Neither Jew nor Greek

 

 

“If you ever do get married, girls,” Adeline was saying, as she contemplated her wedding-dress, which lay spread out on the bed, “see to it that you get men, and not broomsticks.”

“I think I would rather have a broomstick than some men,” said the youngest sister Di. “Because a broomstick is at least inoffensive; whereas a man with a temper would be a positive nuisance.”

“I wouldn’t give a halfpenny for a man without a temper,” put in Lottie, with a shrug. “Look at old Solomon, for instance. He is as meek as Moses. Whenever Mrs. Sol tells him to do anything, he folds his hands, and says, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ and goes and does it at once. If she told him to go and drown himself, I believe he would say, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ from sheer force of habit.”

“That shows Mrs. Sol’s cleverness,” said Adeline with a sigh. “She must have broken him in when he was young and pliable. My future husband is neither young nor pliable. Oh, girls, I wonder what sort of a husband Mike will make.”

It was the eve of Adeline’s wedding. She was the eldest daughter, and the first to leave the parental roof. “Adeline is a smart girl, and will do well for herself,” her fond mother had been wont to say: and Adeline certainly had done well, according to her parents’ ideas, for she had secured Michael Rosen, the proprietor of the Acme Furnishing Company—a man who had come over from Poland twenty years ago to start life (English life) as an itinerant vendor of jewellery, and who was now at the head of the furnishing trade in his particular line. Adeline’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg, had been introduced to him by the minister of the synagogue which they attended, with the understanding, that if the parties came to terms, and a marriage ensued, the Rev. Isaac Abrahams should pocket an ample commission.

At the wedding-breakfast, which took place at the Hotel Cecil, the Rev. Isaac, in the course of his speech, lightly mentioned the fact that marriages were made in heaven, and unblushingly thanked Providence for having brought the happy bridal couple together. Every one remarked how touchingly and beautifully he spoke.

It is not so difficult to give an eloquent speech when the champagne flows as freely as water, and one has a substantial cheque snugly reposing in one’s pocket-book. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams was a happy man that day; he possessed feelings of benevolence towards all mankind.

Adeline looked very charming in her bridal finery, and excited envy in the hearts of a good many mothers and daughters present. She had a choral and floral wedding, a full account of which, including a list of all the wedding presents, would appear in the Jewish World and the Queen; and she was the prospective mistress of a beautiful house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead, and another in Brunswick Terrace, Brighton. Could any girl wish for more? True, the bridegroom would never see forty again, and he was neither good-looking nor well-bred; but wealth covers a multitude of other deficiencies, and one cannot have everything. So, every one agreed that Adeline was a very fortunate girl, and Adeline herself thought so too.

She was ecstatically happy for exactly twenty-four hours after the ceremony.

The first part of their honeymoon was spent at a farm-house ten miles from anywhere, where, if they had been so inclined, they could have made love to their heart’s content, without the least fear of any disturbance. Mike chose this place because his bride had once remarked in his hearing that she adored the country—which she did in the abstract.

It is so nice to think of green fields, and leafy lanes, and bleating lambs, and twittering birds—when one is in town.

Adeline had never spent a whole day in Mike’s company before, and very soon grew tired of his society. During their short engagement he had come to see her every evening, but had spent most of his time in the smoke-room with her father, and she had seen very little of him. Perhaps, if she had seen more of him, she would not have become his wife. Now that she was entirely dependent upon him for companionship, however, she wondered how they would get on together. His sole topic of conversation was furniture—“ferniture,” he pronounced it. His had been one of the first firms to introduce the “easy payments” system on an extensive scale, and Mike was justly proud of the fact. Adeline wondered, a trifle contemptuously, if he considered her part of his household “ferniture.” She was at least ornamental, if not altogether useful.

Life at the farm was not exciting, and at the end of the third day, the young bride had a bad attack of the blues. She was not particularly interested in watching the pigs fed and the cows milked; and what was the good of all her pretty frocks and lovely jewels when there was no one to see and admire them. It was all very well for Mike. He sat on the top of a haystack, dressed in flannels, nearly all day; and as long as he had a fat cigar to smoke, a glass of whisky to drink, and a furniture catalogue to read, he was perfectly happy. But even he was bored when, on the fourth day, it began to rain, and forgot to leave off; and when Friday came round, he suggested a trip to Blackpool, to which his wife willingly agreed.

Blackpool was a decided improvement to the farm, but the wet weather followed them even there, so, at the end of a very dull fortnight, they turned their faces homewards. It was quite delightful to see dear old smoky London once more.

Adeline lost no time in going to see her family, and went the same afternoon that they returned. Mike was obliged to go straight off to business, but she was not sorry to have to go alone. Her visit was quite a surprise, for they were not expected home for at least another week. Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg were out, she was told, but the girls were at home, and received her with rapturous exclamations of delight and astonishment. They carried her off to her old bedroom to take off her things, and plied her with questions which she could not possibly answer all at once. She hugged them all round, Prince, the pug, included; then she sat down on the bed, and indulged in a good cry, after which she felt considerably better.

The girls were filled with consternation. They had never seen Adeline cry before. Had Mike been doing anything to vex her? No? Then, what on earth was she crying for? Di ran for smelling-salts, and Lottie fetched brandy; in vain Adeline protested that she needed neither.

“You must think me a little fool, girls,” she sobbed, copiously drying her tears. “It was the excitement of seeing you again, I suppose. I shall feel much better when I have had some tea.”

She made them promise not to tell her parents what a silly girl she was; and then brightened up, and told them of all she had seen and done.

By the time Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg arrived, she was all smiles again, and they were delighted to see her looking so well.

“Married life agrees with you, evidently,” her mother remarked, as she gave her a prolonged and audible kiss on either cheek. “You are looking splendid, Addie. Mr. Cohen’s nephew—not the one who married Sol Benjamin’s niece, but the other one—saw you on the pier at Blackpool, and said that you and Mike were so taken up with lovemaking, that you never even acknowledged his existence.”

“It was very windy on the pier,” said Adeline apologetically. “It was all I could do to keep my hat on. I did not notice any one who was passing.”

“No, of course not,” put in Mr. Friedberg, with a wink. “No one would expect you to. By-the-by, what do you think of your house, Addie? It’s ’ansome, isn’t it? That’s the best of having a husband in the furnishing line. Mike let me have everything at cost price. When these girls get chosanim,”[1] with a sly look at his other daughters, “they shall set up housekeeping in grand style too.”

Was she never going to get away from that wretched furniture? Adeline was sick of the very word.

“The next wedding we have in the family,” remarked Mrs. Friedberg, apropos of nothing, “I shall put out a notice—‘No electro plate received here.’ It’s simply scandalous the number of fish-carvers you received, and hardly any of them silver. And fancy that Mrs. Moses sending a rubbishing cake-basket, after all the kindness and hospitality we’ve shown her. I don’t know how people can be so mean.”

The clock struck six, and Adeline rose to go. She must be home to have dinner with Mike, she said, and it was a good way from Maida Vale to Fitzjohn’s Avenue. She wanted to take Lottie and her young brother Victor back with her, but her mother was sure Mike would prefer to spend his first evening at home with his wife alone.

Mrs. Friedberg possessed some curious ideas. She knew, and did not pretend to ignore the fact, that her daughter’s marriage with Michael Rosen was a made-up match, and that, had the bridegroom been less wealthy, or the bride less attractive, the marriage would have never taken place; yet she persisted in thinking and saying that the bridal pair were very much in love with each other.

Adeline, like most Jewish girls of the present day, had been taught to place her affections in accordance with her parents’ wishes. The idea of falling in love with anybody had never occurred to her. She was a sensible girl, and knew that even if she so desired—and she did not desire it—she could never marry a poor man, or a Christian, so she had resigned herself to the inevitable, and had accepted Michael Rosen without a protest. Mike was as good as any other rich Jew she had met, and even if he were of the “broomstick” order of men, he was at least, as Di had said, inoffensive.

If only she could break him of that detestable habit of talking “shop” wherever he went! She would have to teach him that there were other subjects of interest to the generality of people as well as his beloved “ferniture.”

If you had asked who was the most popular man in Durlston, you would have been told, without a moment’s hesitation, that his name was Herbert Karne. Broad-chested, large-hearted, and liberal-minded, Herbert won the hearts of all with whom he came in contact, by his cheery geniality and his consummate tact. He was a Jew, but he was also an English gentleman, and was treated as such by the members of the social circle in which he moved.

Durlston was an uninteresting little town not many miles from Manchester. There was a very large boot and shoe manufactory at one end of the tiny High Street, and the population of the town was considerably increased by the factory labourers and their families. These were mostly Jews, very poor Jews, who had recently emigrated from Roumania and were glad to get work, even though it were at almost starvation wages. Mendel & Co. secured them directly they arrived in Houndsditch, and packed them off to the Durlston manufactory as occasion required. They were easily satisfied and obsequious, these poor Jews, and seemed to be able to exist on next to nothing.

Herbert Karne lived with his half-sister in a pretty country house—The Towers—just outside the town. He was an artist by profession and a romancist by nature. He took the greatest interest in the little Jewish colony which had sprung up almost beneath his windows, and it was his pleasure to protect the rights of the colonists against the cut-throat practices of their employers. He agitated for shorter hours and better pay, and, for fear of being boycotted, Messrs. Mendel & Co. were obliged to make concessions.

These poor Jews had no spirit of their own; they were utterly downtrodden with the effect of oppression and destitution: so Karne was determined to defend their cause, and he became their firm friend and ally.

Whenever a new batch of Jews arrived in Durlston, he took them in hand at once. He anglicized them, and made them suppress their Jewish idiosyncrasies. With the help of his half-sister Celia, and a few friends, he organized a night school, and taught them to read and write. He managed to enlist the sympathy of the most influential people in the county on their behalf, and got up all sorts of literary and musical entertainments, in order to brighten their empty lives. The educating and uplifting of these poor waifs of humanity was Herbert’s hobby; he entered into it heart and soul.

There was no synagogue in Durlston, the nearest one being in Manchester, so he arranged to have divine service in the schoolroom every Saturday morning, at which Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory, officiated. Herbert himself gave the lecture as a rule, and preached not from a religious so much as from an ethical standpoint. He endeavoured to instil into his hearers his own high standard of honour and equity; he wanted to broaden their ideals, and to make them true to the noble instincts of their ancient race and faith.

And in a great measure he succeeded. There were very few who came under Herbert Karne’s influence who did not benefit by it. He imbued them with self-respect, and gave them back their sense of manhood. When they left the factory—generally to better their position in some way—they were, most of them, better men and nobler Jews than when they had entered it. Their backs were no longer bowed with the yoke of oppression. They held their heads erect, and were able once again to look the whole world in the face.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and Karne’s grounds were thrown open to receive his friends and protègèes. A small piano had been brought out on the lawn, and somebody was playing one of Strauss’ most inspiriting waltzes. The men smoked, and nodded their heads to the music, and talked to each other of the hardships of bygone days. The women darned their stockings, and watched pretty Miss Celia flitting about in her white dress, with a sweet smile and a kindly word for each one of them. The dark-eyed children chased each other over the turf, danced round the piano, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. Some of them wandered towards the studio, and, standing before the long French windows, gazed with feelings of awe at the paintings which were the handiwork of their benefactor. How lovely it must be to be able to paint wonderful pictures like those, they thought!

Herbert Karne was employed in amusing the babies. They kept him fully occupied, and demanded all his attention. One little olive-skinned maiden sat on his knee; another tugged at his hair; and a third played with his watch-chain. Their host enjoyed it all quite as much as they did themselves; he was passionately fond of children.

A gentleman was coming out of the house and across the lawn. Mr. Karne handed the children back to their mothers, and came forward to greet him.

“Glad to see you, Geoffrey,” he said, as they shook hands. “Celia was just wishing that you were here. They wanted her to sing, but she was quite at a loss without you to play her accompaniments. By-the-by, Geoff, it’s quite decided; she is to go away.”

The young man’s face fell perceptibly. “I am very sorry,” he said, and his voice was quite husky. “But I think you are quite right, Karne. Celia has a great future before her, and she is utterly wasted here in this sleepy little place. With her voice, and her personality, she will have all London at her feet some day. You will send her to Marchesi in Paris, I suppose?”

“No; Professor Bemberger thinks she will do just as well at the Academy in London, or, at least, until her voice is more fully developed. I did not like the idea of sending her abroad. We have friends in London, and she will not feel so isolated there.”

They moved up to where Celia was standing—a tall and well-developed girl, with a quantity of red-gold hair, hazel eyes, and fair complexion. She had a short high-bridged nose, and a sweet refined mouth. Her half-brother had once painted her as Hypatia; her features were distinctly Grecian in type.

She turned round at their approach, and extended her hand to the new-comer with a cordial greeting.

Geoffrey Milnes was the son of the Vicar of Durlston, and junior partner of the chief doctor in the town. He was one of Herbert Karne’s most intimate friends, and spent a good deal of his spare time at the Towers, where he had established himself as Celia’s accompanist-in-chief. He possessed the happy knack of being able to make himself useful in almost any capacity, and was always so eager to assist in any way he could, that it was quite a pleasure to accept his services.

Celia offered him a chair and a cup of tea. “What brings you here to-day?” she asked. “I thought you always spent Sunday with your father.”

“So I do,” he answered, nibbling a tiny piece of cake. “But I happened to be passing, and, hearing the music, I could not resist the temptation to look in. If you don’t want me, though, I’ll go away.”

“Of course I want you, and I am very pleased you have come,” she hastened to assure him. “Only you must think us such Sabbath-breakers.”

“Not at all. You had your Sunday yesterday. We cannot expect you to keep ours as well.”

“Yesterday was not our Sunday,” Celia corrected him with a smile. “We had our Sabbath yesterday, but our Sunday is to-day. I have heard so many people say that we keep our Sunday on Saturday. It sounds Irish to me.”

“It is rather silly, certainly,” he admitted. “But you see we generally connect Sunday with the Sabbath in our minds. What are you going to sing?” he added, as Celia selected some music from a portfolio. “Something of Schubert’s?”

He went to the piano and struck a few chords. His touch was light and facile, and he was an excellent accompanist on that account. Celia’s voice was a sweet and very pure soprano, and she already possessed remarkable power and flexibility for her age. She sang Beethoven’s “Kennst du das Land?” with expression and a pretty German accent. Her audience listened entranced. Some of the women put down their sewing; their vision was clouded by a mist of tears.

“You must not sing any more in the open air,” said Dr. Milnes, as he rose from the piano. “You will have to take very great care of your voice now that you have decided to become a professional singer. When are you going away?”

“On Thursday week,” she answered with a sigh. “The entrance examination at the Academy is on the Saturday following.”

“So soon!” he said regretfully. “And I suppose you will quite forget the unsophisticated Durlston people, when you are in the midst of the excitement of London life?”

“Indeed, I shall not,” she answered him earnestly. “I shall miss them all dreadfully, especially Herbert and—and you. I wanted Herbert to take a flat in London so that we could be together, but I cannot get him to leave Durlston. He thinks the factory people could not do without him, and he says that he cannot work anywhere but in his own studio. He is painting his big picture for the Royal Academy, you know.”

“Yes; I shall have to look well after him, or he will knock himself up, as he did when he was painting his ‘Dawn of Love.’ He allows his pictures to prey upon his mind, and an attack of insomnia is the usual consequence.”

Celia was about to reply, but the factory people were beginning to disperse, and their conversation was interrupted.

A little boy ran up to say good-bye. “You promised me a penny if I took all my medicine last week, Dr. Milnes,” he said, looking up into Geoffrey’s eyes with an anxious expression on his little Jewish face. “I’ve tooked all that nasty stuff, so I’ve come for my penny, please.”

Geoffrey felt in his pockets, but no money was forthcoming.

“I never pay my debts on Sunday, young man,” he said with mock gravity. “I am sorry, but I have no change. Can’t you wait until to-morrow, when, if you present your bill, it will be settled in due course?”

The child looked bewildered, and considered a moment. “If I wait till to-morrow, you ought to give me something extra,” he remarked at length; and then, as the doctor did not answer, “Make it tuppence,” he added persuasively, “I’ve waited a week already!”

“One hundred per cent. interest? All right,” agreed Geoffrey; and the boy went away perfectly happy.

“That boy will get on in the world,” observed Celia, smiling: “he has what Americans call an ‘eye to the main chance.’”

“I think we most of us have,” said the young doctor, thoughtfully, “only we don’t like to admit it, even to ourselves.”

“But some people possess it in a more marked degree than others,” she pursued, bending down to kiss a little dark-eyed maiden of two years old. “My people, for instance, are noted for their shrewdness. One seldom finds a Jew who is not a good man of business, and therefore people—Christian people—are inclined to think that every Jew must of necessity be a Shylock. Do you know, I can never quite forgive Shakespeare for creating such a character?”

“Why not? Shylock was a type of an avaricious money-lender, and there are many such, even in the present day. And a typical character, in order to make an impression, is bound to be overdrawn. I am sure that Shakespeare was not out of sympathy with the Jews. Do you not remember the famous speech—‘Hath not a Jew eyes,’ etc.? And then there was Shylock’s daughter Jessica, a sweet and lovable Jewish girl.”

He paused, suddenly recollecting that he was treading on somewhat dangerous ground, for Celia’s father, Bernie Franks, was a well-known Capetown financier and former money-lender, and his reputation was not of the best. Nevertheless, Bernie Frank’s daughter was, like Jessica, a sweet and lovable girl. Geoffrey Milnes thought her the sweetest girl in the world, but he had not the courage to tell her so. He had allowed himself to fall in love with her, knowing that such a love was quite hopeless, and could only cause them both unhappiness and pain. There was the barrier of race and faith between them, and he knew that neither his people nor hers would sanction their marriage, even if Celia really loved him—and he was not sure that such was the case.

The church bells were ringing for Evensong, and Geoffrey was obliged to take his leave.

Herbert Karne accompanied him part of his way, and Celia went into the house singing blithely. She, at least, was perfectly heart-whole as yet.

The studio at the Towers was built on elevated ground at the north side of the house; and was approached by a short flight of steps leading from the hall. From where the artist sat at his easel, he could obtain a bird’s-eye view of Durlston, which consisted of chimney-pots and church spires, relieved by a small park in the centre of the town, with grassy fields surrounding it; and, beyond that, the smoky haze of a manufacturing city.

There was not much in the prospect from which to derive inspiration, but it was all-sufficient for Herbert Karne. He liked to look up from his picture and note the varying aspect of his garden at the different seasons of the year. There was always something new to see and admire, for Nature is ever-changing, and Herbert knew of every bud that blossomed, and every flower that bloomed.

It was autumn now, the season of decay. The richly tinted leaves were falling fast, and made quite a thick carpet on the gravelled paths. The trees, which but a few months ago had been so fresh and green, were adopting sombre hues of golden-brown. Some of them were already bare, and waved their gaunt arms in the breeze as though in warning. “Life and youth are short,” they seemed to say, “and all must die.”

The artist’s brain was busy as he worked. He cast his mind back to the time of his mother’s death, some twelve years ago. Her second marriage had not been a success, for Bernie Franks had never properly understood her refined and gentle nature; so that when, attacked by the money-making fever, he went off to Johannesburg to make his fortune, his wife, on the plea of delicate health, remained at home with her two children.

She never saw him again, for he enjoyed life out in South Africa so much, that he would not trouble to come home, even when he knew that she was ill. When she died, he wrote for little Celia to come out to him, but changed his mind before the next mail, and wrote again, saying that her coming would greatly inconvenience him, and asking Herbert to find a boarding-school for her.

Karne was studying art in Paris at the time, but he returned to England before the funeral, and, in accordance with his mother’s last wish, took charge of his little half-sister. He and Celia were devoted to each other, and the child begged so hard not to be sent away from him to boarding-school, that he engaged a housekeeper whom his mother had known, and sent the little girl to a high school. Her education became his greatest care; and when she showed marked ability for music, he had her taught by one of the cleverest professors in the county, in order to have her talent developed in the best way possible.

And now she had come to womanhood, and was anxious to spread her wings and see a little more of the world. Her teacher, Professor Bemberger, had imbued her with the idea that, with a voice like hers, it would be a thousand pities if she did not become a professional singer. He made her dissatisfied with her quiet life at Durlston; it was tame and dull, he said. In London, she would live, not vegetate; and in glowing terms he described what her life as a successful singer would be.

Her half-brother received the idea with disfavour. Celia had no need to earn money by her voice, he said, for she was the daughter of a wealthy man; and in professional life there was disappointment to be met with, as well as success. He painted the reverse side of the picture, the hard work and many worrying details which must of necessity arise; but Celia would not be discouraged, and, as she had so set her heart on it, he reluctantly gave his consent. Now, however, that her going was decided, and everything definitely arranged, he wondered if he had done right after all.

Celia, besides being an accomplished musician, was a beautiful and winsome girl, and although not altogether lacking in savoir faire, possessed very little knowledge of the world. Might not her beauty prove a danger to her in her new life? Hitherto she had been carefully guarded, for her brother had himself chosen her friends, and her tastes and ideas had been led in the right direction. Was he wise in sending her away from his influence, where she would come into contact with all sorts and conditions of people, and must inevitably pick up fresh ideas of evil as well as good?

He was so engrossed with these thoughts that he did not notice the click of the latch as a lady opened the French window from without, and only when he heard the rustle of silken skirts was he made aware of her presence. She was a very daintily clad little woman, with a bright face and vivacious manner. Her blue eyes sparkled with kindliness, and her small mouth betokened a keen sense of humour.

Lady Marjorie Stonor may have possessed a great many faults, but her worst enemy could not have accused her of being dull. She was in the habit of dropping in at the Towers when she knew that she would find the artist at work, and although she disturbed him seriously with her light chatter, Herbert could not but be glad to see her, for she had helped him a good deal with his work amongst the factory people, and was one of Celia’s greatest friends.

