill-health, or whether the angel shall take it before it knows aught of sorrow, she—although the babe is the one bright spot in her life—chooses the latter alternative, and with patient resignation watches the angel carry it away.

It was a dramatic little poem, and Celia told it well. Beginning in a low but well-modulated voice, accompanied only by the low rumbling of the organ, which depicted the approaching storm, she recited with unaffected gesture the opening verses. It was the more difficult for her, being in French, but she had acquired a good accent, and spoke distinctly.

When, accompanied by the rippling arpeggi of the piano and harp, and the melting notes produced by the vox humana stop of the organ, her glorious voice burst forth in all its rich fulness—“La Voix d’un Ange”—a thrill of pleasure ran through the audience, and with almost breathless tension, they drank in every note.

Higher and with more intensity rose the voice, deeper swelled the organ, more celestial sounded the sweet notes of the harp; the effect was almost entrancing. Then, in a little minor melody of exquisite beauty, the enchanting voice gradually died away; the organ resumed its low rumbling, and a few lines of recitative brought the ballad to a close.

A sigh of keen enjoyment broke from the listening crowd, and, after a moment’s silence, the hall reverberated with applause. There was not another number on the programme which elicited such enthusiasm as this. For once society was taken out of itself, for once it forgot its usual placid indifference, and forebore to grudge the singer her success.

Again and again she reappeared to bow her acknowledgments, and still the audience clamoured and thumped for an encore.

“You must sing something else,” Haviland said excitedly. “Quick! what shall it be?”

“Sing ‘Allerseelen,’” suggested Herbert Karne.

“No; give ’em something popular. They are just in the mood for it,” put in Lambert with authority. “Sing ‘Killarney’—that’s sure to take.”

He hastily found the music; then, turning round to the young singer, gave an exclamation of dismay.

“The heat and the excitement have been too much for her,” said Haviland, regretfully.

Celia had fainted.

CHAPTER II

A NEW PROJECT DISCUSSED

Under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor, herself the leader of a certain “set,” she underwent the routine of fashionable life; and attended functions to which, without Lady Marjorie’s influence, it would have been impossible, at the outset, to gain the entrée. Luncheon and dinner-parties, receptions and balls, followed each other in rapid succession, until Celia’s dreams at night began to consist of a blurred panorama of red carpet and striped awnings, flower-decked halls and plant-lined stairs, crowded rooms and lamp-lit conservatories. She seemed to live in one constant whirl of excitement, and her pretty head was almost in danger of being turned by the attention and adulation she received.

Herbert Karne had intended to stay in town for the season, but he very soon wearied of hotel life, and fashionable London possessed no attractions for him. He remained just long enough to be present at Celia’s début, to escort her to an artists’ soirée, and to see his picture on view at the Academy. Then, considering that he had done his duty, he returned to his quiet home at Durlston, leaving his half-sister at Lady Majorie’s house in Great Cumberland Place, until the end of July.

Celia had no qualms now about staying in a non-Jewish house, and of partaking of food not prepared according to Jewish law. She had apparently left her Judaism where she had found it—in Maida Vale. Had she been truly convinced of the faithfulness of its tenets she would no doubt have adhered to it with untiring zeal, but she had found much that was unsatisfactory and inconsistent in its multitudinous laws and regulations; and when there was no longer any incentive for her to keep it up, she gradually let it slide. In Paris her religious observances had been allowed to fall into laxity, until at last she ceased to observe anything at all. Instead, she adopted the art religion of her brother—the worship of God as seen in the Beautiful alone; and if it were not so satisfying as true Judaism might have been had she been able to discover of what true Judaism really consists, at least it entailed no inconvenient obligations, and, in its vague indefiniteness, was an easy creed to follow.

There was one person to whom Celia’s present mode of living gave ample cause for dissatisfaction, and that was her fiancé, David Salmon. He had been engaged to her for over three years now, and considered it high time for the marriage to take place. He had scarcely seen her more than a dozen times since she had returned from Paris, for her engagements were so numerous that he seemed crowded out. He was at present employed as manager in one of the departments of the Acme Furnishing Company, of which Mike Rosen was the proprietor. It was a fairly remunerative post, but David rebelled against having to plod on at business every day from nine o’clock until six, when, as Celia’s husband, he might assume the habits of a gentleman of means and leisure.

Besides, he did not feel secure of her now that she had launched forth into smart society—in which he himself had no place. Lady Marjorie had given him an invitation to come and see her at Great Cumberland Place. He went occasionally, but he never seemed to be able to make himself at home there. From the moment the powdered footman opened the great hall door, he felt a sense of constraint creeping over him like a vice; and it never relaxed until his visit came to an end. Surrounded by the grandeur of Lady Marjorie’s establishment, hedged in by the rules of social etiquette, Celia seemed a different being to the frankly ingenuous girl he had known at Mrs. Friedberg’s house. She had, unconsciously perhaps, imbibed something of the ultra high-bred manner of the grande dame. She was very dignified, very graceful, very charming, but she made him feel, in some indefinable way, that she was moving in a different sphere to his own: he liked her better as she had been before.