He rose to greet her, and she established herself comfortably in a low wicker chair. She had come, she said, firstly to bring him an order from the county hospital for one of the factory men, and secondly to discuss Celia’s future. She was anxious to know if Mr. Karne were aware that all the Durlston people were anticipating Celia’s engagement to Dr. Geoffrey Milnes!

Mr. Karne was not aware of it; he was most astonished; he had never dreamt of such a thing. He turned round and confronted his interlocutor with a look of consternation. How on earth could such a rumour have got about?

Lady Marjorie gave vent to a rippling laugh of amusement.

“Oh, you men!” she exclaimed. “You are as blind as bats, and have no more perception than a rhinoceros! You have allowed Celia to see Geoffrey Milnes constantly, to ride with him, drive with him, and sing with him. He is a nice young fellow, and she is a beautiful girl, and yet you are surprised that they should fall in love with each other. Do you mean to say, seriously, that you have never thought of such a contingency, Mr. Karne?”

“Indeed, I have not,” he answered with contracted brows. “I am very grieved indeed, if such is the case, for nothing but trouble can come of it; but I think and hope that you are mistaken, Lady Marjorie. If I had had the faintest idea of such a thing, I should have put a stop to their intimacy long ago.”

“But why?” she asked eagerly. “He is only a country doctor, it is true, and has no brilliant prospects, but if they really love each other——”

“You forget that Celia is a Jewess,” he interposed gravely, “and that Dr. Milnes is the son of a Christian clergyman. Do you think that, much as the vicar likes Celia, he would approve of his son’s marriage with one whom he terms an unbeliever? And even should he approve, I should not do so, for I think most emphatically that mixed marriages are a mistake.”

Lady Marjorie’s blue eyes were quite troubled. “I don’t know about that,” she said musingly. “My dear husband was a Roman Catholic and I am a Protestant, yet we never had a single quarrel over religion; and he was a man with peculiar views, you know. I dare say you remember that, when he died, I had to send his heart to be buried in Jerusalem—that was just one of his religious fads, and he had many more, poor dear.” She paused a moment to raise a diminutive lace handkerchief to her eyes, and then added cheerfully, “But I let him go his way, and I went mine, and we were very happy together.”

“Yes, but in this case there is a difference of race as well as religion. Celia is not prejudiced in any way, nevertheless she would find many little things that would go against the grain, so to speak, and offend her inborn Jewish instincts. I do not think there can be perfect unity between a Christian husband and a Jewish wife, or vice versâ; there are bound to be certain jars for which neither is to blame.”

Lady Marjorie moved her position, so that he could not see her face.

“If you really loved a woman,” she said in a low voice, “it would not matter to you if she were a Heathen Chinee. Love knows neither nationality nor creed. Besides, Celia is not a Jewish Jewess, you know.”

“More’s the pity,” he answered, as he rose and paced the room. “I am afraid that I have not quite done my duty in allowing her to grow up without any Jewish society and influence other than my own. However, I am sending her to stay with an orthodox Jewish family in Maida Vale, where she will see more of Jewish home and social life than she has ever done before.”

He ceased speaking abruptly as the girl herself made her appearance. Her eyes were bright, and there was a slight flush on her cheeks. She sank on to a chair with an air of relief, for she had been for a long walk and was tired.

Lady Marjorie greeted her with warmth. “So you are going to leave us, naughty girl!” she said affectionately. “I hope that when you have become a second Patti, you will not forget old friends.”

Celia laughed merrily. “Oh no, I won’t forget you,” she answered lightly. “Besides, I am going to make my début at your ‘At Home,’ you know.”

“Yes, that’s right. I shall be in town at the end of April, and shall quite enjoy being the first to ‘discover’ the coming singer.”

“I don’t suppose she will be allowed to sing in public for several years yet,” said Herbert, doubtfully. “There is a great deal of hard work to be gone through first.”

Celia made a little grimace. “Herbert is a dreadful damper,” she said with a pout. “I don’t believe he wants me to go.”

“Ah well, he will miss you, dear,” said Lady Marjorie, kindly. “There will be no one to look after him when you are gone.”

“He ought to get married,” suggested the girl with a smile. “A wife is just the very thing he wants. I wish you would persuade him to look out for one, Lady Marjie.”

There was an awkward pause. Herbert grew crimson and embarrassed; and Lady Marjorie bent down to stroke the dog which lay at her feet.

Celia looked from one to the other in surprise, whilst a new thought came into her mind. Had she hit upon the true reason of Lady Marjorie’s constant visits to the Towers, and her interest in Herbert’s work at the factory, she wondered? True, Lady Marjorie had professed to be very fond of her husband, but he had been much older than herself; whereas Herbert was about her own age, and they had many tastes in common.

She thought she had better change the subject, and showed her friend a jewel case which had just been given her. It contained a gold brooch, the pattern of which was two hearts entwined, with a ruby set in the apex of each.

“Who gave you this?” asked Lady Marjorie, with a significant glance at Herbert Karne. “It is very pretty.”

“Dr. Milnes gave it to me for a keepsake,” she answered frankly. “Was it not kind of him?”

“Yes, very. I suppose you will prize it highly? You like Dr. Milnes, don’t you, Celia?”

“Oh yes, Geoffrey is a nice boy,” she replied, looking at them both quite innocently. “He is a great friend of Herbert’s and mine.”

Herbert Karne was greatly disturbed by what Lady Marjorie had told him; and he was vexed with himself for not having foreseen the possible consequences of Dr. Milnes’ frequent visits to the Towers. Now that he came to think of it, there were several little lover-like attentions which Geoffrey had paid to his sister before his very eyes, and he had been so dense that he had never noticed them before. He attempted to find out now how far the mischief had gone, and if any understanding had taken place between the two. He scarcely cared to ask Celia outright, for if Lady Marjorie were, after all, mistaken, he did not want even to suggest to the girl that such might be the case. He could hardly bring himself to believe that Celia would think of becoming engaged without having first consulted him, for she was of an open and confiding nature, and knew quite well that her half-brother was her best and truest friend.

The next few days passed like lightning, for Celia had a great deal to do and several farewell visits to pay. She began her packing several days in advance, assisted by her bosom friend Gladys Milnes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons. Gladys hated packing unless she were going away herself, and the only service she rendered was to sit on the top of the trunks when they were full, and to relieve Celia of some of the chocolate which Herbert had brought back from Paris. Herbert came upstairs occasionally to see how they were getting on, and found the two girls in a state of great excitement. Either they were squabbling about what should be taken or left behind, or else they were giggling over something quite absurd, or else they were in tears at the thought of parting; and the ways of girls being past his understanding, he decided to leave them severely alone.

Dr. Milnes had been to Manchester for a few days, and only arrived home the day before Celia’s departure, when they met him at a little dinner-party at Durlston House, the residence of Lady Marjorie Stonor.

Celia was not in the drawing-room when he arrived, for she had gone up to say good night to Lady Marjorie’s little boy, Bobbie; but when she did make her appearance, looking very charming in a gown of the palest shade of blue, Geoffrey pounced upon her immediately, as was his wont, and, drawing her aside into a small alcove, they engaged in an animated conversation.

Herbert Karne watched them with some disapproval, for, however much he liked Dr. Milnes as a friend, he scarcely cared to regard him in the light of Celia’s lover. When dinner was over, he invited him to have a hundred up in the billiard-room before they rejoined the ladies, and Geoffrey, although a little bit surprised, readily agreed. The artist, however, had not the slightest desire for a game, and, after knocking the balls aimlessly about, put down his cue, and meditatively lit a cigar.

“I say, old man, I want to ask you a straight question,” he said; “will you give me a straight answer?”

Geoffrey Milnes looked surprised. “Certainly, if I can,” he replied, as he struck a match. “What is it? Fire away.”

“Well, it’s simply this. Have you been talking any nonsense to my sister?”

Geoffrey coloured up. “It depends on what you consider nonsense,” he replied. “Our conversations are not often of a weighty description, I admit, but——” He finished off with a shrug.

“You know what I mean,” broke in Karne, impatiently. “It has been brought to my knowledge that you have been indulging in a flirtation with Celia. I simply want to know if there is any truth in it or not?”

The young doctor looked him straight in the eyes. “There is no truth in it whatsoever,” he answered. “I hate flirtation, for it is not only in bad taste, but it is cruel also, and I never go in for it in the slightest degree. But as we are on the subject, Karne, I may as well tell you that I do love your sister very dearly—she is the one girl in the world for me; and, if all goes well, I hope, some day, to win her for my wife.”

“Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.” Herbert threw down his cigar, and leant against the mantelpiece. “Listen to me, Geoffrey. You are an old friend of mine, and I like you; I don’t know of any fellow that I like better, so I want you to take what I am going to say in good part. Celia is a pretty girl and a thoroughly good girl, but she would not be a suitable wife for you. Firstly, you are a country doctor, and, as the son of the Vicar of Durlston, you have certain social and parochial duties to fulfil, in the performance of which your wife should materially assist. Celia could not do this—she is not adapted to it; and when she has tasted professional and social life in London, I am quite sure that she will not be content to rusticate as a country doctor’s wife. There is no offence meant, Geoff, of course.”

“But I hope I shall not always be a country doctor,” interposed the young man, quickly. “I am not without ambition, Karne, and I mean to try and work myself up to the top of my profession. Besides, as you know, my uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, practises in Harley Street. He is getting old now, and has given me every reason to believe that I shall step into his shoes when he finds that his energies are flagging. I should not dream of asking Celia to become my wife until my position was assured.”

“I suppose you know that Celia will inherit a considerable fortune at her father’s death?” asked Herbert, as he watched the other’s face keenly. “Bernie Franks is one of the richest men at the Cape, and that is saying a good deal.”

Geoffrey’s countenance lengthened, and he puffed away vigorously at his cigar.

“I did not know of it, or if I did know it I had forgotten,” he said gloomily. “Of course that makes it harder for me. With wealth as well as beauty and talent, Celia can wed some one in a much higher position than I can ever hope to attain. This is your chief objection, I suppose, Karne? It was kind of you not to tell it me in so many words.”

Herbert ignored the last remark. “Another thing,” he pursued earnestly, “Celia is a true Jewess by faith as well as by race, and you are, so far as I know, a devout and earnest Christian. I contend that there cannot be absolute unity ’twixt husband and wife when difference of religious opinions exists between them. Of course you might endeavour to convert Celia to your own faith, but I do not think you would succeed. We Jews have deeply rooted opinions—call them prejudices if you will,—and we instinctively cling to the faith of our ancestors. However lax we may be in the performance of our religious duties, we like to remember that, in spite of everything that tends to draw us away from Judaism, we still are Jews, and we set our faces hard against any attempt at our conversion.”

“You may be sure that I should respect Celia’s religious beliefs, and I should certainly not try to convince her otherwise against her will,” responded Geoffrey. “I believe that conversion should be voluntary; it is seldom sincere and lasting when brought about by coercion or persuasion. And as for wishing Celia to become a Christian from motives of expediency, you ought to know me better than that, Karne.”

He paused. From the drawing-room there arose the sound of sweet music. His sister Gladys was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat, and although her rendering of it was not at all Chopinesque, and her technique faulty, her playing was not without charm. They listened in silence until the last note died away, and each was busy with his own thoughts.

“Are you sure that Celia reciprocates your feelings of affection?” asked the artist, suddenly. “I know that she likes you very much indeed, but I doubt whether she has ever considered you as a possible lover.”

“That I don’t know,” said Geoffrey, with a sigh. “I wanted to find out before she went away.”

“Well, the best advice I can give you is to wait a while. You are both young, and have your lives before you. If you spoke to Celia now, you would unsettle her mind, and perhaps cause her pain. I want her to start out on her musical career without anything to worry her, so that she may give her whole attention to her studies. It will be much better for both of you to wait a few years. When Celia has met more people and has seen a little more of the world, she will be better able to judge whether she loves you or not; and, you know, love that will not stand the test of time and separation is not real love at all.”

“Yes, that’s all very well; but if I let Celia go without a word, she may think that I am indifferent to her. I feel that if I do not come to some understanding with her now, while her heart is free and she is unspoilt by flattery and adulation, I may lose her for ever. You speak so coolly, Karne. Have you never had a love-affair of your own? Cannot you understand how I feel?”

He spoke impetuously, and did not stop to think that his question was, perhaps, a presumptuous one. Although they had been friends for so long a time, Herbert had never been confidential so for as his affaires du cœur were concerned, and love was a subject he had hitherto tabooed. Yet to his nature love was a necessary adjunct, and without it his life would have been incomplete.

“My love affair was a fiasco,” he said slowly, while his face assumed a hard expression. “It is a painful subject to me, Geoffrey, and that is why I have never spoken about it. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you all, but not now. I am paying the penalty of it even yet; and therefore I am doubly anxious that Celia’s happiness should be assured. It is much better, so much better, to wait a few short years, than to make a lifelong mistake such as mine has been.”

Geoffrey Milnes was surprised and moved; and his face lit up with ready sympathy. He knew that there was some secret at the back of Herbert Karne’s life, some trouble that was continually weighing him down: and though he would have been glad to have found out what it was, so that, if possible, he might have helped his friend, he had the tact not to press for his confidence just then, but to wait until it was voluntarily given.

The drawing-room door was opened, and they heard the hum of voices on the stairs. Celia’s silvery laugh floated towards them; she was coming up to search for the deserters.

“Well, I will take your advice and say nothing to Celia at present,” Geoffrey said hurriedly, as he handled his cue and sent the balls rolling over the table. “But I am in earnest, Karne, and I shall remind you of this at some future time.”

The door was opened sharply, and Gladys Milnes entered with a bounce.

“There they are, the truants!” she exclaimed, as Celia followed more leisurely. “We all think it extremely rude of you to desert us in this unchivalrous manner. Lady Marjorie wants you to come and hear Miss Stannard recite. It’s something very tragic, so Celia and I thought we had better take our leave in case we were overcome with our emotions. The last time we heard her recite, we exploded in the middle of it, and she hasn’t forgiven us yet. Father said it was very bad manners, but we couldn’t help it, for Miss Stannard’s tragic recitations are too funny for anything. Come on, Geoff, you can sit just inside the drawing-room near the door, and Celia and I will stand outside and pull faces at you. I bet you anything we’ll make you laugh, especially when Miss Stannard comes to the part about the ‘ruddy gore,’ and the ‘br-r-reaking hear-r-rt.’ Won’t we, Celia?”

“Don’t be so silly, Gladys,” admonished her brother severely; “you get more babyish every day.”

He switched off the electric light, and they passed down the shallow staircase.

Miss Stannard had already begun her recitation, and, not wishing to disturb her, they lingered in the hall. Celia seated herself on the stairs with her feet resting on the lowest step, and, as a natural consequence, Geoffrey followed suit. He rested his chin on his hands, and heaved a deep sigh. It seemed so very hard to have to part with Celia without having told her of what was in his heart, when perhaps some other fellow in London would snap her up before she had time to look round. He had half a mind to tell her everything there and then, in spite of what Herbert had said, but he managed to restrain his desire, and contented himself with looking very forlorn instead.

Celia glanced at him curiously. “Whatever is the matter with you, Geoffrey?” she whispered. “You are sighing like some love-sick swain.”

“Supposing I were a love-sick swain,” he answered, with a faint attempt at a smile; “what would you advise me to do?”

“I scarcely know,” she returned without embarrassment. “But I will give you an antidote which Major Denham told me. It is to go and see your best girl before breakfast one morning when she does not expect you, and her hair is in curl-papers, and she is wearing a dowdy blouse. Major Denham says that a little touch of prosaic realism like that is the best thing to counteract the effect of romantic sentiment. He has found it a most efficient cure himself.”

“Yes, but if my best girl never wears curl-papers or a dowdy blouse, what then?”

Celia rose to join the others in the drawing-room. “In that case I’m afraid I cannot advise you,” she said, with a roguish glance from under her long lashes. “But if you consult Major Denham, perhaps he will be able to tell you what to do.”

Mrs. Friedberg possessed one of the kindest hearts in the world, and when she heard that Celia Franks, whose father was a distant relative of her own, intended coming to London, she at once offered the girl a temporary home, so that she should not have to go and live amongst strangers. Her daughters demurred just a little when the plan was first suggested, for the prospect of having another girl about the house was not particularly pleasing to them; but their mother, taking into consideration that a good many bills in connection with Adeline’s wedding were as yet unpaid, and that Mr. Karne’s terms were sufficiently liberal to enable her to settle at least some of them, overruled their numerous objections, and wrote off to Durlston to make all arrangements.

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.

Before Celia had been at the Academy a month, she came to the conclusion that musicians generally were the most jealous and conceited species of the human race. It amused her greatly to hear the students—and especially the girl students—condescendingly speak of Paderewski’s “no mean abilities,” and Madame Patti’s “ofttimes faulty vocalization.” To her such musical giants as these were beyond criticism; but then, of course, she was a new student, and correspondingly unsophisticated.

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.”

“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.

The coming of David Salmon brought a new interest into Celia’s life. His acquaintance with her father formed a link of friendship between them; and from the first she looked upon him in a different light to the other young men she met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house. He went the very best way to work to win her affections, that he possibly could have done. Other young men paid her open and extravagant compliments; David did not, and Celia liked him all the better on that account, because she thought he was sincere. In conversation he was very careful to avoid the Yiddish expressions so prevalent amongst the people by whom they were surrounded; and although he was not able to be discursive on any subject except, perhaps, racing, of which she knew nothing, he managed to convey the idea that he knew a great deal more than he cared to say. He came to see the Friedbergs every evening regularly, and, if Celia were not downstairs, he nearly always found his way up to her sitting-room, with either Dinah or Victor to act as “gooseberry.”

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.

One Tuesday morning when Celia was having her harmony lesson at the Academy, the hall-porter entered the room with some importance, and handed her a visiting card. It bore the superscription, “Lady Marjorie Stonor,” and underneath was scribbled in pencil, “Am in town for two days. Can you see me?”

With some excitement the girl asked leave of her professor to be excused, and, gathering up her music-books, hastened from the room in glad expectancy. Lady Marjorie was standing in the hall, studying the concert notices. She was wearing some handsome sables, with Parma violets in her toque, at her throat, and on her muff, and she looked younger and prettier than ever, Celia thought.

“I couldn’t resist coming in to have a look at you,” she explained, after the first greetings were over. “I’ve only come up to London to see my solicitors, and I am going back to-morrow afternoon.”

“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.”

When Celia went home for the Christmas holidays, it was as the betrothed of David Salmon. David had proposed to her one evening when they were at Mrs. Rosen’s house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, and she had accepted him, on condition that he should not even introduce the subject of marriage to her for at least three years.

It was altogether a conditional engagement on her part. She was not sure if she really loved him, and she was not at all anxious to be engaged; but David seemed so bent on having his own way, that for the sake of peace she acceded to his request.

The first thing he did was to cast about for a diamond ring for his fiancée. He would have to beg, borrow, or steal one from somewhere. There were plenty in the jewellers’ shops, and he looked at them with longing eyes, but as he had no cash wherewith to purchase one, he was obliged to be content with looking only.

Presently, however, a bright idea struck him. Hailing a hansom, he betook himself to the aristocratic neighbourhood of Shoreditch, where there resided, at the sign of three balls, an old man who happened to be a second cousin of his father’s. Ikey Benjamin was scarcely a relative to be proud of, and on most occasions David conveniently forgot the relationship; but he chose to remember it now. The dingy little shop was filled with a conglomeration of old bric-a-brac, violins, books and jewellery, both antique and modern. Keeping the hansom waiting at the kerb, Salmon entered, and tendering the grubby little pawnbroker a familiar greeting, inquired politely after the health of his wife and family. Ikey Benjamin glanced at him suspiciously, and answered with short grunts. He was quite certain that the young swell had not driven all the way from Maida Vale to ask after Mrs. Ikey and all the tribe of Benjamin.

David produced his silver cigar-case, and proffered a choice Havana. The old man accepted it, sniffed at it approvingly, and finally clipped and lit it, whilst his face relaxed a little of its sternness.

“Tings looking up mit you, eh?” he queried, as his narrow eyes took in the fashionable cut of Salmon’s frock coat. “Done well in Sout’ Africa, I suppose, eh?”

“No, I lost every stiver I possessed,” answered David, as he made a casual survey of all the stock that the shop contained. “But I hope that I’m going to do well now. I’ve just got engaged to the daughter of one of the richest men at the Cape. You have heard of Bernie Franks, haven’t you, Ikey?”

“Heard of Bernie Franks? Have I heard of Queen Victoria!” said the old fellow with resentment. “Of course I have. I wish you mazzletov,[9] Dave, if you marry his daughter.”

“Thanks. Well now we’ll come to business.” David sat down on an overturned barrel, and produced a small piece of cardboard into which a circular hole had been cut. “I want a diamond ring for my young lady. And if you have one for sale cheap, you may as well have my money as any one else. Only it must be smart, and not too ancient.”

Mr. Benjamin shook his head. “Ain’t got nodings of the kind,” he said decisively. “My customers don’t go in for diamond rings. But I might be able to get you one in about a week.”

“That wouldn’t do. I must have it to-day. Miss Franks is going away to the north to-morrow, and I want her to take it with her.”

The old man was silent for a few seconds, whilst he puffed away at his cigar.

“Have you the cash right down?” he inquired, presently.

“No-o,” answered David, with hesitation. “But I’ll give you an I.O.U.; and I can guarantee the cheque—or its equivalent in solid gold—within a week. That’s good enough, isn’t it?”

But his cousin was not quite satisfied. He wanted some security, and the young man had none to offer. At length, however, they came to terms; and, calling to his son to mind the shop, Ikey Benjamin donned his Sabbath hat and overcoat, and jumped into the hansom accompanied by David.

They drove to Hatton Garden to interview a diamond merchant who was a close friend of Ikey’s; and after a long confabulation, and some amount of haggling, David became the possessor of a very pretty ring. He was so delighted with the transaction, that he wished to treat the two men to a bottle of Kosher rum each, but as they happened both to be strict teetotalers, his offer was respectfully declined.

When he left them he hastened back to Maida Vale to present the ring to his beloved. Celia, however, was not at home, and Lottie informed him that she had been out all the morning with Enid and the Rev. Ralph Wilton.

“She seems to be quite taken up with the Wiltons and the Brookes,” Mrs. Friedberg complained. “And what she wants with that good-looking young clergyman, I’m sure I don’t know. I should put a stop to that friendship, if I were you, Dave. Put your foot down, and try to make her submit to your wishes.”

David put both feet down, and marched about the room with some impatience. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket, and, as he was dying to show it to some one, he gave Mrs. Friedberg the privilege of the first view.

She examined it with approval. “Celia ought to be pleased with that,” she said. “It’s a beautiful ring. But I hope you haven’t gone above your means, Dave?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “It did cost a fine penny, but I had to give her a decent one; and as she will practically pay for it herself, I suppose I mustn’t grumble.”

“But, my dear boy, you can’t possibly ask the girl outright to pay for her own engagement ring!” said Mrs. Friedberg, in astonishment. “Whatever would she think of you?”

“Of course I can’t,” he answered laughingly. “But I’ll manage it somehow, never fear.”

When Celia returned, he drew her aside into the back drawing-room; and after a short preliminary speech, which voiced some very excellent sentiments (according to his own ideas), he produced the ring. Celia blushed rosy red as he placed it on her finger; and her colour deepened still further when he sealed the compact with a hearty kiss. She hoped he did not intend to indulge in much lovemaking of this sort. She ought to have liked it, but she did not, and it made her feel quite uncomfortable.

“To think that, after to-morrow, I shall not see you for a whole three weeks!” he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. “How ever shall I be able to exist all that time without you?”

“The same as you did before you knew me, I suppose,” she answered, holding her left hand up, so that the diamonds caught the light and glittered in the sun. “By-the-by, David, I should very much like to give you a little present as a memento of this occasion, and I don’t quite know what to get for you.”

His eyes sparkled eagerly, and he almost made a hasty answer, but managed to control himself in time.

“As long as I have you, my darling,” he answered, pressing her hand, “I want nothing in the world besides. You have given me the best present possible, Celia—yourself.”

“And I admit I am a handful,” she returned, smiling. “But still I want you to accept a little souvenir, David, just to please me. What shall it be? An umbrella, or a card-case, or a pair of cuff-links?”

He rose from his chair at her side, and strode nervously about the room. Celia was still examining her ring, and did not see his face.

“Well, as you are so anxious to give me a present, dearest,” he said, after due consideration, “I should like something that has already been a sort of amulet to me—I mean your gold nugget. Of course, I don’t want it for its intrinsic value; but it is a curiosity, and has a history attached to it—it came from California, in the first place—and there is nothing you could give me that would please me more.”

If he had expected her to grant his request with alacrity he was mistaken. Sitting down to the piano she played a little arpeggio passage; then veered round on the music-stool, and faced him.

“I’m so sorry, David,” she began, apologetically, “but I am afraid I cannot give you that. Isn’t there anything else you would like? You see it is so very valuable, and——”

“And I suppose it’s too good for me,” he put in hastily. “I am sorry I asked for it, but I thought you gave me my choice. And it isn’t really of any use to you, Celia, so you might as well give it to me as keep it locked up in Mr. Friedberg’s safe.”

“I would with pleasure,” she answered, “only—— Don’t look so cross, David, but sit down, and I will tell you just how it is. You know Miss Wilton’s brother, don’t you, or, at least, you’ve seen him? He is a clergyman in a very poor parish near Hoxton. The people there are horribly, sordidly poor. They are housed together like cattle instead of human beings, with the consequence that vice and misery are rife amongst them. Most of them couldn’t go to church even if they wanted to, because they haven’t any decent clothes to go in. Oh, I almost had the nightmare after Mr. Wilton had told me of some of the horrors of their daily lives! He would not have told me, only I asked him: for since I came to London, my eyes have been opened to all the miserable poverty and suffering there is in this great city, and I wanted to know more about it; I don’t think it’s right to close one’s eyes to these things. Mr. Wilton took me over his church and parish this morning; it is a dreadfully poor church, and not at all properly fitted up. Well, to come to the point, I thought that, having this nugget, which, as you say, is of no use to me, it would be a good thing to sell it and give the money to one of Mr. Wilton’s funds. I am sure my father would have no objection to my selling it for such a good cause; and Mr. Friedberg has promised to dispose of it for me. Don’t you think it a nice idea, David?”

She looked into his eyes, half appealingly, hoping to read therein approval and sympathy; but his brow had knit into a frown during her recital, and the expression on his face was one of ill-concealed displeasure.

Celia was, in reality, a tender-hearted, large-souled child; David considered her in this respect a silly little fool.

“I am quite sure your father would object,” he said decidedly. “The nugget has been in your family for years, and it would be a pity to sell it, unless you were absolutely driven to do so, which you never will be. Besides, what do you want to bother yourself about Mr. Wilton’s church for? If you have such charitable inclinations, why do you not interest yourself in the Jewish poor? Surely our own people should come first?”

“I am interested in the Jewish poor,” the girl answered seriously. “But they are in the minority, and are mostly well looked after. What does it matter, though, whether they be Jews or Gentiles; are they not all God’s poor? The reason I am particularly interested in Mr. Wilton’s parish, however, is because Ralph Wilton himself is such an energetic man, and so enthusiastic over his work. Enid told me that he actually set to and white-washed his church himself, because there were no funds to pay for it. And do you know why the men in Hoxton respect him? Not for his pulpit eloquence, nor for his straight living, but simply because they knew that, if it came to it, he could fight and rout any one of them—he is a ’versity man, and was one of the Oxford eight. Those are the sort of people he has to deal with—men who admire mere brute force a great deal more than the highest moral or spiritual qualities,—and it is Ralph Wilton’s vocation to tame the savage instincts within them, to raise their standard of the chief aim of life. That is why it would be such a pleasure to me to help on, if it were ever so little, what I consider such really noble effort.”

“I suppose it’s the Wiltons themselves who have imbued you with these high-flown notions,” said David, with annoyance, whilst he made up his mind to try and gain entire control over her fortune when they were married. “I should certainly not advise you to waste any money in that way, Celia. Don’t you see, how ever much you can give, it is only a drop in the ocean; and surely you have other things to think of instead of worrying yourself about the poor? What is the use of bothering your head about things that can’t be altered? There always have been poor people, and I suppose there always will be, and it’s my opinion that they are a great deal better off than those poor devils—beg pardon—of the ‘middle’ class, who are obliged to keep up an appearance on next to nothing a year.”

The girl was silent, whilst her fingers meditatively pressed the keys, and wandered off into a little minor melody of her own improvisation. She was fond of musing to the accompaniment of a sequence of chords played pianissimo; they helped her to think, or at least she imagined they did.

“David,” she said presently, as her fingers paused over an interrupted cadence, “have you ever realized the responsibility of existence, of being a human creature with mental capacity and a soul? I have, since I came to London; and at times it weighs heavily upon me—the burden and the stress of life.”

He glanced at her moodily, and murmured something under his breath which sounded not unlike “Rats!”

Aloud he said, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

That was just it; he did not understand! Celia sighed. Already there existed the little rift within the lute. She was beginning to find out that, although at first he had professed to be so entirely in sympathy with her, there was something in their two natures which did not altogether harmonize. Either he was too superficial for her, or else she was too serious for him: she was not sure which.

But David thought they had wandered too far away from the subject of the nugget.

“You wouldn’t refuse me the first little favour I have ever asked you, would you, darling?” he said, striving to introduce a tender inflection into his voice. “Why, Celia, if you were to ask me for everything I possessed, I would give it you without a moment’s hesitation.”

She rose from the piano, and regarded her ring contemplatively.

“Do you want the nugget so much as all that, David? Well, you shall have it. I don’t want you to think me selfish or unkind. I dare say Herbert will advance me the money I have promised to Mr. Wilton’s fund—he wouldn’t like me to break a promise, I know. Remind me to ask Mr. Friedberg for it to-night, and I will give it to you then.”

He took her in his arms, and thanked her effusively. It was a weight off his mind. Within a week the nugget was in pawn at Ikey Benjamin’s shop. David would not sell it outright at present, in case Celia should ask to see it at any time; but his cousin had given him sufficient money to pay for the ring, and with that he had perforce to be content. He considered that he had managed the affair very smartly.

It is not every man who can get his fiancée to pay for her own ring.

The cheerless winter afternoon was drawing to a close, as, muffled up in furs, and escorted by a Dandy Dinmont terrier, Celia hastened up the Durlston High Road. The sky was heavy with leaden clouds of snow; the cold wind blew in sharp gusts across the moor, making her ears tingle and her cheeks glow. She had been visiting some of the wives of Herbert Karne’s protégés, and they had given her such a homely welcome that she had spent a most enjoyable afternoon.

It happened to be Friday, the eve of the Sabbath, and she had watched them prepare the fried fish and raisin wine which were the necessary adjuncts of their Sabbath meal. Her presence did not disturb them in the least, for she was unassuming and never in the way, and she had received more than one invitation to stay and partake of their frugal fare. There was no false pride about these people; they were poor, but exceedingly hospitable, and they would always offer you the best they had to give.

As Celia turned into the private road leading to the Towers, she became aware of a form leaning against the hedge which skirted the foot-path. Dandy sniffed, and growled ominously—he had no sympathy with tramps; and as the girl paused irresolute, a woman emerged from amongst the deepening shadows.

“Don’t be nervous, Miss Celia; it’s only me—Anna Strelitzki,” she said hurriedly. “I’m in trouble; I’ve come to you for help. They’ve given Jacob the sack at Mendel’s factory, and they say they won’t take him on again this time. And he’s spent every penny we had in drink—all the money I had saved up for the rent this week. And baby has got the croup, and Dr. Milnes says she must have careful attention and nourishment, and I ain’t got a bit of coal in the house. I’m that worried I don’t know where to turn.”

She burst into tears, and her frame shook with heavy sobs. Celia was quite distressed. She knew Anna’s husband, Jacob Strelitzki. He was a surly Jew of the worst type, and had given trouble at the factory on more than one occasion.

“I am so sorry for you,” she said sympathetically. “Will you come up to the Towers and see Mr. Karne? If you tell him all your difficulties, he will see what can be done; you ought to have gone to him before.”

But the woman hung back. “I can’t go to Mr. Karne,” she sobbed, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Jacob had a row with him this week when he had been drinking, and Mr. Karne said he wouldn’t give him any more help, and called him a renegade and a scoundrel, and——”

It was beginning to snow. Celia cut her short. “Well, I will speak to my brother,” she said kindly. “I feel sure he will help you and baby, even if he won’t assist your husband. But here is something to tide you over your immediate difficulty.” She opened her purse and took out a sovereign, which represented all her weekly allowance. Mrs. Strelitzki accepted it with effusive thanks, and called down blessings upon the girl’s head. Although she possessed some qualms of conscience for taking money on the Sabbath, she satisfied her scruples by the thought that she would be able to say her Sabbath prayers more fervently.

Celia watched her turn and disappear in the darkness, then hurried onwards, for it was getting late. Her brother was already in his own room, dressing for dinner, when she arrived home, so that she could not speak to him then about the Strelitzkis, but they occupied her thoughts as she made her evening toilette.

She remembered their humble wedding three years ago. Anna had been such a pretty bride, and Jacob was steady and industrious then. Their lives had been full of promise; but now Jacob drank, and Anna was an ill-used wife. She wondered how it felt to have a drunken husband: it must be dreadful; she shuddered at the thought. Suppose David were to take to drink and ill-use her? But it was absurd to think of such a thing. Jewish men proverbially made good husbands, and a drunken Jew was, fortunately, a rare exception.

Checking the flow of her thoughts, the girl scanned her wardrobe for what she should choose to wear. She expected Dr. Milnes, whom she had not yet met since her return, and, as she was not entirely free from girlish vanity, she wanted to look nice. With the advice of her maid, she selected a light grey gown with long trailing skirts, and diaphanous collar and sleeves of old cream lace. It was the dress she had worn at the engagement party which Mrs. Friedberg had given in her honour; and though it had not met with David’s approval, being too puritanical for his taste, she fancied that Herbert and Geoffrey liked her in simple gowns.

Her heart beat a little faster than usual as she passed down the stairs to await her guests—Geoffrey Milnes and his partner Dr. Forrest. She wondered what Geoffrey would have to say about her engagement, and half hoped that he would not congratulate her on the fact.

She need not have been afraid; he did not even mention it, though his eyes wandered frequently to the ring which flashed almost aggressively on her finger. There was just a little constraint between them when, Karne having taken Dr. Forrest to look at some specimens of ancient art, they were left to a tête-à-tête conversation; but it soon wore off, and Celia was so glad to see his good, honest English face again. They found plenty to talk about without being personal; and passed from grave to gay, and back again to grave.

Celia was sitting on a small settee in the bay window, the light from a pink-shaded standard lamp casting quite a roseate glow on her face and form. Although she had only been away three months, Geoffrey found her changed. It may have been the cut of her London gown, but she certainly seemed to have grown taller and more graceful. She wore her hair differently too; for, instead of being done Madonna fashion as of old, it was dressed high, and had the effect of making her look quite distinguished. And there was a dreamy wistfulness about the eyes, and a little pathetic droop about the lips which had not been there before; he found out the reason for it in the course of conversation—she had begun to think.

To almost every youthful mind there comes a period of perturbation and unrest; one asks the eternal question “Why?” and strives to discern the raison d’être of things. Life, death, religion, ethics, and social inequality—all those problems which defy even the keenest penetration, crop up in overwhelming force, and one’s soul is filled with a passionate yearning to master the knowledge of the unattainable. This quickening of the mental and spiritual faculties had come to Celia now; and in her case it was primarily the consciousness of the “deep sighing of the poor.”

When the young doctor asked her opinion of London and Londoners, she told him frankly just what she thought; and his was such a congenial spirit that she forgot the barrier which had sprung up between them, forgot for the moment that there was such a person as David Salmon in existence.

But Geoffrey Milnes did not forget. That morning he had received a letter from a medical friend in Sydney, asking him to act as locum tenens for a year in his place; and he was debating as to whether he should accept the post or not. Once out in Australia he might stay there for years, and his hope of marrying Celia would have to be totally renounced. The news of her engagement had come as a great blow, but it had not entirely shattered his hopes. Herbert Karne had told him quite candidly that he was disappointed in Celia’s choice, and had also hinted that the engagement might have been the outcome of mere propinquity, not love. This made Geoffrey all the more angry that he had not been first in the field; and though his keen sense of honour forbade him to make love to another man’s fiancée, he was not altogether discouraged. A good many things could happen in three years; he would have to bide his time.

At dinner he was silent, almost moody. Celia sat next to Dr. Forrest and opposite to himself, and though a silver épergne filled with chrysanthemums partially obscured him from her view, she felt his eyes continually on her face.

The conversation between the old doctor and his host was chiefly on such topics as tithes and the agricultural outlook, and when, at the close of the meal, Celia rose and left the room, they were holding a controversy on the question of vivisection.

Geoffrey Milnes remained silent, for as he held contrary views to his partner, he deemed it wiser not to join in the discussion. He lit a cigarette, and smoked it pensively; then asked to be excused, and followed Celia into the drawing-room.

She was standing at a little table, turning over the leaves of a book, and did not hear him enter. The room was in partial darkness, for the electric light had been extinguished; and the flickering firelight, mingled with the subdued effulgence from the lamp, cast weird shadows over the walls. Above her head there hung, suspended from the chandelier, a large bunch of mistletoe.

The temptation was too much for Geoffrey. Giving way to a sudden uncontrollable impulse, he clasped her in his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss upon her brow. He could feel the throbbing of her heart near his, her warm breath upon his cheeks; then he let her go.

“Geoffrey!” she gasped in bewilderment, “Geoffrey!” It was all she could utter; the suddenness of it, and the surprise, seemed to have bereft her of all words.

“Forgive me, Celia,” he panted. “It was a liberty I ought not to have taken; but it is a Christmas privilege—under the mistletoe, you know.”

He looked at her penitently. She sank down on to a low chair by the fire. A warm colour suffused her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

Geoffrey took up his position on the other side of the hearth, with his arm resting on the mantelpiece.

“Are you very angry with me?” he asked timidly, half expecting to be reproached.

“No, not angry,” she answered in a low voice; “but you should not have done it, Geoffrey. My fiancé would be angry if he knew.”

She looked up, and met his gaze unflinchingly. He sighed. They gazed into the glowing embers as if they would read therein the reflection of each other’s thoughts. A burning coal fell into the fender. Geoffrey adjusted the tongs, and put it back again.

“What strange visions are in the fire,” he observed after a pause. “Shall I tell you what I can see? Two children, a girl and a boy. The girl has hazel eyes and bronze-gold hair, almost the colour of that pale flame. The boy is fair and freckled. They have met in a meadow on the way home from school. The girl is pulling off the petals of a daisy, one by one, ‘Loves me, loves me not.’ The last one comes to ‘loves me!’ She looks questioningly at the little boy. Yes, he does love her, loves her better than his new cricket bat, better than the guinea-pig which his father gave him for his birthday; she is his little sweetheart!”

He poked the fire; Celia stirred uneasily. “Look, the scene has changed,” he continued dreamily. “The girl and boy are grown up now, new interests have come into their lives, their spheres have widened. No longer do they stroll in the meadows after school, though in the school of life they sometimes meet. The boy is still faithful to his early love; but she—she has forgotten that they were ever sweethearts. She is beautiful, talented, and an heiress, and belongs to a race and faith more ancient than his own. He is the son of a country clergyman, and has no good prospects, nothing to offer her but his love; and yet——”

He broke off abruptly. Celia had risen to her feet. Her lips were parted, and her breath came quickly, whilst the hand which lightly rested on the chair-back trembled like a leaf.

“Geoffrey, stop!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “Do you know what you are saying? I can’t pretend to misunderstand you. You have no right to talk to me like that; it is too late—now.”

“Too late!” he repeated passionately. “Yes; I was a fool not to have spoken before. Forgive me, Celia, if I have said more than I ought.” He raised his hand, and wearily pushed the hair from off his brow. “I feel out of gear to-night; don’t think too hardly of me, will you? I may be going away soon—away, out of your life, far beyond the seas.”

They both heard some movement in the hall. Celia went to the door, and switched on more light.

“Going away?” she faltered, in surprise.

“Yes; to Australia. My agreement with Dr. Forrest terminates this month, and now that my uncle Neville Williams is dead, I have nothing particular to keep me at home. Unless——” His face lit up with sudden hope; he looked at her appealingly.

What he was going to say, however, died on his lips, for he heard the old doctor talking to Karne outside the door. With a swift movement he seated himself at the piano, and wandered off into the pathetic harmonies of Schumann’s “Warum?”

Celia remained standing by the mantelpiece, with bent head and solemn eyes. It had come as a revelation to her, the knowledge of Geoffrey’s love. Oh, if she had only known before! Why had he not told her? But it was too late now. She had promised herself to David Salmon; she would be true to her promise; she must be true, cost her what it might.

A touch on her shoulder interrupted her reverie. Her brother was standing at her side; his face was pale, and he looked disturbed.

“Celia dear, I have just received bad news,” he said, with some agitation. “Bad news from South Africa. It has come very suddenly. I am afraid it will give you a shock, but it is best that you should know it at once—your father is dead.”

Geoffrey’s hands fell on the keys with a discordant crash; the news came as the death-blow to his hopes.

Celia scanned the cablegram which Herbert handed to her:—

“Dear father—dead!” she exclaimed, in an awestruck voice. But she did not show signs of grief; it was impossible that she should sorrow deeply for one whom she could barely remember. It touched her, however, to think that he had died out at the Cape, all alone. She wished she had been with him at the last.

Dr. Forrest came forward and tendered his sympathetic condolence, after which he took his leave.

Geoffrey Milnes also rose to go. His brain was on fire, his mind in a tumult, but he managed to utter a formal sentence of sympathy; in his confusion he almost blundered into congratulating Celia on acquiring her father’s fortune.

“I suppose I shall see you again?” he asked wistfully, as he pressed her hand at parting. “It is probable that I shall sail on Saturday week.”

Celia’s eyes were humid, and her lips quivered; she could not control herself sufficiently to reply.

“So you have decided to go?” said Karne, almost cheerfully. “Ah, well, there is nothing like a little knocking about the world to put grit into a man. It will make you hard as nails, Geoff—and that’s what we have to be in this world, old chap,” he added with a sigh. “Hard as nails, and equally as tough.”

It was strange how quickly the news of the death of Bernie Franks became known the next morning. It was the one topic of conversation in Durlston that day, and the front door bell at the Towers scarcely rested. There was a short but important paragraph in the London paper about it, which may have accounted for the numerous telegrams Celia received from people with whom neither she nor her half-brother had the slightest acquaintance, but who, according to their messages, had been on the most intimate terms with her father.

The afternoon train from London brought David Salmon to Durlston. He put up at the best hotel in the town, and, after having refreshed himself from the effects of the journey, started off for the Towers, wearing a black tie and a mourning-band on his hat. He was in very exuberant spirits, and walked along the High Road whistling and humming the latest music-hall tunes; then suddenly recollected his rôle as mourner and sympathizer, and managed to assume the requisite amount of gravity. He had been to the Towers once before, for the purpose of making Herbert Karne’s acquaintance, so did not consider himself a stranger there. Judging by the way he made his entrance, the house might have been his own property, and the home of his ancestors.

A little boy, in a man-of-war suit, was playing about the hall when he arrived, and watched him take off his hat and overcoat with a show of interest. He had put his own hat on the head of a statue which held an electric lamp, and looked as if he expected David to do the same.

“Cely’s papa is dead,” he informed him gravely. “An’ my papa is dead, and Mr. Karne’s papa is dead. Is your papa dead too?”

“Yes, my papa is dead too,” answered David with mock gravity. He wondered what the youngster was doing there.