One day, as he was strolling down Oxford Street in his luncheon hour, a neat victoria drove past him, just as he was about to cross the road. A sudden instinct made him pause and look up, and with mixed feelings he recognized the two occupants—Celia and Lord Bexley. It was the first time he had encountered them together in this way, and a feeling of annoyance took possession of him as he watched them. Celia was chatting with evident enjoyment, her face lit up with animation. When she caught sight of her fiancé she bowed, and favoured him with the shadow of a smile, but apparently did not deem it necessary to stop the carriage in order to speak to him.

David strode on with resentment, whilst the first pangs of jealousy awakened in his breast. In a thoroughly bad temper he sauntered over to his customary restaurant, and, having given vent to his feelings by swearing at the waiter’s dilatoriness, took up a paper to beguile the time. It happened to be a popular journal descriptive of the doings of society, and the first thing he opened it at was an account of church parade in Hyde Park on the previous Sunday.

He did not trouble to read the list of social celebrities who had been there, but two familiar names caught his eye—

“ ... Miss Celia Franks, accompanied by her favourite Yorkshire terrier, and looking delightfully fresh and cool in a gown of white mousseline de soie, sat under the trees on the ‘quiet side,’ talking to Lord Bexley....”

“That reads all right,” he said to himself. “But I’ll take jolly good care that I’m there next Sunday. I wonder if they will put ‘talking to her intended husband, Mr. David Salmon’?”

He turned over the pages. A description of Lady de Smythe’s ball next claimed his attention—

“ ... Lady Marjorie Stonor, gowned in ivory satin covered with old lace, and wearing a magnificent diamond pendant, brought Miss Celia Franks, the gifted singer, who afterwards joined in the cotillion, with Lord Bexley as her partner....”

He flung down the paper with an impatient exclamation. Celia Franks and Lord Bexley—how he hated to see the two names coupled together. A sudden premonition of danger came over him. What if Lord Bexley should try to oust him from his place in Celia’s affections? Where would he be then? He was obliged to acknowledge that the peer was a more desirable parti, from a worldly point of view, than himself, and he did not credit Celia with being altogether above worldly considerations.

After some amount of cogitation, he came to the conclusion that the sooner he and Celia were married the better, and he made up his mind to confer with her on the subject at the first opportunity.

He managed to get away from his office an hour earlier that afternoon, and, having smartened himself up, went in the direction of Great Cumberland Place. He arrived at the house just in time to see Lord Bexley leave it. With some misgivings, Salmon noted the peer’s military bearing, his patrician face with its iron-grey moustache, his decidedly aristocratic appearance. This man had apparently everything in his favour except Celia’s promise of betrothal. David possessed that, and he hoped and believed that Celia would not break it now.

By a favourable chance she was at home. David followed the footman through the spacious hall with lightening heart. His spirits sank, however, when he arrived at the great drawing-room to find Lady Marjorie and Guy Haviland there also. Celia was leaning against the arm of Lady Marjorie’s chair with her hand resting lightly on her hostess’s shoulder. They appeared to be discussing something of importance, and Haviland hailed his appearance with satisfaction.

“Ha, here’s Mr. Salmon!” he exclaimed, as David came forward to shake hands. “I say, Salmon, you haven’t any objection to your intended going on the stage for a short time, have you?”

“The stage?” repeated David, as he sank on to the chair which Lady Marjorie offered. “That is a new idea, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly: I have just written a play for her—a capital play, though I say it myself; and now that it is all done, Mr. Karne won’t allow her to act in it, or at least he doesn’t approve, which comes to the same thing. Isn’t that hard lines?”

David looked dubious. “This is the first I have heard of it,” he said, a little frown appearing on his forehead. “To tell you the truth, I should hardly care to see my intended on the stage either. What do you think about it yourself, Celia?”

“I rather like the idea,” she answered readily. “I am very fond of acting, as you know, though I am not sure how I should like it as a regular occupation. However, as Herbert has put his veto on it, there is nothing more to be said. I would not do it against his wish.”

“Quite right,” agreed David, with approval. A dutiful sister makes a dutiful wife.

“I cannot understand why Mr. Karne objects so strongly,” said Lady Marjorie, with a thoughtful expression on her bright face. “He seems to have taken a positive antipathy to the dramatic profession. I told you so, ages ago, didn’t I, Haviland? I have always found him amenable to reason in everything but this. Of course I can understand his feelings in some measure. He does not like the idea of Celia laying herself open to receive the cheap compliments of any one who chooses to pay to see her act. He doesn’t like the associations of the theatre, either, and thinks they might have a deleterious effect. The life of an actress is different to that of a public singer. He may be right, after all.”

Haviland rose from his seat, and folded his arms dramatically.