“It’s very funny, isn’t it?” said the little boy, looking up into his face with round solemn eyes. “They fasten all the papas up tight in a box, and put ’em in a long hole in the ground, and then they go to Heaven. But when old Patrick died—that’s our gardener—I stood by the hole ever such a long time after they putted him down, an’ I didn’t see him go to Heaven. Perhaps he wasn’t good enough, though—he used to swear at me drefful sometimes in Irish, and vicar says it’s only good people that go to Heaven. Do you know what I fink?” he added, putting his finger in his mouth and looking very wise. “I fink that, instead of putting them down a hole, they ought to put them on top of the church tower, so that they wouldn’t have so far to go to get up to Heaven; and then, if they rang the church bells, the angels might hear, and come down and carry them away.”

David smiled, and patted the child’s head indulgently.

“He’s a rum ’un, is Master Bobbie,” said the butler in parenthesis. “He’d keep you chatting all day if you would stay. Is it Mr. Karne you wish to see, sir, or Miss Celia?”

“You can’t see Mr. Karne,” put in the little boy, decidedly. “I wanted to ask him lots of fings, but he is busy writing letters, an’ he told me to run away and play. You had better come up and see Cely. Mother’s up there with her, and lots more ladies. Cely looks drefful sad; I fink she’s going to cry. That’s why I comed out; I don’t like to see growed people cry—do you?”

He danced up the stairs and across the landing, his chubby face aglow with vivacity and health.

“It’s all right, Higgins,” he called out to the butler. “I’ll show the gentleman the way. What is your name—Mr. Salmon? How funny! We eat salmon, don’t we, an’ it’s pink?”

He opened the library door cautiously, and peeped in. A buzz of conversation met their ears.

“It’s all right,” he informed David, in a loud whisper. “She’s not crying.” Then, imitating Higgins, he went forward, and announced, in a stentorian tone of voice, “Mr. Fish!”

Celia rose with some surprise, for she knew no one of that name, and, although it was very foolish of her, she felt her colour rise as David Salmon entered. He was the last person she wished to see just then, for she had not yet recovered from the shock of Geoffrey Milnes’ veiled avowal. She managed to retain her self-possession, however, and, having thanked him for his expression of sympathy, introduced him to her friends.

Lady Marjorie Stonor he had already met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house, and she extended her hand in that hail-fellow-well-met kind of manner which was one of her own particular charms.

“I am sorry you fell into the hands of my small son,” she said with urbanity. “He is a veritable enfant terrible. I never know what he will say or do next. Come here, Bobbie, and let me introduce you to Mr. Salmon.”

But Bobbie had established himself comfortably on the knee of a charming young lady, and did not feel inclined to disturb himself.

“Oh, it’s all right, mother,” he said equably. “We have been ’duced; we knowed each other downstairs. Mr. Salmon’s papa is dead too.”

The charming young lady bent down and whispered something into the little boy’s ear. She was afraid that he would say something that might hurt Celia’s feelings, for his childish mind seemed full of her bereavement. He was very fond of his dear “Cely,” and he did not like to see her look so sad.

David Salmon was awkward and ill at ease. He possessed no interest in common with these stiff and formal county people, and felt that as Celia’s fiancé he was being criticized, and would afterwards be commented upon. He was not sorry when Celia suggested that he should go and hunt up her brother, and, rising with alacrity, went from the room with an air of relief.

He found Herbert Karne in the study, busily attending to a formidable pile of correspondence; and, fearing to intrude, would have withdrawn, but the artist called him in, and made him sit down.

“I have only two more letters to write, and then I shall have done,” he said, when they had shaken hands. “I am glad you have come, Salmon. I should like you to tell me what you know of poor Franks’s affairs presently, if you will.”

He took up his pen and indited another letter, whilst David lit up a cigar, and watched him through a thin haze of smoke.

Karne was certainly a man worth looking at, and, like his half-sister, possessed a marked personality. He had straight jet-black hair, contrasting sharply with a pale, almost sallow complexion. His features were clear-cut, and but slightly suggestive of his Jewish origin, the nose being high-bridged like Celia’s, and the clean-shaven chin firm and resolute. His eyes were dark and brilliant, and reflected his varying emotions as if they had been, in truth, the faithful mirrors of his inner self.

They were the eyes of a thinker and a dreamer of dreams. If Karne’s poetic instincts had not found an outlet in allegorical art, he would in all probability have been a musical composer or a writer of verse. Yet, in spite of his tendency towards romance, his nature was encrusted with a strain of prosaic common sense which gave strength to his character, and made him essentially practical.

When David Salmon had heard of his charity to the workers at Mendel’s factory, he had attributed it to a good nature which could easily be imposed upon. He found, however, that he was mistaken; it would not be so easy as he imagined to hoodwink Herbert Karne.

As the artist put down his pen and sealed the last letter, the door opened to admit a gentleman in clerical attire, who, judging by the familiar way in which he greeted him, appeared to be an intimate friend of his. He had a kind, cheery face, and, although rapidly approaching ripe middle age, looked very little more than forty-five. Time had used him well; and his vigour was as great now as ever it had been in his youth. He was a man who enjoyed the good things of life, and thanked God heartily for them. He liked to be happy himself, and nothing gave him keener pleasure than to see those around him happy also. Genial, courteous, and complaisant—such was the Vicar of Durlston.

“You seem to be busy, Herbert,” he said, when he had been introduced to David Salmon. “But don’t be alarmed; I can only stay a few minutes, as Gladys is waiting for me to take her home. I want you to be so good as to give me what information you can concerning Jacob Strelitzki. He was, until just recently, in the employ of Messrs. Mendel & Co., so you have no doubt come in contact with him at one time or another.”

“Yes, I have,” rejoined Karne, dryly. “And I am rather surprised if he has referred you to me for a character. He ought to know pretty well what opinion I have of him by this time.”

“He did not refer me to you,” corrected the clergyman, affably. “I will tell you how it is, Karne. The man came to me about a fortnight ago, and said that he was convinced of the truth of the Christian Faith as expounded by the Church of England, and wished to be baptized accordingly. Also that his fellow-workers were so incensed against him for giving up Judaism, that he could not possibly stay at Mendel’s factory, and was obliged to leave. He was quite without means of subsistence, and I organized a fund amongst my parishioners for his relief. Since then I have been able to obtain a situation for him as steward to Squire Stannard, with whom I think you are acquainted. The squire is much interested in Strelitzki’s case, and will, I am sure, be exceedingly kind to him. Before he goes, however, I should like to be assured that he bears a good character, for of course the squire will hold me responsible, in a measure, for his future conduct.”

“Just so,” agreed Herbert, smiling somewhat cynically. “Have you baptized him yet?”

“No, not yet,” returned the vicar. “All being well, I hope to perform the ceremony on Sunday week.”

“Well, before you do so, Milnes, I should advise you to ascertain whether he has ever been baptized before,” said Karne, his brows drawn together in a frown. “I am very sorry to have to destroy your good faith in the man, but I am not going to stand by and see you taken in by a scoundrel like Strelitzki. There exists, unfortunately, a certain class of low Jews—mostly foreigners—who will change their religion until they have joined almost every recognized sect, so long as there is some pecuniary advantage to be gained by their doing so. They are generally men out of work, being unable or too lazy to get employment; and so they prey upon these various missionary and conversionist societies, who, in their misguided zeal, welcome them with open arms. Their material necessities are attended to, as well as their spiritual needs, so that they find that, at least temporarily, conversion is a paying game. That Strelitzki belongs to this class, I am confident, and the less you have to do with him the better.”

The good vicar was inexpressibly shocked. He thought, however, that his friend was slightly prejudiced against converted Jews, for, in the many arguments they had had on the subject, they had never yet been able to agree.

“This is a serious allegation, Karne,” he said gravely. “I have been greatly deceived if such is indeed the case. About these conversionist societies I know very little; but I hope—and, yes, in spite of what you say, I believe—that the majority of their converts are sincere. Unfortunately there are black sheep in every fold. But I certainly thought that Jacob Strelitzki was a genuine seeker after truth. Are you sure that you have not misjudged him, Karne? His character may not be irreproachable in other respects, I admit, but in this, at least, his motive may be pure?”

“Shall I tell you why Strelitzki left the factory?” said the artist, his eyes kindling with indignation. “Because he was turned away on account of his persistent drunkenness. You know me pretty well, I think, Milnes: I’m not the sort of fellow to give a person a bad character if I can possibly find anything good to say about him; on the contrary, I am always ready to take into consideration a man’s up-bringing, and to make allowance for the special temptations with which he may have had to cope. But I cannot sufficiently express my contempt for Jacob Strelitzki. He is not worthy of the name of Jew, And as for caring aught about his soul—why he has no more soul than this dog here; nay, not so much, for look into Dandy’s eyes and you will find honesty and integrity reflected in their depths, whereas Strelitzki possesses neither of these virtues. He has attempted to sponge upon me times without number; and now that I refuse to render him any further assistance, he uses threats, and curses me behind my back. That’s the kind of man Strelitzki is, and I am very angry indeed that he should have tried to impose on such generous-minded men as you and Squire Stannard.”

The vicar had never heard Karne speak so trenchantly before, and although he still felt half inclined to give Strelitzki the benefit of the doubt, he knew that his friend would not give vent to such a vigorous denunciation without good cause. He was terribly disappointed in what he had heard, for he was a simple-minded man with a great faith in human goodness, and it always pained him to have his favourite theory upset.

He looked quite worried as he adjourned with Karne and Salmon to the library, where his daughter was the last remaining visitor.

“Of course I shall have to refuse Strelitzki baptism for the present,” he said, when he had informed her of Herbert Karne’s opinion. “And we can give him no further help whilst he continues to be such a reprobate.”

“I told you I thought he was not really a Christian, didn’t I, father?” said Gladys, who prided herself on her perception of character. “We saw him loitering outside the King’s Arms the other afternoon, and he was using abusive language in connection with Mr. Karne. Geoffrey wanted to go and punch his head, but I restrained him, because I thought the man was drunk. I should advise you to carry a revolver about with you,” she added, turning towards Herbert. “He might try to murder you, one of these dark nights. Such things do happen, you know, and he is such a nasty-looking man.”

Herbert laughed. “I don’t think he would attempt that,” he answered carelessly. “He is too much of a coward.”

“Cowards become quite bold when they are drunk,” put in David Salmon, as if he knew all about it. “You really ought to be careful, Karne, if he is indeed such a scamp.”

Celia began to look anxious. “You make me quite nervous,” she said. “I shall be worried every time Herbert goes out alone. Perhaps Strelitzki will go away from Durlston though, when he finds he cannot get work here.”

“Not he,” rejoined her brother, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. “When he finds that his bogus conversion scheme won’t work, he will see the error of his ways and return to Judaism, and I dare say he will persuade Mendel’s to take him on again. But you need not be anxious on my account, I assure you, dear; I am quite capable of defending myself against Jacob Strelitzki even should he become obstreperous, and I do not for one moment think he will.”

He spoke lightly, but Celia was not altogether satisfied. From what Anna had told her on various occasions, she could gauge Strelitzki’s temperament fairly well, and feared that, if he had taken it into his head that her half-brother was his enemy, he would do his utmost to pay him back in some way.

She was not far wrong. Jacob Strelitzki went back to the factory in due course, as Herbert had surmised he would: and although he was generally civil to the artist when they met, he never forgot that he owed him a grudge. If time should ever give him an opportunity to retaliate, he meant to use it to the utmost; and if he did hit back at all, he would hit hard.

David Salmon’s visit to the Towers, just that week, was rather unfortunate so far as Celia and Dr. Milnes were concerned. Geoffrey was very desirous of having another interview with Celia before he went abroad, but he could not bring himself to meet her fiancé; and feeling himself to be in an equivocal position, he stayed away. Celia was both glad and sorry that he did not come—glad, because under the circumstances it was best that her peace of mind should not be further disturbed; sorry, because Geoffrey was her old friend and playmate, and he was soon to go so far away.

On the day before he sailed, her brother took her to the vicarage to say good-bye. There were two or three visitors present besides the Milnes family, so that she was unable to get a word with him alone: but his eyes scarcely left her face all the time she was there; and he gazed at her so pathetically that once or twice she nearly broke down.

Before she left, he presented her with a living memento of his friendship, in the shape of a tiny Yorkshire terrier, with its silvery hair tied up with ribbon of the colour of forget-me-nots. He knew how fond she was of animals, and noted with gratification that her face lit up with pleasure as she lifted the little creature up and fondled it in her arms. He could not have chosen a more obtrusive reminder of himself, for any inanimate object might have lain unheeded after a time; but Souvenir or “Souvie,” as the little dog was called, remained a living witness to his quondam master’s existence. Such a reminder was quite unnecessary, however, in Celia’s case: she was not in the least danger of forgetting the gallant cavalier of her childhood.

She had wished him good-bye and God-speed in few and simple words, said in the presence of his family and friends; but her heart had been very full. If, at the last moment, he had come to her and persisted in his declaration of love, she might have been persuaded to break off her engagement with David Salmon and accept him, no matter what the consequences. But he had not done so—he had gone without a word,—and therefore she was inclined to think that he had said more than he meant on the night that the news of her father’s death had been received; perhaps he had repented later that he had said so much.

Celia’s state of mind was decidedly paradoxical. She liked David Salmon, and he was her fiancé, and she was content therewith—or so she made herself believe. On the other hand, she also liked Geoffrey Milnes (she would not confess even to herself that she loved him), and she could not help wishing that fate had been more propitious to them both.

Before she returned to London she threshed the question out thoroughly, and tried to come to an honest understanding with herself. The one great reason why she had never allowed herself to even think of Geoffrey Milnes as a lover, was because he was a Christian; she would have regarded him in quite a different light had he been a Jew. If he really loved her, however, he ought to have stayed at home and fought for her like a man, instead of letting her go without an effort; therefore she came to the conclusion that he did not care for her, or that his was merely a platonic kind of affection. And if such were indeed the case, it was clearly of no use for her to waste her time in vain regrets of what might have been; besides, her pride would not allow her to be guilty of unrequited affection. In justice to David, she would have to get Geoffrey’s image out of her mind, for it was certainly not right to be engaged to one man, and to be continually hankering after another.

So she went back to the Academy, and plunged into her work with renewed vigour; and tried her very hardest to banish Geoffrey Milnes from her memory. She was kinder to David than heretofore, and only allowed him to see the lighter side of her nature, so that he found her greatly improved for the better. He had obtained a good post as commercial traveller to a large firm of manufacturers, and was only in London at the week-ends—an arrangement which suited Celia very well, for it left her free to follow her own devices during the week, and also prevented her from seeing too much of him. He tried to persuade her continually to give up her musical studies, and marry him as soon as her term of mourning expired; but she was determined to go on with her music, and seemed less inclined to think of marriage than ever.

She was making good progress at the Academy, and thoroughly enjoyed her musical life. Mr. Lambert still refused to allow her to sing at any concert, but she was coming to the fore with her elocution and acting, in which she was greatly encouraged by the dramatic author, Guy Haviland.

The Havilands lived in a pretty house in St. John’s Wood, within easy distance of Maida Vale. Celia went there frequently, either to have a good romp with the children—which she enjoyed immensely,—or to recite a fresh poem to the master of the house, or to sing a new song with Enid Wilton at the piano, and Grace Haviland to play a violin obliggato.

Miss Haviland was a fresh-looking girl, five years younger than her brother, and, besides being a very fair violinist, was a writer of verse. One or two of her lyrics Celia sang, to music composed by Enid Wilton; and as they had so much interest in common, the three girls were great chums.

Mrs. Friedberg felt a little bit piqued that Celia was not more friendly with her own girls. She took them with her to the Academy, it was true, and gave them tickets for concerts, but she never told them anything about herself; and after she had been with them a year, they knew her very little better than on the day she had arrived. Adeline had introduced her to some of her friends, and had given her frequent opportunities for going into young Jewish society, but Celia was unresponsive, and held herself aloof—or so it seemed to Mrs. Friedberg.

She took her to task for it one day, and read her such a lesson on her unsociability, that the poor girl was quite distressed.

“You know I haven’t time, really, Mrs. Friedberg,” she said in extenuation. “Besides, I am in mourning now. But I am going to pay Mrs. Leopold Cohen a visit this afternoon, so you see I am not very unsociable, after all.”

Mrs. Leopold Cohen was the only one of her new acquaintance with whom Celia was on terms of intimacy. She was a very charming woman, and, although quite young, had snow-white hair and a face on which suffering had left its traces. Her husband was a confirmed and fractious invalid, being afflicted with an incurable spinal complaint which necessitated his being always in a recumbent position; and her two children were both so delicate that she was in a perpetual state of anxiety concerning their welfare. Yet, although there was so much to try her—for, besides the ill health of her dear ones, she was worried about ways and means—she possessed a calm and patient nature which was quite incapable of being ruffled by the turbulent storm of adversity. Celia had been struck by the sweetness and repose of her countenance, the more so as she had once been a witness of one of Mr. Cohen’s splenetic outbursts, and knew what the wife had to endure.

“I don’t know how you can stand it, poor dear,” the girl had said to her on that occasion. “You must have the temper of a saint.”

But the brave little woman shook her head; she did not wish to be pitied.

“One gets used to it in time,” she had answered with a wistful smile. “And Leopold doesn’t mean all he says. He is in such pain, you know; it is no wonder that he is fretful.”

On this particular afternoon, however, her husband was better than usual, and peace reigned in the little household, at least for a time. Mrs. Cohen received Celia with cordiality; and when she had attended to the numerous requirements of the invalid, they settled down to a quiet chat.

“Why did you not go to the Isaacsons’ last Tuesday?” she asked her, reproachfully. “I made sure you would be there, especially as the Friedbergs and Mrs. Rosen came.”

“Tuesday?” repeated Celia, thoughtfully. “Oh yes, I remember. I went to recite at an entertainment in Hoxton for Mr. Wilton. Did you enjoy yourself at the Isaacsons’?”

“Fairly well; only my husband sent for me rather early, as he felt ill. I was very disappointed that you were not there, though. Mrs. Friedberg tells me that you do not care for the society of Jewish people; but I hope that is not true?”

Celia looked sheepish. “Did Mrs. Friedberg tell you that?” she said, bending down to fasten her shoe. “She has just been lecturing me about being unsociable. You see, I don’t care about going to card-parties, because I don’t play cards; and even if I did, I could not play just now, because I am in mourning.”

“Yes, but they don’t all play cards,” rejoined Mrs. Cohen. “I don’t, for one. And there are always plenty of young people for you to talk to. Haven’t you made any Jewish girl friends since you came to London?”

“No, only one or two. Most of them seem to me to be so shallow-minded, and they talk of nothing but dress, and theatres, and the latest matrimonial engagement. By-the-bye, I suppose you have heard that Lottie Friedberg is engaged?”

Mrs. Cohen smiled. “Who is talking about the latest engagement now?” she said banteringly. “But I have heard about it—Mrs. Friedberg told me the other night. He is a Birmingham young man, isn’t he? I think Lottie is a very lucky girl. I suppose the Rev. Isaac Abrahams managed the affair, as he did Adeline’s?”

“Yes, that is what I think so horrid about it,” replied the girl with disgust. “It was a made-up match. Lottie didn’t know him any more than the man in the moon, until, by arrangement with her father, Mr. Abrahams brought him over from Birmingham to be introduced, and a week later the engagement was announced. I cannot understand how any self-respecting girl can allow herself to be disposed of in that cut-and-dried manner. I couldn’t, I know.”

Mrs. Cohen sighed. She was thinking of her own marriage, which had come under the category they were discussing.

“Before I was engaged,” continued Celia, indignantly, “Mr. Rosen was always offering to find a young man for me. Whenever I met him, no matter how many people were present, he would always say, ‘Hello, Miss Franks, I am on the look-out for a nice chosan[10] for you; one with plenty of money preferred, eh?’ It used to make me so angry. To be honest, Mrs. Cohen, I have not been much impressed with the Jewish society I have met up till now. There seems to be so much money-grubbing, and match-making, and card-playing about it. Can you wonder that I prefer to be with my Christian musical friends? Their company is so much more congenial to me.”

Mrs. Cohen began to look serious, and a little pucker appeared on her usually placid brow.

“You must not judge all Jewish society by the few people you have met,” she said thoughtfully. “There are many Jewish men and women who are cultured and refined in the very highest degree; still I admit that there is some truth in your estimate, unflattering though it seems. But I hope you do not intend to put yourself out of touch with us, Celia. I consider that you, especially, will have your duty to perform to your own people.”

“Why me, especially?” asked the girl, with interest.

“Because, with your voice and your wealth, there is every chance of your attaining a certain amount of fame,” answered her hostess, earnestly. “And I trust that we shall consider you a credit to our race. And don’t you think, Celia, that if such should be the case, and knowing that a certain amount of narrow-minded prejudice always exists against our People, don’t you think that it will be your duty to ever stand up for the race to which you belong, and to say to those Gentiles who admire your talents and your beauty, ‘I, who have won such golden opinions from you all, I am a Jewess, and I glory in it’?”

Her words rang with enthusiasm, yet they awakened only a feeble response in Celia’s heart. The girl’s mind was troubled and perplexed, and she could not endorse a sentiment which was not honestly her own. Her eyes sought the ground, and she remained silent for a moment.

“Are you really proud of being a Jewess?” she asked suddenly, with shy diffidence. “Honestly glad and proud, I mean? I try to be, but somehow I—I can’t!”

She blushed as she made the confession. Mrs. Cohen regarded her musingly. Her sombre mourning-gown threw into relief the brilliancy of her hair and complexion. Her eyes were deeply thoughtful, and her face glowed with the health and ingenuousness of girlhood. It was a pity, the elder lady thought, that this sweet and beautiful girl should have picked up such strangely unconventional ideas.

“Don’t you think, dear child,” she said slowly, “that we have a right to be proud of our ancient Race? Think of our great and glorious past. What other nation has been through the vicissitudes and misfortunes which have afflicted us, and yet come through them all uncrushed as we have done? Surely you have read our history in the Old Testament—how we were made the chosen people of God in Abraham’s time; and although the other nations which surrounded us gave themselves over to idolatry and lasciviousness, we ever remained faithful to our divine heritage, until our pure Monotheism became the religion of the civilized world.

“Think of our great men of bygone days—Moses, who received the Decalogue, which is as potent to-day as when it was given on Mount Sinai; Joshua, the mighty leader; David, the soldier-poet; Solomon, the wise king; Elijah, the prophet. Is it not something to belong to a race which has produced such men as those—a race upon whom God has set His seal, and, in spite of assimilation, has kept a peculiar people unto Himself?”

But Celia still looked doubtful. “You are like my brother,” she said. “You look at Israel through a veil of idealism. I can only think of what we are to-day. We have had a great past—yes; but what have we to link us with that past? Our glory departed when Jerusalem was destroyed, and since the dispersion we have surely fallen into disrepute. I always feel, in reading over our history, that, from the call of Abraham, we were working up to a climax, and no climax came, unless ’twere overlooked; as if we were, so to speak, a building without a coping-stone. We were established as a nation, we throve and grew great; but our greatness was overthrown, and we toppled over from the eminence on which we stood, with our divine purpose but half fulfilled. And we cannot live in the past, grand though it may have been. It seems to me that we must have degenerated greatly since then. Our national characteristics of to-day are not such as should give us cause for pride; and even though they have undoubtedly been exaggerated by our Gentile neighbours, we cannot deny that there is some foundation for the unfortunate reputation we bear.”

“That may be so,” rejoined Mrs. Cohen, impressed by her young friend’s earnestness. “But you must not forget that for generations past our people abroad have been persecuted and oppressed, and that the sinister effects of that persecution will yet take many years to eradicate. How could we develop our higher and nobler qualities whilst the heel of the despot was upon our necks? Are we not redeeming our character here in England, where, thank God, we are free? Look how steadily Jews are coming to the fore in all the higher walks of life—in commerce, in politics, in what we term high society, and in the fine arts. There is scarcely a cause of national import in which our people do not participate; and where will you find a more thrifty, sober, responsible, law-abiding citizen than the modern English Jew? You see, Celia, I am optimistic. I believe that there is a great future for us yet; and that is why I am so anxious to encourage you, who are full of the impetuosity of youth, to make up your mind to defend all that is highest in our Jewish life, and to be an example of what the true type of a Jewess should be. Then both Jews and Christians will respect you, and you will feel that you have not lived in vain!”

She paused, for the tinkle of Mr. Cohen’s bell warned her that her services were required. She had said quite enough, however, to give Celia food for a wider range of thought. The girl began to wonder if, after all, her own outlook upon Judaism were not a very limited one; and when she left Mrs. Cohen that afternoon she resolved to try and cherish more loyal feelings towards her own people.

It was a pity, perhaps, that so much of her life had been spent amongst Gentiles, for she had unconsciously been educated in a non-Jewish school of thought. She was unable as yet to discern the real goodness of heart underlying the apparent self-interest and occasional vulgarity of the average Jew of her acquaintance. She was not able, either to look below the surface of the many Jewish rites and observances which struck her as so meaningless and irksome; but she was a conscientious little soul, and meant to persevere until her Judaism should give her the happiness and contentment that she sought. Mrs. Cohen’s words had done her good.

 

 

It was the height of the season, and London was very full. One had only to take a stroll “down west” to be convinced of the fact, for there was scarcely a house to be seen in any of the squares that did not display the window-boxes and sun-blinds, which signified that the owners were in residence. The fashionable hotels were crowded, the restaurants thronged; and big social functions were the order of the day.

A stream of carriages and hansoms rolled down Regent Street, giving the weary pedestrian a panorama of gaily-trimmed hats and dainty sunshades. Portly dowagers accompanied beautiful girls; and it was a noticeable fact that whilst the dowagers sat bolt upright, alert and on the qui vive, most of the débutantes leant languidly against the cushions with an air of supercilious boredom, the exacting demands of the season combined with the oppressive heat having apparently drained their vitality.

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.

Celia’s début was followed by engagements to sing at several concerts, and numerous invitations to great ladies’ receptions. She was a decided success, and became the fashion, at least, for that season. It was not her voice alone—for many a singer has possessed one equally as good as hers and yet has languished in obscurity; but her attractive personality and her fortune combined, gained for her the good will of society, and she was made much of in consequence.

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.

On the following Sunday, David Salmon called at Great Cumberland Place to take his beloved to an evening party, which Mrs. Mike Rosen was giving in her honour. Mrs. Rosen possessed a large circle of friends, and entertained with lavish hospitality, especially on the first Sunday in the month, when her house was thrown open from three o’clock until midnight for the reception of her guests. On this occasion, being an off Sunday, the guests had been specially invited “to meet my friend Miss Celia Franks,” and Celia had received a particular request to bring her music and her voice—as though she were in the habit of leaving the latter at home.

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.

“David is growing impatient,” Celia said the next morning, after breakfast. “He thinks we have been engaged long enough, and wants me to name the day.”

“I am not surprised at that,” returned Lady Marjorie, looking up from her work. “What are you going to do?”

That was just what Celia did not know. She sighed heavily, and remained lost in thought. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, for she had lain awake all night in uneasy deliberation of the question. Souvie jumped on her knee and demanded her attention; he never allowed his mistress to leave him unnoticed if she happened to have any spare time on her hands.

Lady Marjorie was artistically arranging some flowers in a bowl. She looked just as nice in her morning blouse as she did in a Parisian toilette. When she had finished, she came over to the couch where Celia was sitting.

“Girlie,” she said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”

Celia looked up in surprise.

“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.

Woodruffe was an old-fashioned country house, standing in a little valley of its own formation, and thus protected from the high winds which came from the sea. It affected the Gothic style of architecture, with long windows which opened outwards, and a porch like that of a church. From the front an extensive view of cliffs and ocean was obtained, while from the back one could gaze on miles of verdant meadowland.

When Celia pulled up her blind the first morning after her arrival, it seemed as though she were miles away from civilization. There was not a vestige of anything human to be seen, yet she knew that less than an hour’s walk would take her into busy Brighton. With a sigh of enjoyment she threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh morning air: the fragrance of flowers, the faint scent of hay, the strong salt breeze: how different from the stifling heat of crowded London.

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?”

She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her face.

The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held out her hand.

“Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave; I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;” and with another sweet smile she moved away.

Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like about Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their seats. “I fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie positively detests her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.”

They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time.

Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a dislike to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust of Mrs. Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.

There was a letter from Lady Marjorie waiting for her when she got back to Woodruffe. She was enjoying herself immensely, and Herbert was having good sport. Celia was surprised at the familiar way in which she wrote of him. The letter was full of “Herbert;” he was no longer “Mr. Karne.” Were they going to make a match of it after all, the girl wondered? She, for one, would be delighted if they did.

There was also a letter from David Salmon, who was spending his holidays in the Isle of Man. He would probably run down to Brighton before the end of the month; and he hoped Celia was having a good time.

Celia read the letter twice, and then absent-mindedly tore it up into little bits. Cynthia Wilton watched her in surprise.

“You naughty girl!” she exclaimed. “Is that what you do with your love-letters? What would your fiancé say? Look, this is where I keep my sweetheart’s letters.” She pulled one out from the inside of her blouse. “Just over my heart, you see.”

“I don’t know that I have a heart,” Celia answered, half playfully, half in earnest.

Then she sighed.

In due course came Sunday. The boys appeared at breakfast in their best suits, with faces that seemed to have caught the reflection from their patent leather shoes, for they had received an especial Sunday shine. The little girls were attired in embroidered silk frocks, with strict injunctions not to soil them. A sense of best clothes and quiet behaviour pervaded the air; Woodruffe was enveloped by an atmosphere of Sunday.

Celia was given the option of accompanying the family to church, or of going for a walk with Enid, who, with her eldest brother, had already attended the early Communion Service. She chose the former alternative, partly out of interest, partly because Ralph had been invited to preach, and she knew that Enid would like to hear him. With the exception of two weddings at Durlston, she had never attended a church service before, and hoped she would not shock the congregation by her ignorance of Church customs. She felt quite uncomfortable when they arrived within hearing of the deep-toned bells and in sight of the pointed spire. She almost wished she had not come.

But this feeling was quite dispelled when they came within the precincts of the sacred edifice, and a strain of organ music fell upon their ears. It was an air from Mendelssohn’s Elijah—“If with all your hearts,” and because it was familiar to her, Celia felt less strange.

She could scarcely restrain an exclamation of surprise as they passed through the swing-doors and up the aisle; she had had no idea that a church could be so beautiful. The altar, with its brass cross, tall candles, and white flowers; the richly painted window above it reaching right up to the wainscoted roof; the ornamental inscriptions on the walls; the brass eagle-shaped lectern; the elaborately carved altar rails, choir stalls and pulpit;—all these excited her admiration; and when, a little later, the white-robed procession of choristers and clergy filed to their places in the chancel, she considered the scene, as a beautiful picture, complete.

Throughout the service Celia was deeply impressed. The dignity of the Liturgy, the solemn beauty of the music, and, most of all, the evident sincerity of the worshippers, moved her strangely. Presently she began to consider the religion itself. Judaism, as practised in the present day, she had found impossible. Deism was unsatisfactory. What of the religion from which she had always been kept aloof? She was not entirely ignorant of the doctrines of the Christian faith; and from early childhood had cherished the deepest respect for the Founder of Christianity, just as she had admired all the great men who have made history. But now it was gradually dawning upon her that in Christ’s religion she would find that spirituality she had sought so long in vain. She knew the principles it inculcated: love, charity, self-sacrifice, peace, and piety—all that conduced to the development of man’s spiritual nature.

During her week’s stay at Woodruffe she had already discovered that religion was, to the Wiltons, a practical reality; that it tempered all their actions; that they were as certain of its truth as they were of life itself. She found herself wondering if, although she had been taught to the contrary, Christianity were true after all; and as the service came to a close, determined to study the subject to the best of her ability.

She would have liked to discuss the subject with Enid, but, although she could not have explained why, felt shy of introducing the subject.

In the afternoon, however, an opportunity occurred. They were out for a stroll on the cliffs with Irene and Doris. A fresh breeze was blowing, covering the waves with foam. Enid found a nook sheltered from the wind; and the four girls threw themselves down on the long dry grass to rest awhile.

Far out at sea a small fishing-vessel was battling against the tide, tossed hither and thither by the force of the wind and waves. Shading their eyes with their hands, the girls watched it. Celia was of opinion that it was too frail to weather a storm, should one arise.

“It looks so tiny, and the sea is so vast,” she said meditatively. “I wonder if any one would miss it if it were to sink?”

“Yes, I think so,” Enid replied. “There is a man in it, and he probably has a wife and children at home. Just imagine how they would feel if he went out and never came back!”

Celia gave a little shudder. “The sea is cruel,” she said. “It looks grey and hungry. Don’t you get tired of being always near it, Enid?”

“No; I love it. It is ever changing; it always seems to have some new tale to tell. And it isn’t cruel when one remembers the protecting Providence above.”

“You believe in that protecting Providence above,” said Celia, with a sigh. “I wish I had the same kind of faith.”

For answer Enid sat up with her elbows resting on her knee.

“Irene,” she said, turning towards her small sister, “say that little passage about the sea which Ralph taught you this morning.”

The child thought a minute, and then recited in a clear voice—

“What beautiful poetry!” exclaimed the girl, who had listened with interest. “Who is the author of it?”

“Don’t you know?” answered Enid, with surprise. “It was written by one of your own people: it is an extract from the Book of Psalms.”

“Psalm one hundred and seven,” put in Irene, who liked to be exact.

“I am dreadfully ignorant of the Bible,” said Celia, half ashamed to make such a confession. “I know my Shakespeare twice as well. The Bible is not much read amongst Jewish people, except in Hebrew, which most of them can barely translate.”

“How strange!” Enid rejoined. “Why, if I were a Jewess, I should claim it as my special heritage. Do you know, I have sometimes wished I were a Jewess. It must be so inspiring to think that you belong to the same race as the holy men of old—the patriarchs, the prophets, and the apostles.”

Celia looked doubtful. “I don’t think you would like to give up your Christianity for Judaism,” she said.

“No, of course not. But if I were a Jewess, I should be a Christian too. I can scarcely conceive of a religion that excludes Christ.”

“That is because you have been brought up to it,” Celia replied. “I wish I possessed your faith.” She paused to pluck a little field-flower, and continued a trifle nervously. “If I could be convinced of Christ’s Divinity, I think I should become a Christian. I feel the need of a pure spiritual faith; and Judaism does not satisfy me. I’ve been thinking about it a good deal lately.”

“Have you really?”

Enid’s face lit up with eagerness. She had often wished that her friend followed the same creed as herself; but being aware how prejudiced most Jewish people were against Christianity when applied to themselves, had hitherto refrained from touching on the subject.

“You must have a talk with Ralph,” she said. “He will be able to explain all you wish to know so much better than I can. I am sure he will be able to convince you of the truth.”

Such was indeed the case. Celia introduced the subject at the first opportunity, and the Rev. Ralph, being greatly interested, did his utmost to enlighten her. She proved an apt and intelligent pupil, and, although inclined to be shy at first, soon unbent under the influence of his tactful kindliness, so that it was not long before he was aware of the exact nature of her ideas. Although she had scarcely been conscious of it, the spark of faith had been kindled in her soul long years before; and it only needed this encouragement to make it develop into a pure and steady flame.

Her teacher wished her to approach the subject so far as was possible from the Jewish standpoint, and to this end advised her to study the New Testament side by side with the Old. Very carefully he pointed out the numerous Hebrew prophecies—particularly those of Isaiah,—together with their marvellous fulfilment in the incidents of the Gospel.

With the light of Christianity thrown upon it, the Old Testament became, to Celia, a much more interesting and comprehensive book. By degrees she was able to trace through its pages how wonderfully God had educated the Israelites of old: giving them at first a narrow and material conception of Himself—a conception which was not too far above the level of their understanding,—preparing them by types and shadows for the fuller manifestation that should afterwards appear; then gradually weaning them from their crude ideas of His nature and attributes, until, after many generations had passed, they were, although unworthy, permitted to receive the sublime teaching of the Incarnation.

She discovered also that each important rite instituted by the Mosaic law had its counterpart, only with deeper spiritual significance, under the Christian dispensation; and that Christ’s religion did not oppose Judaism, but was a fuller, nobler, and grander expansion of the same.

Ralph Wilton was astonished at the fallacious opinions she had held respecting Christian doctrine, and which she informed him were common to the majority of Jews.

“It seems to me,” he said on one occasion, “that the Jews will not seek enlightenment simply because, on account of their foolish prejudice, they don’t want Christianity to be true;” and Celia was obliged to agree with him on that point.

“There are none so blind as those who wilfully shut their eyes,” remarked Enid, who happened to be present. “But do you know what I was thinking, Ralph? That Celia’s friends will consider it rather mean of us to have won her over to our religion. I can just imagine, for instance, what Mrs. Friedberg will say.”

“Yes, I am afraid that Miss Franks will have some unpleasantness to face,” returned her brother, regretfully. “But that cannot be helped. If we owed a duty to her friends, we owe a still higher duty to our Master. I know that in certain quarters it is regarded as ‘bad taste’ to interfere with the religion in which a person happens to be born; but I could not possibly have withheld from our friend the instruction she so eagerly sought.”

“Please do not dream of reproaching yourself,” said Celia, earnestly, turning towards the vicar with a bright smile. “I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, and I shall thank God every day of my life for this visit to Woodruffe. As for what my friends will say—that does not trouble me in the least. My greatest friend, Lady Marjorie Stonor, is herself a Christian, so that she cannot possibly blame me for my change of faith.”

“But your brother and Mr. Salmon?” put in Enid, with hesitation. “Don’t you think they will receive the news with anger?”

“Herbert will not; he is too sensible,” replied the girl, readily. “But about David I cannot say. However, I trust he will take it in the right light. I really cannot see that my religion need make any difference to him.”

But Enid was not so sanguine; she knew that David Salmon possessed a lofty contempt for everything pertaining to matters spiritual.

“I hope he will be nice about it,” she said doubtfully. “But—I can’t help wishing that you were going to marry a Christian, Celia dear.”

And in his heart her brother re-echoed her wish.

“I believe I must be losing my youth, Janet,” Lady Marjorie said half seriously. “This is the third grey hair I have found this week.”

She took up a silver-mounted hand-glass from the dressing-table and surveyed herself critically. The suspicion of a wrinkle lined her forehead; but her mouth was still as mobile, and her eyes as bright as ever they had been. The old servant carefully removed the offending hair, and went on arranging her mistress’s tresses. She had nursed Lady Marjorie as a baby, as well as Lady Marjorie’s boy, and knew the Bexley family almost as well as her own.

“Losing your youth indeed!” she exclaimed, inserting the last hairpin in its place. “Why, you are not nearly thirty yet, my lady, and as young-looking as can be.”

“Am I?” The young widow smiled. “I feel young, it is true; but I am twenty-eight to-day, Janet, and it will soon be ten years since my wedding-day. It doesn’t seem like ten years, does it, since we drove up to that great cold church in Mayfair? Do you remember how nervous I was, and how I shivered? But I was so young—only just out of the schoolroom; and poor Mr. Stonor was thirty; he seemed dreadfully old to me then. Do you remember, too, how my sister Olive pitied me for having to stand before the altar with a man with mutton-chop whiskers? Poor Denis! he retained those mutton-chop whiskers to the last.”

She glanced at a photograph which stood on her escritoire. Judging by his portrait, Mr. Stonor could scarcely have been the kind of man to attract the fancy of a young and pretty girl; but he had been considered a suitable match for Lady Marjorie, and her parents had hurried on the marriage almost before she had even realized the fact of her engagement.

Janet nodded. “Ay, I remember as well as can be,” she answered, shaking out the folds of a shimmering evening dress. “Didn’t I deck you out for the wedding myself, my lady? I shall never forget the bother I had with that French mam’selle who wanted to make you look like a doll.” She hung up the gown in a wardrobe, and continued significantly, “Maybe I shall have to dress your ladyship once again for a wedding? Pardon me if it’s a liberty I’m taking, but——” She hesitated.

“Well?” said her mistress, trying not to look conscious. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Karne——?”

Lady Marjorie paused in the act of clasping a bracelet on her wrist; and looked up at her old nurse with an enigmatical expression, half pleased, half shy, on her bright face.

“What of Mr. Karne, nursie?” she queried softly.

“Ay, my lady, what need to ask? Do you think I haven’t noticed the love-light in your eyes when you’ve spoken of him, or when he’s been anywhere near; or the little bit of white heather I’ve found under your pillow, which he has given you the night before? Folks say the Highlands is the place for romance, and I’m close on believing it. Anyway, I shall be mightily mistaken if there’s not a wedding before long!”

But the mistress shook her head, whilst a look as of pain came into her eyes.

“No, Janet,” she said quietly. “You are mistaken. Mr. Karne and I are very good friends, but he pays no more attention to me than he would to any other woman who happened to be his hostess.”

“Yet he gave you the white heather, my lady?”

“Yes, he gave me the white heather; but what of that? He did not tell me to put it behind my pillow—that was just a silly fancy of mine. We women are such fools, Janet. We have such an inordinate craving for love, that we magnify the slightest attention of any man for whom we possess regard, until we vainly imagine that we are really loved by him. That is what I’ve been doing—giving way to imagination. I’ve been indulging in the romantic day-dreams of a girl of seventeen.”

A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes.

Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead for mercy.

“How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought you were never coming down. We’ve had breakfast ages ago; and Uncle Bexley and the others, all except Mr. Karne, are already out on the moors.”

“How is it Mr. Karne has not gone?” Lady Marjorie asked wonderingly; for Herbert was an enthusiastic sportsman.

“I don’t know. He is having a smoke in the lounge. P’raps he’s waiting to give you your present. I mustn’t tell you what it is—it’s a surprise, you know,—but I’m sure you will like it awf’lly. Uncle says it’s a very striking likeness of me.”

“Tut-tut, Master Bobbie,” put in Janet, warningly. “You are letting the cat out of the bag;” and the boy promptly clapped his hand to his lips.

Lady Marjorie found Karne deep in thought, watching with half-closed eyes the smoke as it curled upwards from his cigar.

He rose at her approach, and having wished her many happy returns of the day, presented her with a beautifully painted pastel of her boy.

Her face lit up with pleasure as she thanked him, for the gift had evidently occasioned him much thought.

“I shall hang it up in my boudoir at Durlston,” she said, when she had expressed her admiration of the portrait, “next to the one you painted of Bobbie as a baby. Heigho, how time flies! I feel dreadfully old to-day—because it is my birthday, I suppose.”

“One is never old whilst the heart is young,” he answered, with a swift glance from his deep eyes. He was just thinking how delightfully fresh and young she looked.

Lady Marjorie met his eyes and blushed. Then she sat down at a small table and, unfolding a daily paper, glanced through the morning’s news.

“Are you tired of the shooting?” she inquired presently. “I was quite surprised when Bobbie informed me that you were still indoors.”

“I am afraid there will be no more shooting for me this year,” he replied regretfully, taking up a time-table which had recently occupied his attention. “I have just packed my traps previous to taking my departure. This morning’s post brought me two letters containing news which makes it necessary for me to go to Brighton immediately. I am more sorry than I can say to have to bring this enjoyable visit to such an abrupt termination.”

Lady Marjorie’s face fell perceptibly. “Then you are going away!” she exclaimed in dismay. “You have not received bad news, I hope?”

“Well, that depends on how one looks at it,” he answered, noting her crestfallen expression with a vague pang of self-reproach. “Celia’s visit to Woodruffe has cost her dear; it has probably been the means of making her lose her entire fortune.”

Lady Marjorie gave vent to an ejaculation of amazement.

“How could that possibly be?” she asked, her eyes distended in surprise. The announcement almost took her breath away.