“‘Et tu, Brute?’” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Lady Marjorie, this is too bad of you. I had quite relied on your co-operation in this matter. Look here; I’ve set my heart on having this play produced. I wrote it purposely for Miss Franks, and the part will suit her down to the ground. It is called ‘The Voice of the Charmer,’ and Miss Franks is to be the charmer. She has to look pretty with her hair down, to act, and to sing, all of which she can do very well indeed. It’s a play that will set off her talents to perfection. Now, as to the questionable associations of the stage, and all that kind of nonsense, I’ll cast the play myself, and every member of the company shall be of good repute; I can arrange all that with the manager. I will also take the responsibility of Miss Franks’s well-being on my own hands. Surely her brother cannot object if I promise all that? I intend taking a special trip to Durlston next week to tackle him on the subject myself, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not succeed in overruling his protestations. Mr. Karne is not an obstinate man, I am sure.”

“No, he is not obstinate,” said Lady Marjorie, decidedly; “but he is very determined, and when he once makes up his mind to anything, he is almost immovable. However, you have my best wishes; I hope you will succeed.”

“If you do manage to obtain his consent, when do you think the play will be produced?” asked David Salmon.

“Ah, that is more than I can tell you,” replied the dramatist, smiling. “It depends on a good many things. Once we put the machinery in motion, though, it will not take us so very long. We might have everything ready by October, or we may have to wait until the pantomime season is over. It entirely depends on the manager who takes it up, and on what his arrangements for the coming months may be.”

David was not sure that the project pleased him. He intended asking Celia to marry him as soon as the arrangements for the wedding could be made, and this theatrical scheme might be an obstacle in the way.

When Haviland took his leave, the younger man lingered behind to try and persuade her to give up the idea; but Lady Marjorie gently reminded Celia that it was time to go and dress for a dinner-party to which they were going, so that David was reluctantly compelled to leave also.

He strode out of the house, and passed the Marble Arch, deep in thought. He was beginning to pity himself for being engaged to such a beautiful and gifted girl; for, were she unattractive and dull, she would be easier to manage—they would have been married long ago. He resented, also, the influence which Lady Marjorie evidently possessed over her, and determined that after the wedding he would treat her with coolness, and try to make Celia do the same. It never occurred to him to be glad that Celia should have such a good friend: instead of that, he was mean-spirited enough to find at the bottom of Lady Marjorie’s friendship a motive of self-interest; he knew that Herbert Karne would not allow his sister to partake of her chaperone’s hospitality without making some adequate return.

As he turned into Edgware Road, David became aware that somebody was walking alongside him, and, looking up, he recognized, with disagreeable surprise, Myer Apfelbaum, a man whose acquaintance he tolerated only because he owed him money. Apfelbaum carried on business in the city as a wholesale furrier, and had become rich by sweating his workpeople. He loved his business, especially when opportunity occurred for him to get the better of any one; he loved to boast about it, too. David did not care to be seen walking with him—he never looked presentable except on Sabbaths and holy-days,—but he was compelled to put up with his society, and listen to an account of the stock he had sold for the last week, and the bargains he had made. When Myer Apfelbaum was not threatening to send him a writ—which happened about three times a week—he was very friendly indeed.

“If any one t’inks they can swindle Myer Apfelbaum, they are moch mistaken,” he wound up by saying. “Why, only last Friday, just before Shabbos[11] came in, I sold a man a hundert pounds’ verth of stock, blind, and he had the cheek to say——”

“Excuse me, this is my turning; I must go,” interrupted David, impolitely. They had arrived at the corner of Hall Road.

“Oh yes, you live up here somewheres, don’t you? You’re a young swell, you are.” He chuckled as if the thought amused him, and continued in a wheedling tone, “Ain’t it about time you paid me the geld[12] you owe me? Two hundert pound, and twenty-five pound interest; it’s been going on a long time now. I can’t afford to lose two hundert and twenty-five pound. Better give me five pound now on account.”

David glanced at him in contempt. “I am not in the habit of discussing my business affairs in the street,” he answered shortly. “You shall have every farthing of it if you will have a little more patience; if you press for it now, you won’t get anything at all. It will be to your own interest to wait two or three months longer; I am going to be married soon.”

“That’s what you’ve said before,” returned the other, complainingly. “I should t’ink it’s about time it came off now. If I were you, I wouldn’t shilly-shally over it so long. I ‘spec’ there’s others waiting for their money besides me.”

“That’s not your business,” said David, sharply. He was getting cross.

“No, that’s not my business, but the geld is, though,” retorted Apfelbaum. “And if I don’t get it soon, we’ll see what the law can do.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

David marched up the Hall Road in high feather, and, when he arrived at the top, gave vent to a vigorous expletive beginning with the letter “D.”

Then he felt better.

CHAPTER III

FITZJOHN’S AVENUE, HAMPSTEAD,—OR JERUSALEM?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haviland assured her that she need have no fear.

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

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

CHAPTER V

THE WILTONS OF WOODRUFFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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