“She has decided to become a Christian,” he replied, as if apprising her of some calamity. “And by doing so, according to the terms of her father’s will, forfeits all claim to his wealth, which will go to build a Jewish hospital in South Africa.”

Lady Marjorie stared at him blankly. “The little goose!” she exclaimed. Then she corrected herself. “No, I didn’t mean that. Of course she must act according to her belief. But I wonder what made her father insert such a nonsensical stipulation in his will. I suppose she is aware of it?”

“No; judging by her letter, I do not think she is,” the artist answered, with troubled brow. “I blame myself very much that I did not inform her of it when I received the copy of the will, but I never dreamt of such a thing as this happening. Her fiancé knows, however—Bernie Franks must have told him himself,—and he is in a dreadful way about it. He is staying at Mrs. Rosen’s house in Brighton, and begs me to join him there without delay. Celia’s baptism is fixed for next Sunday; and, of course, if that is allowed to take place, nothing can be done. Salmon writes that we must prevent that at all costs, but I don’t see how we can if the girl has thoroughly made up her mind to it.”

“No, I suppose not, as she is of age. But you may be able to persuade her to postpone her baptism for a few months or so. It is possible that her opinions may yet undergo another change. Does she seem very enthusiastic over the matter?”

For answer Herbert handed her Celia’s letter to read. It consisted of eight closely written pages; and judging by the frequent erasures, had evidently been a difficult one to indite.

Lady Marjorie perused it carefully, reading several passages two or three times in order to fully comprehend their meaning. At length she replaced it in the envelope, and returned it without comment.

“Well?” interrogated Karne, briefly. “What do you think about it?”

“I hardly know. You see, I’m a Christian myself—though not a good one, I’m afraid,—and I can understand how Celia feels about it. Religion is a strange and fascinating subject; and it has evidently taken strong hold of her. I do not think you will be able to deter her from carrying out her intention. She seems to take it for granted that you will not blame her for what she is doing. But I should not think she is aware of the loss of fortune her conversion entails.”

“Oh, I do not blame her,” he said quickly. “If she imagines she can be happier as a Christian, let her be one by all means. I do not suppose there will be anything gained by attempting to argue the question with her. She will probably prefer to be guided by the instinct she calls faith than to consider any reasoning of mine.”

A clock in the adjoining hall struck eleven. Herbert glanced at his watch.

“I suppose you will go by the 12.50?” Lady Marjorie said, with a sigh. “We must have an early luncheon; and then I will drive down to the station to see you off. I shall miss you when you are gone,” she added regretfully. “We’ve had a nice time up here together, haven’t we? Do you know, of all Bexley’s guests, you are the only one whose society I have really enjoyed. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I should have stayed in Scotland all this time. I am terribly outspoken, am I not? But one cannot always bottle up one’s feelings.”

Again a touch of self-reproach smote Karne’s breast. He glanced into Lady Marjorie’s eyes—such blue eyes, as clear and innocent as a child’s; then feeling that he was expected to say something, expressed the pleasure his visit had given him, and thanked her for her own and Bexley’s kindness.

He did not respond, however, in the way she had hoped he would; and his words struck coldly upon her ears. Why did he always repel her whenever she tried to make their friendship a little closer, she wondered, with a vague feeling of disappointment at her heart.

It was the same at the railway station, where she lingered until the train moved off. She gave him plenty of opportunity for pretty farewell speeches, but he didn’t make them; and as she drove home again with Bobbie, tears of mortification welled up into her eyes. It was quite ridiculous of her to care so much, she told herself, as she choked them down.

Bobbie noticing her emotion, endeavoured to console her.

“Don’t cry, mother dear,” he said sympathetically. “We shall see Mr. Karne again in Durlston next month. If you cry on your birthday, you’ll cry all the year round, you know.”

Lady Marjorie thought she detected amusement in the expression of the footman’s broad back.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with a feeble smile. “Crying, indeed! It’s a speck of dust in my eye.”

And another white lie was added to the list on her conscience.

“Well, what do you think of this d——d nonsense about Celia?” was David Salmon’s polite greeting when he met Herbert Karne in the King’s Road, Brighton, the next day.

He was so full of his grievance that he did not trouble to exchange the customary civilities with the artist. Instead, he broke into a torrent of abuse against the Wiltons, Lady Marjorie Stonor, and even Karne himself, for having combined to lead his fiancée astray. He had been up to Woodruffe that morning, he said, in order to give the Wiltons a piece of his mind, and to implore Celia not to persist in her tomfoolery; but the girl was as obstinate as a mule.

“Did you tell her what the consequence of her act will be, so far as money is concerned?” asked Karne, who was not favourably impressed with Salmon’s blustering manner.

“Yes, of course; but that didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. She just went a bit white, and looked at me in a queer sort of way; then said some stuff about ‘renunciation,’ and that was all. It’s my opinion that those Wiltons must have worked upon her until her mind has become diseased; and the sooner she gets away from them, the better. I have never heard of such an idiotic affair in my life.”

Celia did not look, however, as if she possessed a morbid or diseased mind. Her brother went over to Woodruffe in the afternoon, and found her playing tennis. The exercise had lent a healthy glow to her cheeks; and she looked much better and brighter than when he had last seen her in London.

The Wiltons received him kindly, although they were not sure whether his visit were hostile as Mr. Salmon’s had been, or whether he was disposed to be friendly; but their doubts were set at rest when he cordially invited Enid to accompany Celia back to the Towers for the fortnight before her rehearsals for the Haviland play began, and the invitation was accepted with alacrity.

After tea they tactfully left the brother and sister alone, thinking, with kindly consideration, that the two would have much to say to each other. They were not mistaken. Herbert immediately began to ply Celia with a volley of questions; and was some little time in eliciting all the information he desired. Then he bade her consider well the gravity of her intended action—an action that would cut her adrift from her own people, and make her, for ever, an outcast in Israel.

“Do you know what your father would do, if he were alive?” he said seriously. “He would sit shiva,[15] and mourn for you as one dead.”

But he did not blame her, nor did he cavil at her faith. He was kind, even sympathetic; and all he asked her to do, for the present, was to wait awhile.

Celia, however, would not hear of procrastination in this matter; for the Rev. Ralph Wilton was about to return to his parish, and she particularly desired him to assist at the baptismal ceremony before he left. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by waiting, she declared; her mind was fully made up, her determination taken.

Herbert then advanced the monetary consideration, urging her not to yield to a rash impulse she would probably live to regret; but, as he had expected, this plea influenced her not at all.

“If the early Christians had allowed themselves to be guided by social expediency, there would probably be little Christianity in the world to-day,” she returned convincingly. “I must do what I feel to be my duty. But you need not fear for me, Herbert. I am young and strong; and I have my voice.”

“And what of David Salmon? Have you considered him at all? You know, it comes rather hardly upon him, after having been led to expect that you would bring him a fortune.”

Celia’s eyes fell. “If he really loved me, he would be just as willing to marry me poor as rich,” she rejoined.

“True; but I am afraid that he is not so unworldly as yourself. Tell me, sis dear, would it hurt you very much if he were to give you up?”

Her heart beat fast; she had never thought of such a possibility.

“Do you think he would do that?” she asked, evading his question; and her brother did not omit to notice the eager light in her eyes.

“Well, I had a lengthy conversation with him this morning,” he answered slowly. “And it appears to me that this affair has brought out a new side to his character; not a very commendable one, either, I am afraid. Of course he, in common with the Friedbergs and Rosens, is shocked and disgusted; not so much because of your change of faith—although the idea of his marrying a converted Jewess is repugnant to them all—but because, by so doing, you are deliberately throwing away a fortune. He informed me that, on his marriage, Mr. Rosen intended taking him into partnership; but were he to marry you without your money, the scheme would, of necessity, fall through. Then he asked me what dowry I would give you, in the event of your losing your inheritance. Now, you may be sure, dear sis, that I shall always do my best to make ample provision for you; and you shall never want, I trust, whilst I am alive; but I thought I would just meet Salmon on his own ground. So I told him that I lived up to my income, pretty well—which is quite true,—and that, having never foreseen this contingency, I found myself utterly unable to provide you with a marriage portion. I don’t think he quite believed that; anyway, he suggested my raising a mortgage on the Towers, or something of that sort. Then, when he saw that I was obdurate, he said that, much as he likes you, he could not afford to marry a girl without money; so that, if you persist in what he calls your madness, the engagement will have to be broken off. Finally, he asked me to persuade you to reconsider your decision; and sincerely hoped that I would bring him back good news.”

Celia was filled with indignation; but, because she had never really loved him, the avariciousness of her fiancé occasioned her no grief. Rather, she was relieved that his true nature was thus manifested before it was too late.

“It is a wonder he did not suggest my singing or acting as a means of support,” she said.

“He did; but I told him that I did not believe in a woman working to keep her husband, unless he happened to be incapacitated by illness, or there were some other urgent necessity. So it remains with you to decide whether you will marry him or not. From what Marjie—Lady Marjorie, I mean—has told me, I do not think your affections were deeply involved, so that I can guess pretty well what your answer will be—eh, Celia?”

The girl slowly drew off her engagement ring. “Yes,” she replied seriously, “I do not think I could marry him now, even were I to retain my inheritance. My respect for him seems to have been suddenly obliterated. Will you take him back this ring, please? And tell him that the man I marry must love me for myself alone. Say, also, that, as I mean to carry out my intention of joining the Christian Church, I am sure that there would often be contention between us on that account; therefore the best thing—the only thing—that I can do, is to dissolve our engagement.”

“And your decision is final?”

“Absolutely.”

Herbert made a wry face. “I cannot say I relish being the bearer of such a message,” he said, placing the ring in his pocket-book. “Still, as you have given it to me, I suppose I had better deliver it. I dare say Salmon will round on me for having incensed you against him; and perhaps he will prefer to receive your refusal from your own lips. I am afraid there will be a mauvais quart d’heure for me when I get back to Brunswick Terrace.”

There was. David Salmon received the news with an oath, and broke into a fit of passionate rage. After having cursed women in general, and Celia Franks in particular, he declared that he would take to drink. When he had calmed down, however, he thought better of it, and decided to console himself with Dinah Friedberg. Dinah, so he said, besides being madly in love with him, possessed no silly notions about religion, and her father, although he did not make a pretence of being well off—as did Karne—would at least endeavour to provide his daughter with a suitable marriage dowry.

The next morning he presented himself at Woodruffe as though nothing had happened. Celia would have preferred not to see him, but could not very well refuse him the interview.

It was a painful one for both of them; and Celia, at least, felt relieved when it was over. David implored, beseeched, and entreated her to reconsider her decision, and refused at first to take back the few presents he had given her, although he accepted them in the end. Finding that all his pleading was of no avail, he revenged himself by indulging in cheap sneers at her new-found faith, taunting her in the way best calculated to wound her feelings. Finally, he encountered Ralph Wilton just as he was going out, and told the clergyman what he thought of him in no measured terms.

Wilton himself was calm and unresentful, and his demeanour had the effect of making Salmon a little bit ashamed of himself. He had the grace to attempt an apology, at any rate, and even went so far as to shake hands when he left.

Mr. Wilton accompanied him as far as the gate; then returned to the drawing-room, to find Celia in tears.

The sight filled him with dismay. “Miss Franks!” he exclaimed, hardly knowing how to express himself. “I—I am so sorry. I wish I could help you. All this has been too much for you, I am afraid.”

Celia dried her eyes and smiled at him through her tears, reminding the young clergyman of a burst of sunshine after a shower of rain.

“It—was—dreadfully weak of me!” she murmured in a small voice. “But I couldn’t help it. Mr. Salmon did say such cruel things; and although I know it’s foolish, they—they rankle. He made me feel as if I were about to commit a crime.”

Ralph Wilton looked at her with deep sympathy in his eyes.

“The crown of thorns does indeed press hard upon your brow,” he said compassionately. “You are being deprived of your fortune and your lover at one blow. But do not lose heart, Miss Franks; I feel sure there is much sunshine in store for you yet. Who can tell? Your self-sacrifice may lead to happiness you know not of. Only trust and believe, and all will yet be well.”

“Oh, I am not at all unhappy,” she responded hastily, not wishing him to be falsely impressed. “There is really no self-sacrifice in what I am doing.” She did not add that the breaking of her engagement came as an unexpected and not unwelcome release. Nevertheless, she felt it to be such, although it was some little time before she could altogether realize that she was indeed free.

The news of her conversion and its pecuniary consequence spread with astonishing rapidity, even leaking into the Jewish and society papers. Jewish people criticized her action as disgraceful, non-Jews as quixotic; and both unanimously agreed that by foregoing a public confession of faith—meaning the ceremony of baptism—she might have retained her fortune. But public opinion caused Celia no concern, for she knew that no other course than the one she had taken would have been possible to her for any length of time. If she had acted foolishly according to the world’s standard, she had at least done what she had felt to be her duty in the sight of God.

If she left Woodruffe the poorer in one way for her visit there, she was richer in another; and never, during the whole course of her life, did she ever wish her action undone.

“An outcast in Israel!” The words recurred to Celia with persistent frequency during the next few weeks; for she went back to Durlston to find herself ostracized by the little Jewish colony in whom she had taken interest for so long a time.

Almost the first day after her return she went among them, as was her custom when at home, taking with her toys for the children, articles of adornment for the women, tobacco pouches for the men—all little evidences of her thought for them whilst away. Never dreaming that her conversion would make the slightest difference to them, the reception they gave her stung her to the quick. The kindly greetings with which she was wont to accost them died on her lips as she detected the look of scorn on their faces. Mothers drew their little ones away from her, as though her very touch meant contamination. Her gifts they regarded as so many briberies to retain their good will, and therefore refused them with disdain.

Almost dumbfounded, and grieved to the heart, the girl sought refuge in Mrs. Strelitzki’s cottage. Surely Anna would not turn against her, she thought confidently, remembering the many kindnesses she had performed for her in bygone days.

But even Anna Strelitzki, although she did not slam the door in her face, as some of the others had done, received her without the slightest display of cordiality. With embarrassment plainly discernible in her manner, she offered her a seat by the fire, and then bolted the cottage door—a proceeding which struck Celia as decidedly strange. Then, without speaking, she went on with her washing, occasionally glancing furtively at the window, apparently apprehensive of some unpleasant interruption.

“What is the meaning of all this, Anna?” Celia asked passionately. “Why do they shun me as if I were some evil creature? I have done them no harm!”

Mrs. Strelitzki trifled nervously with the corner of her apron, refusing to meet the steady gaze from the girl’s clear eyes.

“M’shumadas!”[16] she exclaimed laconically, evidently deeming the word sufficient explanation in itself, for she relapsed into silence, and went on with her washing. Her manner was certainly strange.

Celia did not quite catch the meaning of the epithet; and, with tightly clenched hands and compressed lips, waited for more. But no sound broke the stillness save the ticking of the clock, and the measured breathing of a sleeping child.

Suddenly the shrill toot of the factory horn, announcing the acquittal of the workers, broke upon their ears. The child woke up with a fretful cry; and the mother, drying her hands, came forward to quiet him.

“Oh, miss, I wish you would go home, if you don’t mind,” she said, turning towards her visitor with an air of apology. “It’s getting near Jacob’s dinner-time; and I dunno what ’ud happen if he were to coom back and find you here. He’d half kill me, I think. He told me to have nowt to do with you.”

“But why? I have done no harm,” the girl repeated, almost piteously. “Is it because I have become a Christian?”

The woman nodded. “M’shumadas—traitress to the Faith,” she said in the tone of one who repeats a watchword. “The people here are all good Jews. They despise m’shumadim. They don’t want you to come and convert their children, or give them tracts out of a black bag.”

“But I have no black bag,” Celia put in, with a faint smile, although there were tears in her eyes. “And I have brought toys—not tracts. It is very unkind of you all to treat me like this. I should not have thought it of you, especially, Anna.”

“Good Jews despise m’shumadim,” the woman reiterated half sullenly, and unbolted the door.

Celia drew on her gloves, and took her leave. With flaming cheeks and quivering lips she hurried past the factory and down the high road. The men were pouring out of the workshops, most of them wending their way homewards. A few months ago they would have lifted their caps with a courteous “Good morning, miss.” Now, they passed her with a scowl. Some of the recently-arrived workers were informed as to her identity, and Celia caught the word m’shumadas as it passed from lip to lip.

Arrived at the Towers, she burst into the library, where her brother and Enid Wilton were writing, and impetuously told them of the insult she had received. It was so uncalled-for, so nonsensical, so absolutely absurd, she declared tremulously. She had done nothing to merit such treatment.

Enid Wilton listened with sympathy. Herbert Karne flung down his pen with annoyance.

“So they mean war, do they?—the blockheads!” he exclaimed, with an angry laugh. “I ought to have prepared you for this, Celia: you must not go near them any more.”

“But why?” the girl asked quickly, as she threw her hat down on the couch, and lifted Souvie up to be petted. “Do they not know that by insulting me, they offend you also?”

The artist shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t much care if they do. For some unaccountable reason I have lost my popularity amongst them. You cannot imagine how terribly those people have disappointed me,” he added, turning towards Enid Wilton with a touch of bitterness. “After having spent much thought, time, and money on their education and the improvement of their surroundings, I find them, in spite of it all, still dominated by the instincts of the untutored savage: unprincipled, ungrateful, uncouth, irresponsible, ignorant and superstitious in the extreme. The first few batches of men I had down here responded admirably, and appreciated to the full my efforts for them, but these present ones are absolutely incorrigible. It is disheartening, is it not?—for I was confident of success in my undertaking.”

“But what has happened to turn them against you?” asked his sister with surprise. “Have you offended them also?”

“It seems like it. For the last six months there seems to have been an evil influence among them; sometimes I think the poison of anarchy lurks in their veins. They have taken a violent and senseless dislike to all the influential men in the neighbourhood; they grudge them their wealth and position, I suppose. Latterly, I have myself been included under the ban.”

“How strange!” exclaimed Celia, deeply interested, but vexed withal.

“A little while ago,” Karne continued, “I was commissioned to paint two pictures for the Duke of Downshire’s private chapel, one on the subject of the Annunciation, the other on the Crucifixion. I do not go in for religious paintings as a rule, you know, but for several reasons I undertook these. Well, these people from Mendel’s factory happened to see the pictures through the studio window when they visited my grounds on the Sunday after their completion, and took it into their stupid heads to imagine that because I painted pictures on those subjects, I must of necessity be trending towards Christianity myself. The news of Celia’s conversion coming on top of that must have strengthened that idea, hence our unpopularity.”

“How narrow-minded they must be,” said Enid Wilton, thoughtfully. “But surely it is against their own interest to offend you and your equals, is it not?”

“Decidedly,” Herbert assented. “That is where their madness comes in; they spite themselves, not us. However, I intend to close the night-school, the dispensary, and the club for a few weeks. I must do something to bring them to their senses.”

“What a pity!” Celia said, regretfully. “Enid and I were going to get up such a nice concert for them next week; and Lady Marjorie had promised to allow Bobbie to dance the hornpipe. The little fellow will be so disappointed.”

She was disappointed herself—more keenly than she cared to confess—and brooded on the inimical attitude of Mendel’s people, until the thought of it quite distressed her. Had it not been for Enid Wilton’s companionship she would have felt inclined to give way to depression; but Enid was bright and entertaining, and did her best to divert her friend’s mind into other channels.

The two girls avoided the vicinity of the factory as much as possible, but were obliged to pass it on their way to Durlston House, whither Lady Marjorie had recently returned. Occasionally they met some of the workpeople or their relatives; but Celia always passed them without a sign of recognition, for she knew that to speak to them would be to invite an insult.

One day they came across a small Jewish maiden who was sitting by the road-side alone in a sorry plight. She was some distance from the factory, and had evidently been sent on an errand, for clutched in her grasp was a basket of provisions. A bottle of olive oil, too unwieldy for her to manage, had accidentally fallen out. She was surrounded by broken pieces of glass, and her thinly-clad feet had been painfully cut and scratched. Judging by her appearance, one might have credited her with having taken an oil bath, for, from her curly black ringlets down to her toes, she was literally covered with the greasy fluid.

The girls’ kind hearts were touched by the sight. Celia, forgetting all strife in her compassion for the little one, bent down and inquired her name. After some amount of coaxing, she discovered that it was “Blume Horwitz;” that her feet hurt her so much that she could not walk; that her mother was waiting for the oil to fry the fish, and that she would be welcomed with a beating when she did arrive home. Her tale of woe ended in a fit of sobbing and gulping pitiful to behold.

The girls consulted as to what they should do. They could not leave her there, on the chance of one of her people picking her up, nor could they carry her home, saturated with oil as she was.

At length Celia decided to go home as quickly as she could for the pony-chaise, leaving her friend to stay with the child. This she accordingly did, and in less than twenty minutes was back again with the conveyance.

The coachman gingerly covered the little girl with an overall belonging to the stable-boy, and lifted her into the chaise. Celia had brought some lint back with her, and between them the two girls skilfully bound up her wounds, which were not so severe as they had at first supposed. When they arrived at the Towers, a messenger was immediately despatched to inform Mrs. Horwitz of the accident, and to procure a change of clothing for Blume. Meanwhile the child’s wants were attended to in Celia’s pretty bedroom.

An hour later, the coachman, Roberts, drove her home; clean, comfortable, and well-fed. He found the cottage shut up, for Mrs. Horwitz was always out at that time of the day; but a man was waiting at the wicket in anticipation of Blume’s arrival. Possessing small cunning eyes with an unpleasant leer in them, an aquiline nose, heavy jaw, and cruel mouth, his countenance was decidedly unattractive; and his burly form suggested an ample reserve of brute force. He was Anna’s husband, Jacob Strelitzki, who had recently returned after a year’s absence from the factory, spent no one knew where. Roberts pulled up at the wicket, and alighting from the chaise, eyed the man with disfavour.

“Hello!” he said bluntly. “Strelitzki, is it? Thought I’d seen that ugly face before. So you’ve come back, have you? Been in quod, I suppose? Lost your curly wig, anyhow. Where is this kid’s mother?”

If looks could kill, the coachman would have been exterminated on the spot. Scowling savagely, Strelitzki bade him hold his tongue, for the child had fallen asleep, and he did not wish her to be awakened. With more gentleness than was his custom, he lifted her out of the chaise, and, unlocking the cottage door, laid her carefully down on the couch.

Then he returned to the wicket, and informed the coachman that he might consider himself dismissed. Roberts, however, was apparently not quite satisfied.

“’Ere, where’s the kid’s mother?” he asked again. “My mistress said I was to see that the little girl was all right. She has cut her foot, and has got to lay up. You ain’t any relation, are you?”

“Yes; I am her uncle,” the man replied briefly. “Rachael Horwitz has told me all about the accident. She ought not to have sent such a little thing so far on an errand. She’s got slipper-work at the factory, so you’ll have to leave the child with me.” And without further remark, Roberts drove away.

Strelitzki bolted the door after him, and quietly moved to where the child lay. She was still fast asleep, but stirred uneasily as he watched her. Fearing that the light might awaken her, Jacob carefully shut the lattice. His movement suggested mystery; but all his caution was for the purpose of performing an apparently trivial action.

Taking a small packet out of his coat-pocket, he cut the string and unfolded the tissue-paper. Inside lay a tiny crucifix composed of black wood and nickel silver—truly a strange emblem to be in his possession.

From another pocket he produced a piece of slightly-faded blue ribbon. Then twisting the ribbon through the ring at the top of the crucifix, he tied it securely round Blume’s neck, tucking it under her pinafore. This accomplished, he gave a sigh—which was almost a chuckle—of relief.

The action disturbed the child, who awoke with a feeble cry of pain. For the moment she could not quite take in her surroundings, and blinked at the daylight in bewilderment. When she recollected what had happened, she began to cry, fearing her mother’s anger on account of the broken bottle of oil; but her uncle assured her that the accident had been explained, and that her mother would be back directly, grieved to find her in pain.

Strelitzki lit his pipe and professed to read the newspaper; at the same time watching the little girl out of the corner of his eye. Her feet still smarted painfully, and she moved her position frequently in order to obtain greater ease. In doing so, the crucifix slipped out, and hung suspended from her neck above her pinafore.

“Hello!” exclaimed Strelitzki. “Where did you get that?”

Blume examined it with wide-open eyes. She had not the faintest idea of the meaning of the symbol, or, indeed, that it was a symbol at all; but the blue ribbon and silver figure pleased her, and in her childish mind she considered it a fine ornament, to be put on a par with her mother’s lozenge-shaped earrings, and only to be worn on Shabbos[17] and Yomtov.[18]

“I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, wishing it had escaped her uncle’s observation.

“Nonsense!” said Jacob Strelitzki. “Of course, you must know. I expect Miss Celia—the lady with the carroty-golden hair—gave it to you when she changed your things, didn’t she?”

That seemed very likely, so Blume agreed to it. She did not remember Miss Celia giving it to her, it is true; but she had given her a box of chocolates and a “Cinderella” picture-book, so no doubt the ornament came from her as well.

“Yes,” she assented, readily. “Miss Celia gave it to me.”

Strelitzki grunted satisfaction. “Well, tuck it under your frock,” he advised. “Or some one may want to take it off you. If your mammy should find it when she puts you to bed, say that Miss Celia said you were to keep it and not give it away.”

The child acquiesced; and Strelitzki went on reading his paper. He seemed to find it difficult to concentrate his thoughts, however, for he soon tossed it aside, and stared into the fire with his shaggy brows contracted, and an evil smile on his heavy face.

“So—so, Herbert Karne,” he muttered softly in his native jargon. “You and I hate each other; and we have a long-standing account to settle. Revenge grows keener with delay. It shall be settled soon!”

The yard at Mendel’s factory was filled to its utmost capacity. Men jostled each other’s elbows, and trod on each other’s corns with good-natured indiscrimination. A jargon of Polish, Yiddish, Roumanian, and English of the Lancashire dialect smote the air with Babel-like confusion; and as each man spoke to his neighbour at the precise moment that his neighbour spoke to him, the amount of comprehension on either side was reduced to nil.

They had met for the discussion of a grievance. Herbert Karne, after further provocation, had put his threat into execution: the night-school, the dispensary, and the club were closed. A notice was pasted on the doors stating that they would remain closed until he received, signed by each one of the men, a full and satisfactory apology for the gratuitous insults levelled at his sister and himself; together with a promise of better behaviour in future.

The news produced a sensation, some of the men utterly refusing to believe it until they saw the notice for themselves. The club had been opened so long, and occupied such a prominent position in the recreative part of their work-a-day lives, that they had lost sight of the fact that it was kept up entirely at Herbert Karne’s expense. Nearly every evening they repaired thither to while away an hour or two in the comfortable reading or smoke rooms; which were always well heated in winter, well ventilated in summer. Here they could chat, or schmooze,[19] as they called it, to their heart’s content. They were also at liberty to play solo-whist, so long as they played for nominal stakes only, gambling being strictly prohibited; and in the winter evenings, Herbert Karne arranged numerous entertainments for their benefit, to which their women folks, in their Sabbath clothes, came as well.

The club closed, they would be obliged to have recourse to the bar-parlours of the public-houses; for the gregarious instinct was strong within them, and their home-life more or less unattractive. But they knew that, being foreigners and abstemious, they would not receive a cordial welcome there; nor, indeed, did they desire the society of public-house frequenters. They had the greatest respect for the British workman when sober; but they were aware that having waxed convivial by the aid of beer, he was apt to indulge in uncomplimentary remarks concerning “them furriners;” and being extremely sensitive, they did not care for jocularity at their own expense.

It became evident, therefore, that they must endeavour to get the club re-opened; and it was in order to effect this end, that the meeting was being held.

In the centre of the yard a number of heavy boxes had been piled up to serve as a rostrum; and from this a slender olive-skinned man addressed his fellow-workers. He was Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory and manager of the club.

Their present attitude to their benefactor, he told them—when he could command silence—was senseless to the last degree. They had been indulging in foolish spleen, and incurring serious harm to themselves, as the closing of the club and dispensary testified. They were simply running their heads against a brick wall when they imagined they could go against a man in Mr. Karne’s position. He advised them to sign an apology which he himself would prepare; and voted that they should do all in their power to renew their former friendly relations with Herbert Karne.

His address was received with expressions of mingled approval and dissent. The majority of them were half inclined to think that it would be wiser in the end to cease hostility, especially as the winter was approaching. They remembered the numerous creature comforts which had been provided every year at the artist’s expense.

Jacob Strelitzki, with a wild light in his eyes, elbowed his way through the crowd and sprang on to the platform.

“Mates!” he shouted energetically, “do you want to be turned into bacon-eating m’shumadim by Herbert Karne and his sister?”

A vigorous reply in the negative rolled towards him like the answer of one man.

“Well, then, don’t apologize, don’t play into their hands! Herbert Karne is no true friend of ours! He has taken an interest in our welfare simply that he might convert us all in the end! Four years ago he did his best to make a m’shumad of me, but I resisted before it was too late. We have our wives and children to consider—suppose he converts them against our will? Let us make a firm stand against it, and swear that that shall never be!”

Murmurs of indignation and applause came from every throat; but the foreman Blatz held up his hand to still them.

“It is false!” he cried in a voice that could be heard at the furthermost corner of the yard. “Mr. Karne is our true friend, and he is not a m’shumad. He has told us over and over again that he wishes us to be good Jews and upright men; he has never attempted to teach us any creed but our own. What right, then, have we to say that he is not a good Jew?”

“Every right!” replied the dark-bearded man vehemently. “If Herbert Karne were a good Jew, he would not have received his sister into his house after she became a Christian. He should have treated her as Bernie Franks would have done had he lived; he ought to have cast her adrift. Listen here, friends, Strelitzki is right. If we allow ourselves to be ruled by the people at the Towers, we shall find our wives and children being led astray. Only yesterday my little girl Blume met with a slight accident whilst out on an errand. Miss Celia Franks used it as an excuse to entice her to the Towers, where she kept her for some time. What she said to the child I do not know, but when my wife undressed Blume at night, she discovered this”—lifting a crucifix high above their heads—“hung round her neck. Comrades, are we to stand by without protest in the face of an insult such as this?”

“No, no!” responded the angry crowd, their ire aroused at the sight of the offending emblem. “Stamp on it! Crush the trumpery thing! Down with those who dare to tamper with our religion! Down with m’shumadim!”

A crucifix around a Jewish child’s neck! It was the worst indignity that could have been offered to them, for nothing could have shocked them more. Here was proof positive of Celia Franks’ intention to convert their children by force; here was virtually their call to arms.

Even the foreman Blatz knew not what to think; like the rest of them he was amazed and shocked. In vain now did he urge them to establish peace; the incident of the crucifix decided what their course of action should be.

They accused Blatz himself of apostasy when he again pleaded in favour of the artist. They would do without Mr. Karne’s gifts rather than be robbed of the faith of their forefathers. They would ask one of the Rothschilds or Montefiores to build them a club; they would accept nothing more from Herbert Karne.

The meeting broke up in noisy confusion, a motion being carried to arrange further proceedings the following night. The men dispersed in twos and threes, each discoursing volubly with his neighbour in whatever his native language happened to be.

Emil Blatz went on his way alone, with heavy heart and thoughtful brow. Usually he himself, as foreman, took the lead in factory affairs, but to-night he had been superseded. The men had been swayed by Strelitzki and Horwitz, who by common consent had established themselves as leaders, and their temper boded no good towards Herbert Karne.

Blatz possessed a strong admiration for the artist, who had done him many a good turn. He could not forget a certain eventful night, when his boy lay dying, and Karne had kept vigil with him for eight weary hours, until, at dawn, the little soul had fled into the dim unknown. He felt he owed him a debt of gratitude for that, which, if it were in his power, he must repay.

Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards the Towers, although he had only a vague idea as to what he intended to do. Without giving himself time for thought he pressed the visitors’ bell. Noiselessly the gate swung back, gaining him admittance to the grounds. The coachman’s wife peered out at him as he drew near the lodge, but offered no resistance: and with careful steps he passed along the gravelled path which bounded the lawn, until the house with its ornamental turrets loomed clear against the blackness of the night.

Presently the sound of music made him pause; the mellow tones of a piano, and then a woman’s voice, full, rich, and clear. Blatz listened with eager attention, for he was a musician born. Softly and sweetly the notes floated towards him through the half-open windows. He recognized the melody; it was an aria from Elijah.

Moving a few steps to the right he found himself in full view of the drawing-room. The blinds had not been lowered; and through the transparent curtains he could see the interior of the room.

The scene struck him strangely, being in such marked contrast to the one he had just left. It was as if, in the midst of turbulent strife, he had suddenly come upon a haven of rest. Here for one short moment he might breathe the atmosphere of peace and refinement. Although but a humble factory worker, Blatz possessed a passionate love of the beautiful; and this luxurious apartment, with its dainty touches of femininity, awakened a keen thrill of pleasure within his breast.

There were five occupants of the room, all of whom were known to the foreman, except the dark-haired girl at the piano. Herbert Karne stood with his back to the fireplace exhibiting a book of sketches to the white-haired vicar of Durlston. Seated on a low chair in the roseate glow of the lamp was the vicar’s daughter, her fingers busily plying a piece of fancy-work; and facing her, by the side of the grand piano, stood Celia Franks, singing with all her heart.

“Hear ye, Israel! hear what the Lord speaketh: Oh, hadst thou heeded, heeded My commandments!”

Sweetly and half reproachfully she sang the words to their melodious accompaniment. Her eyes were dimly fixed on the dark swaying trees in the garden; her thoughts were far from the lighted room.

Then more solemnly she enunciated the question: “Who hath believed our report? To whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?” Afterwards recurring to the exhortation, “Hear ye!” and closing with the pathetic appeal in the minor key, “Israel!... Israel!”

A wave of emotion swept over Emil Blatz as he listened; the mellifluous beauty of the melody almost carried him away. He knew not whom he envied the more: Mendelssohn for having composed such music, or the young singer for her power to interpret it in that way.

The words, too, sounded in his ear with peculiar significance; they seemed like a justification of the singer’s faith.

Suddenly the voice ceased its tender note of appeal; and after a few bars of recitative, burst forth into a triumphant assurance of divine protection, followed by the sublime meditation:—

“Say, who art thou, that art afraid of a man that shall die? And forgettest the Lord thy Maker, Who hath stretched forth the heavens, and laid the earth’s foundations? Be not afraid, for I, thy God, will strengthen thee!”

To Blatz there was a note of defiance in the girl’s rendering of the dramatic music: the very poise of her head, as she sang the “Be not afraid,” seemed like a challenge to those who were her enemies. In his simplicity he forgot that she was quite unconscious of her uninvited listener, and that the words were not her own.

When the last note died away, he moved towards the hall door: he had made up his mind that the artist must be warned.

Karne received him in the smoke-room, expecting that he had been deputed to bring him the written apology he claimed. He was disappointed to learn that such was not the case; but although he had no desire to remain at enmity with Mendel’s people, he fully meant to stand his ground.

The foreman explained that he had not come on behalf of the people, but merely to acquaint the artist privately of the strong ill-feeling that existed against him, and to advise him to take measures towards self-protection. The situation was graver than he knew.

“It is an absurd affair altogether,” Karne said impatiently. “What your grievance really is, I haven’t the faintest idea. I wish you would tell me in what I have offended your people so deeply.”

Blatz spread his hands deprecatingly, as much as to say that it was no fault of his.

“It’s mostly on account of Miss Celia, sir,” he began with hesitation. “They think you ought to have adopted severer measures in connection with her conversion. And because you have painted religious pictures, and are so friendly with the Rev. Mr. Milnes, they think that you yourself are going the wrong way. They fear that you and your sister will attempt to convert them also.”

Karne listened with good-natured contempt on his handsome face.

“What egregious idiots!” he exclaimed, when Blatz had finished. “You may assure them on my word of honour that I have no intention of becoming a Christian—not because I have any silly prejudices such as theirs, however. As for my sister, neither they nor I have the right to deny her the courage of her opinions. I feel sure that she will not offend by thrusting her creed upon any of you against your will.”

“Then why did she take little Blume Horwitz home and try to convert her yesterday, sir?”

The artist raised his eyebrows. “My sister and her friend found the little girl in distress by the road-side; and enacted the part of good Samaritan by bringing her here to be attended to,” he replied. “I do not know what you mean by ‘trying to convert her.’ You surely do not think that she would argue about religion with a child!”

“But she hung a crucifix around Blume’s neck,” affirmed Blatz, eagerly. “That was a great mistake, sir. It was like throwing down the gauntlet, so to speak.”

Karne looked puzzled and incredulous. “Surely you must be mistaken!” he exclaimed in surprise. “However we can easily ask my sister about it. Will you come with me into the drawing-room? Oh, that’s all right”—as Blatz looked ruefully down at his corduroys—“the ladies will excuse your attire.”

He led the way across the hall, the foreman nervously following. Blatz dreaded the highly polished parquet floor, and the rugs which slipped away directly one’s feet touched them. The only occasion on which he had been there before he had executed an involuntary war dance; and he was not anxious for a repetition of the performance.

Higgins, who had just brought in the after-dinner coffee, favoured the unusual visitor with a look of supercilious superiority; but Celia, with her usual sweetness, invited him to sit down; and insisted on his taking a cup of coffee with them.

Blatz shuffled to the nearest chair, and sat on the edge of it. From the outside the room with its handsome belongings had delighted his artistic sense; but now that he was inside he half wished himself out again.

Herbert Karne explained the nature of the foreman’s errand.

“Things have come to a pretty pass,” he said, bitterly, “when we, who have done those people nothing but good, should have to be warned concerning our own safety because of their sinister designs. One might imagine that we were living in the days of the Inquisition.”

The girls looked scared.

“What do you think they will do?” asked Gladys Milnes.

“I have not the least idea. However, we need not be afraid. Fortunately there is a telephone in the house, so that I can easily ring up the police if there should be occasion to do so.”

Blatz pricked up his ears, and made a mental note of the latter statement.

“By-the-bye,” continued the artist slowly, “did you tie a crucifix round that little Horwitz girl’s neck, yesterday, Celia?”

The girl seemed astounded. “I? No, of course not,” she answered, emphatically. “I have never possessed such a thing.”

“Miss Franks is not a Roman Catholic. She does not wear baubles of that sort,” put in the vicar, who was extremely Low Church.

“I thought so,” said Karne, with satisfaction. “So you see you were mistaken, Mr. Blatz.”

The foreman was disconcerted. “The child wore one when she returned from the Towers, sir,” he said but half convinced. “Perhaps Miss Celia’s friend——?”

Enid Wilton shook her head. “No, I had nothing to do with it either,” she said. “It is a strange occurrence.”

It was indeed strange. Blatz did not know what to make of it. He could not possibly doubt the statement of the two young ladies; and yet, if neither of them had put the crucifix on the child, how had it got there?

He puzzled over the question, but could find no solution; and when, after finding that his warning was futile so far as Herbert Karne was concerned, he left the Towers, the incident of the crucifix still occupied his mind.

As the foreman shut the gate which led into the private road, a man sprang suddenly out of the darkness, and laid a detaining grip on his shoulder. It was Jacob Strelitzki, somewhat the worse for drink.

“I thought that was what you were going to do, so I followed you up to here,” he said, with a vicious shake. “Been blabbing, I suppose, you mean sneak?”

“Let me go!” cried the foreman, angrily. “I’ve been finding out the truth. You and Horwitz are on the wrong track. Mr. Karne is no more a m’shumad than you are; and his sister did not put the crucifix on the child. There’s been some trickery somewhere. I should not be surprised if you had something to do with it, either, Jacob Strelitzki. I know you have a grudge against Mr. Karne.”

Strelitzki was furious. Hurling various choice epithets at his companion he shook him off with such violence that Blatz fell against the wall, knocking his head, and severely bruising his shoulder.

Strelitzki immediately became repentant. Apologizing for his hasty temper, he saw the foreman to his home, and helped to dress his wounds.

But Blatz was too indisposed to attend the meeting of the factory people the following evening; and as there was no one to tell the truth concerning Herbert Karne and his sister, Strelitzki ruled with unopposed sway.

“It’s going to be an awfully nice affair,” said Gladys Milnes, as she admiringly surveyed the evening gown which Celia laid on the bed for her inspection. “Blue Hungarian band, and the catering done in Manchester. I met Reggie Stannard on my way here, and he told me all about it.”

They were discussing the Stannard ball, given to celebrate the coming of age of the squire’s younger son, which was to take place the following Thursday. It had been the chief topic of conversation in Durlston for the past fortnight, for in that quiet town such a gay function as a ball was of rare occurrence. Over one hundred and fifty invitations had been issued, and anybody who did not receive one was considered quite without the pale of social eligibility; in fact, there was hardly any one who would have owned to such a slight.

“What are you going to wear?” asked Celia, with interest. “Your white dress, I suppose?”

“Yes, the same old thing, of course; it trots out with never-failing regularity. I have coaxed father every day for a month to let me have a new dress; but he doesn’t see the necessity of incurring such an expense just for the Stannards’ ball. He wouldn’t let me wear a low bodice like yours and Miss Wilton’s either. If I were to appear before him attired in my nightdress with a pale blue ribbon sash, he would say I looked lovely, and would never know what it really was. What is a girl to do with a dad like that?”

“Never mind,” returned Celia, cheerfully. “You look very nice in white. Is your father going with you?”

“Oh no, he wouldn’t go to a dance; it’s too frivolous for him, you know. Mrs. Lester has promised to take me under her wing; but she is sure to want to go home about twelve o’clock—just when the fun begins. That’s where I miss Geoffrey so much. He used to make such a delightful cavalier.”

At the mention of Geoffrey’s name Celia looked up with interest.

“Have you heard from him lately?” she asked.

“Yes. We had a letter this morning. Dick Stannard has joined him in Sydney, and they both expect to be home for Christmas. That will be nice, won’t it? Geoff writes a good deal about a Miss Thornton and her mother, who will be coming to England the same time as themselves. Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if he were engaged to her, although he doesn’t actually say so. I should like to see Geoff married to a nice girl, wouldn’t you, Cely?”

“Ye—es,” answered Celia, mechanically, the colour suddenly leaving her cheeks.

Geoffrey Milnes engaged! She had never thought of that. Yet why should he not think of marrying, just as she herself had done? Why should the thought of his possible marriage cause her heart to sink like a leaden weight? Why should it? But it did.

Since her engagement with David Salmon had been broken off, she had allowed her mind to dwell once more on her old-time friendship with Dr. Milnes. She was looking forward with almost feverish eagerness to his return, and tried to imagine the joy of their meeting. But, if he came back as the lover or husband of some one else! She could scarcely bear to think of it.

Gladys rattled on with her inexhaustible stock of light chatter, not noticing her friend’s sudden pensiveness. She could talk of nothing else but the ball, and favoured Enid Wilton—who was also to be a guest—with a full account of the people who would be there, whilst Celia sat quite quiet, thinking of Miss Thornton.

When the eventful day arrived, Enid was confined to her room with a cold. Her going to the ball was quite out of the question, and in consequence thereof, Celia refused to go either. In vain did Enid protest, and beg her friend not to forego her amusement for her sake. Celia would not be persuaded, and declared that she was not at all anxious to go. She had been to so many dances during the “season” that she had outgrown her liking for them.

As soon as her decision was made, she went downstairs to inform her brother. She found him in the studio, putting the finishing touches to the paintings for the Duke of Downshire’s chapel, prior to their being despatched the following day. There were five of them altogether, all representing incidents of Gospel history.

“I was just thinking of sending an invitation to Mendel’s people to come and have a private view,” he said facetiously. “Do you think they would accept it, Celia?”

“I think they would injure the pictures if they did come,” she rejoined seriously. “And that would be a pity, for they are beautiful things. I like the ‘Annunciation’ the best. You have made the angel Gabriel’s wings quite translucent. You did not paint this one, did you, Herbert?” pointing to an unframed representation of the Crucifixion, which struck her as being somewhat musty in comparison with the others.

The artist smiled. “No, I wish I had,” he replied enthusiastically. “That is a real Raffaelle, my dear. It belongs to the duke, who lent it me as a guide. I had better put it away while I think of it. I wouldn’t have anything happen to that for the world.”

Suiting the action to the word, he wrapped the painting in an holland covering, then placed it carefully in the cupboard under lock and key. The other pictures he left where they were: one on the easel, and the others on the floor facing the French windows.

He thought of them again when he was at the Stannards’ ball, although there was no reason why they should recur to his memory just then. Perhaps it was because the face of his partner reminded him of the features he had given to the Magdalene. He often found resemblances between the people he met and characters in his pictures.

The ball-room was crowded with quite a galaxy of fresh-complexioned country girls escorted in the dance by the young scions of the neighbouring county families; whilst on the platform which bounded the room were ranged in solemn state their chaperons. The absence of Celia Franks caused universal regret; but to one of the guests, at least, the cloud had a silver lining. This was Lady Marjorie Stonor.

“You will let me give you a lift, if you have not ordered your dog-cart to come for you to-night?” she said to the artist, as soon as she found his sister was not there. She did not wish to miss the opportunity of a moonlight drive with him alone.

“It is very kind of you,” he replied politely. “But I have accepted Major Denham’s offer of a seat in his motor-car.”

His refusal almost sounded like a rebuff, but the young widow did not take it in that light. Instead, she flashed him a glance out of those wonderful blue eyes of hers.

“It is such a long drive,” she murmured with a sigh, “and I am all alone. Cannot you countermand your acceptance?”

He would have been more than mortal if he could have withstood such a look and such an appeal.

“It shall be as you wish; I shall be delighted to be your escort,” he answered gallantly, lifting up her programme in order to reserve the conventional three dances for himself.

Lady Marjorie looked her best that evening; and was, perhaps, conscious of the fact. She was dressed in white: yet not girlish white, for her gown was elaborately trimmed with incrustations of handsome lace, in the centre of each of which gleamed a minute ruby. The cluster of red roses at her breast set off to advantage the creamy smoothness of her neck and shoulders. The diamonds in her hair and at her throat seemed to enhance the air of distinction which was hers by birth.

To Herbert Karne she was by far the most brilliant woman in the room, although not being given to indulge in compliments he did not tell her so. But he spent every available moment by her side, and insisted on claiming all the extra dances. For once he broke through his customary reserve, and seemed suddenly to have become an impetuous youth again.

Lady Marjorie was glad that it should be so. To waltz with him to the entrancing strains of the “Blue Danube,” or to sit out with him in the flower-bedecked alcoves afforded her infinite delight. She knew that she was monopolizing the best dancer in the room, and that people were watching and might talk; but her eyes shone defiance at them all.

Her carriage came somewhat early, for she had not anticipated the pleasure of Herbert Karne’s company on the drive home. Fortunately he had not engaged himself for the last two extras; and after the “Sir Roger,” which she was obliged to dance with Squire Stannard, they left.

She gave a little sigh of satisfaction as the footman closed the door, and sprang up to his perch. Herbert drew her white cloak carefully around her, and arranged the rug at her feet. He seemed full of solicitude lest she should catch cold. They were both silent as the brougham bowled smoothly down the drive, and out at the stately gates. As they turned into the dark country road, Major Denham’s motor-car passed them at full speed. When the teuf-teuf died away in the distance, Lady Marjorie spoke.

“I do think Major Denham a terrible creature!” she remarked lightly. “We had quite a hot discussion this evening. He wanted to convince me that love and romance are entirely the result of a defective brain, sluggish liver, or disordered system. Did you ever hear anything so horrible?”

Herbert smiled. “Love’s young dream also?” he inquired.

“Yes; all dreams. I told him I was glad that so few of us possessed perfect systems if that meant doing away with romance. Why, just think of the poets, painters, musicians, and authors, who are all dreamers in their way. How prosaic and dull we should be without them: it is they who keep the world young.”

“I am afraid Major Denham had a firm opponent in you,” he remarked, trifling idly with her fan. “You are endowed with a romantic temperament yourself, Lady Marjie.”

“Well, why not?” she answered half seriously. “When I was a child I used to delight in fairy stories; in fact, I lived in an atmosphere of fairyland. I remember the time when the account of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella made me positively thrill every time I heard it. Then when I outgrew that stage, I got into the habit of idealizing the most trivial incidents: of finding the romantic side to quite prosaic things.”

“On the ‘Sermons in stones; and good in everything’ principle, I suppose?”

“Yes. And now I’m told that it all came from dyspepsia or the liver. No wonder Major Denham is a bachelor. He could not hold such a pernicious theory had he ever loved.”

“You are married,” he said provokingly. “You speak from experience.”

“That doesn’t always follow,” she rejoined, with a sigh. “But of course you cannot know. You, too, are a bachelor.”

Herbert thought the conversation was drifting into an undesirable channel.

“How philosophic we are,” he remarked, leaning back in the carriage to stifle a yawn. “At two o’clock in the morning, too.”

Repelled once again, Lady Marjorie relapsed into silence. Presently a dog-cart passed the carriage coming from the opposite direction. To Karne it had the appearance of his own, but having given orders to Roberts not to fetch him, he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.

Suddenly his companion gave a slight involuntary shiver.

Karne drew her cloak further around her shoulders. “What is the matter?” he asked kindly. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she replied nervously. “A sort of half-presentiment of evil came over me. I can’t explain it. But it doesn’t matter: it has gone now.”

“According to Major Denham’s theory it is the effect of the goose we had for supper,” he rejoined laughingly; but even in the dim moonlight he could see that she was unusually pale.

The brougham approached the Towers through the small gate at the north side of the house, at which angle the studio was built. As it drove through, the occupants detected a faint odour of burning. At the same moment the noisy clatter of horses’ hoofs warned them of the approach of some vehicle: and in the course of a few seconds a fire-engine dashed rapidly past them, causing their horses to swerve sharply to the left.

Herbert let down the window and looked out. A thin line of smoke, emitting sparks, was plainly discernible through the trees. Another bend in the road gave him a closer view.

“Good heavens, Marjorie!” he exclaimed in horror, sinking back into his seat. “It looks as if the Towers were on fire!”

It was the first time he had addressed her without prefixing her title, but she was too excited to notice it just then. The Towers on fire meant that the inmates, including Celia, were in peril: this thought was uppermost in her mind.

Karne gave orders to the coachman to drive faster; and in a short space of time they had arrived upon the scene.

The spectacle that met their gaze confirmed their fears. The Towers was on fire; but as yet the studio only, and not the house, had been attacked. A number of firemen were diligently plying the hose, their endeavours being noisily encouraged by the excited servants.

Persuading Lady Marjorie to remain in the carriage, Herbert sprang out, not waiting for the footman to attend at the door. Every pulse in his body seemed throbbing, but with an effort he pulled himself together, and set about making inquiries with as much calmness as he could muster.

The fire must have been smouldering since the early part of the evening, but had broken out less than an hour ago. Directly the discovery was made, Roberts had been sent off in the dog-cart to give the alarm and fetch his master. The firemen had been able to remove some of the paintings out of the studio, but those on the walls and floor were blistered by the heat; and four of the larger ones were totally destroyed.

They had got the fire well under, and were hopeful of extinguishing it without much further damage. There was little danger of its attacking the house on account of the stone passage and stairs.

So much Herbert Karne learnt from the eager servants. Then he went back to the brougham to take Lady Marjorie into the house.

Celia, in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair flowing over her shoulders, met them on the stairs.

“Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed, with a sigh that was almost a sob. “The Raffaelle—where’s the key? Go quickly; you may be able to save it yet.”

Her brother could not take in her meaning at first, but suddenly comprehension dawned upon him.

“Good heavens, yes! The Duke of Downshire’s picture! He will never forgive me if that gets burnt.”

“Where is the key?” repeated the girl, excitedly.

“I have it here in my pocket. But it is a patent lock; the firemen won’t be able to manipulate it. I shall have to do it myself;” and tossing his silk scarf to his sister, he dashed down the stairs.

Celia drew Lady Marjorie into the library, and gave her a chair by the window overlooking the studio. Her face was pale and anxious; she looked as if she had received a painful shock.

“I have persuaded Miss Wilton to go back to bed,” she said, sinking on to the couch with a shiver. “She has such a bad cold. Isn’t this dreadful, Lady Marjorie? I shall never feel safe here again; and I shall be so anxious for Herbert when I am away. It is incendiarism, you know.”

Her friend gave an ejaculation of horror.

“Are you sure?” she asked in astonishment. “How do you know that it was not accident?”

“The firemen found some ignited boards soaked in oil against the studio walls,” Celia replied. “One of them had ‘Mendel and Co.’ painted on the back. It’s the factory people. They have been threatening us for some time, as you are aware; but we never dreamt of this. If there had been the slightest breeze we should have been burnt right out.”

“The wretches!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie. “I hope they will get the imprisonment they deserve. We must be thankful, however, that the danger was not greater; it might have been worse.”

She glanced through the window, and remarked with satisfaction that, although the engines were still at work, the smoke had dissolved, and the flames were quenched.

Suddenly the measured tread of heavy feet on the lower staircase made her turn quickly towards the door. Tramp, tramp, they came, and an icy fear gripped her heart as she listened. Expecting she knew not what, she nervously made her way to the landing, and looked over the balustrade.

A small procession of firemen and servants were coming up the stairs. What did they want up there, she wondered vaguely. They seemed to be carrying something ... a motionless form with arms hanging limply down. Some one had evidently been injured—perhaps worse. With a shudder she looked away, and for a moment everything swam before her eyes; until a smothered sob from Celia recalled her to herself.

The firemen came nearer, and turning into an adjacent room, deposited their burden on the bed. As though fascinated, Lady Marjorie followed. The servants made way for her, although one of them would fain have spared her the painful sight. With a low cry of grief and terror, she advanced towards the bed, for on it lay the apparently lifeless figure of the man she loved!

Celia, with praiseworthy calmness, was bathing his face, whilst Higgins attempted to remove his blackened dress-coat, the left sleeve of which had been partly burnt away. One servant was hunting for lint, another for iodoform, a third for vaseline; but Lady Marjorie saw none of them. She was conscious only of that white set face with the long black lashes drooping over the pallid cheeks. Flinging off her cloak, she bent over him, and began whispering all the endearing names she could think of. Conventional discretion was for the moment set aside.

Presently he seemed to regain consciousness; and, at a look of warning from Celia, she removed the diamond star which blazed on her breast, casting it heedlessly on the floor. A quivering of the eyelids, a slight moan; and then the sufferer looked up and met her gaze.

“Thank God!” she ejaculated under her breath. “Oh, Herbert darling, I thought you were dead!”

He tried to smile, but the pain in his arm caused his face to contract in agony. Then—“The picture?” he gasped. It was for that he had risked his life.

“That’s all right, sir; it’s quite safe,” Higgins assured him; and with a sigh he closed his eyes again.

After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Forrest arrived. Herbert’s arm was badly burnt from the shoulder to the elbow, but the doctor feared the effect of the shock even more than the actual injury. He prescribed absolute quietude for his patient, and with firm but kindly insistence persuaded Lady Marjorie to return to her home.

She did not want to go, and could hardly bear to tear herself away, but she was sensible enough to admit that she could do no good by remaining. The doctor reminded her also that she had her servants and horses to consider.

So once more she bent over Herbert to say good-bye. He was more comfortable now, and his face had relaxed its expression of pain. Feeling the fragrance of her perfumed hair, he opened his eyes, and there was a look in them she had never seen before—a look which made her heart beat high.

With her face close to his she whispered her farewell, and listened joyfully to his murmured response—

“I’m all right now, little woman. Good-bye.”

Then she kissed Celia, and, putting on her cloak again, went forth to resume her interrupted drive. The fire appeared to be totally extinguished by this time; but the hose continued to play upon the heated roof. Two of the engines were about to depart, one having already left.

Lady Marjorie watched them with mingled feelings. She regretted the damage to the studio and paintings, she grieved for the painful injury to Herbert’s arm; but if, as she diffidently hoped, the fire had been the means of kindling the artist’s love for herself, both he and she would forget the temporary misfortune in the aftermath of joy that would be theirs.

Jacob Strelitzki had vanished. He disappeared on the night of the fire, after having seen his plans ripe for consummation, and all efforts to trace him were made in vain. He was wanted for the official inquiry; but it was probably in order to escape this that he had gone away. In his absence, Horwitz was made to act as scape-goat; even the factory people themselves laying the blame on him. But he too put all the mischief down to the bad influence of his brother-in-law, Strelitzki; and, in common with his fellow-workers, escaped with a severe censure and nothing more. If Strelitzki returned he would be arrested on the charge of incendiarism; but it was not likely that he would do so, especially as his wife and child left Durlston a few weeks later, their destination unknown.

Herbert Karne made slow progress towards recovery. At first he seemed, as the doctor feared he would be, thoroughly prostrated by the shock to the system; and his convalescence was attended by a fit of nervous depression most difficult to combat. It was, no doubt, due to the discouraging fact that three out of the four pictures for the Duke of Downshire’s chapel would have to be done over again, thus entailing months of wasted labour. He greatly regretted, also, the destruction by fire of the best picture he had possessed of his and Celia’s mother, which had occupied the most prominent position in the studio. He had often imagined that this picture—the beautiful face with its coronet of bronze-gold hair so like Celia’s, the dark eyes, the smiling lips—had proved a source of inspiration to him when engaged at his work; and without it, the studio, when rebuilt, would look incomplete.

Celia was due at the Havilands’ house in St. John’s Wood the week after the fire; and although she would much have preferred to stay and nurse her brother, she found herself unable to cancel her engagement. As the time drew near she began to wish that she had not consented to become a temporary actress—for that was what it amounted to. Taking Enid Wilton’s advice, she wrote a letter to that effect to Mr. Guy Haviland, and received an answer by return. The dramatist begged her not to disappoint him; for he had quite set his heart on her filling the rôle of Mallida, the chief character in the play; and arrangements for its production had been fully planned. So there was nothing for it but to submit; and having decided to go through with the venture, Celia made up her mind to do her very best.

The Towers seemed very quiet when the two girls had gone; and its master would have felt very lonely had it not been for the kind attention of Lady Marjorie Stonor, who drove over to see him every day—sometimes twice in the day. He looked forward with eagerness to her coming, for she made a delightful companion; and being gifted with more than the average amount of tact, knew exactly how to adapt her mood to his. She could be loquacious or silent, gay or grave, flippant or thoughtful; it was all one to her so long as she amused and entertained the invalid.

Their friendship had ripened considerably since the fire. They had slipped into the habit of calling each other by their first names; he never thought of prefixing her title now. Sometimes, when she arranged the cushions in his chair—which, by the way, was not at all necessary, even if he did carry his arm in a sling—she dropped a light butterfly kiss on his forehead; and then smiled at him naïvely, like a child who has been guilty of some particularly audacious trick. And everything she did, came so naturally and sweetly from her, that there seemed nothing extraordinary in her guileless intimacy towards him.

Herbert Karne told himself over and over again, that for the sake of his honour and her happiness he ought to repel her advances, as he had done before. He knew that he and she were drifting towards a rock marked dangerous, and that shipwreck would inevitably ensue. He knew it; but he was weakened by illness: he seemed to have lost all his power of resistance. What is a man to do when a pretty woman—and a good woman—looks love at him out of baby blue eyes, and practises all the artless wiles of her sex to enslave him? When Lady Marjorie chose to be charming, she was very charming indeed. It would have needed a veritable misanthropist to have withstood her, when once she had made up her mind to conquer.

And so the days sped on—days full of poetry, romance, and love-dreams; and one afternoon the climax came. They were having a tête-à-tête tea in the drawing-room, when, as it happened, Reggie Stannard dropped in to inquire how the artist was going on. In the hall he was waylaid by young Bobbie Stonor, who wished to ask his advice about a peg-top he was endeavouring to spin. Bobbie was in the habit of roaming about the house when his mother visited Mr. Karne, for the lore of love had no interest for him. In the course of conversation, he referred to the new papa he was going to have; and, on being questioned, said that his nurse had told him that Mr. Karne would soon be his papa. So Stannard came to the conclusion that Herbert Karne must be engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor, a conviction which was deepened when he entered the drawing-room to find the two sitting opposite each other at a small tea-table with their faces close together, conversing in low tones.

They evidently did not hear Higgins announce him; so in order to attract their attention, he coughed somewhat significantly. Lady Marjorie jumped up as if she had been shot. Herbert Karne, however, retained his equilibrium.

“Ha, Reggie, glad to see you!” he said, extending his uninjured arm. “When did you arrive? We did not hear you come in.”

The young fellow shook hands with Lady Marjorie. “Only a few minutes ago,” he replied. “I have been talking to Bobs in the hall. I hope I—er—do not intrude?”—looking from one to the other with a glance of meaning.

“Not at all,” answered Karne, quickly. “A visit from you could never be an intrusion.”

Reggie was young and correspondingly imprudent. “It is very kind of you to say so,” he rejoined, accepting the cup of tea which Lady Marjorie handed to him. “Only two is company and three is none, isn’t it? May I—er—be the first to offer my—er—congratulations—and all that sort of thing, don’t you know?”

The colour flamed into Lady Marjorie’s cheeks.

“Congratulations?” repeated Herbert, with a puzzled air. “Oh; on my recovery, I suppose! Yes, I am going on very nicely, thank you, Reggie; my arm is nearly well.”

He hoped that the contretemps was averted, but unfortunately it was not. The young man had less gumption than he gave him credit for.

“Oh—er—I didn’t mean that,” he pursued provokingly. “I—er—that is to say—I was told that you and her ladyship were going to make a match of it, so to speak. I was delighted to hear the news.”

Karne’s brow clouded. “I am afraid that you have been misinformed,” he replied evenly, not trusting himself to look at Lady Marjorie; and Reggie Stannard, feeling somehow that he had blundered, begged his pardon and changed the subject.

Lady Marjorie’s feelings were in a tumult, but she joined in the conversation with merry vivacity; and Stannard had not the faintest idea that her gaiety was strained, and that she was longing for him to go all the time. Karne knew, however, and watched her in silence. He felt like a patient who awaits the surgeon’s knife. If there must needs be pain, he wanted to get it over quickly.

There was an awkward silence when Stannard eventually left. They both felt that there was something to be said; and neither knew exactly how to begin.

At last Lady Marjorie came over and stood by his chair.

“Am I so very distasteful to you, then, Herbert?” she said.

“Distasteful? What an idea!” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “Why, a man never had a more indefatigable nurse or truer friend than you, Marjorie.”

“And yet you denied the rumour that Stannard brought as calmly as if it meant nothing,” she rejoined, her words coming with difficulty. “And I—oh, how can I say it? Herbert, I can’t repress my feelings any longer. You may despise me for telling you, but I can’t help it. I love you. I love you! And all the world knows it except yourself.”

“Because I dare not know it; I must not know it,” he exclaimed impetuously. “Love cannot be for me.”

The blow had fallen; the pain was worse than he had anticipated. How could he tell the woman who believed in him that he had deceived her; that he had stolen her love under false pretences?

He looked up and saw the tender love-light in her eyes. She reminded him of a child waiting to be fondled and petted; she evidently had not taken in the meaning of his words. Rising, he paced the room—as was his custom when disturbed—and because of his agitation, his manner seemed almost harsh.

“Marjorie!” She looked up eagerly, but her heart sank as she noted the expression on his face. “Marjorie, I’m a cad and a scoundrel. I am going to hurt you: it ought to have been done long ago, then it wouldn’t have been so bad. When Stannard congratulated us like that, my first impulse was to accept his congratulations for us both. Then I remembered I couldn’t, because—I’m not free. Nearly twelve years ago, when I was just twenty-one, I was married, and, though I know not where she is, my wife still lives.”

“Married!” She uttered an exclamation of astonished dismay, and caught hold of the table to steady herself. Herbert thought she was going to faint, for every vestige of colour left her face; but she did not. Instead, she threw herself on to the couch and covered her face with her hands. Married. Married! Oh, if he had met his death on the night of the fire she could have borne it better than this!

He half expected her to overwhelm him with reproaches; but she was one of those sweet-natured women who will kiss the hand that strikes them down. He was her hero, and she loved him, and nothing that he had done could alter that fact. But her face, when she turned it towards him, was a greater reproach than any words could have been. All the brightness, the vivacity, seemed to have been suddenly crushed out of it; she had grown years older in a moment of time.

“Will you tell me all about it?” she said presently, in a voice quite unlike her own. “I am sorry to have to rake up what I presume is a—a painful subject, but I think I—ought to know.”

“Yes; you have a right to know,” he rejoined dully. “Twelve years ago I studied art in Paris. There I met a girl, who, from the first day I knew her, exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Her name was Ninette Douste, her father being Scotch, her mother French, and although so young she was already a widow, her husband having been lost at sea. Ninette was an artist’s model in the daytime, and a dancer in the evening; and although of doubtful reputation, was always anxious to impress upon me the fact that her father was a gentleman. She was fairly well-educated herself, but erratic and unprincipled in the extreme. All the money she earned went to back horses; it seemed quite unnatural for such a young girl to be so infatuated with racing. She laughed at me when I remonstrated with her about it, and called me a prude. Well, Ninette and I eventually got engaged, although, being as variable and capricious as the wind, she broke off the engagement about two or three times a week. I don’t think she ever loved me—she always treated me with good-humoured contempt; but I was a young fool, and she had me completely under her spell. We were married, without the knowledge of my parents, at the English Consulate in Paris, and intended going to Montmorency for our honeymoon. On the afternoon of the wedding, however, I received a telegram announcing the death of my mother, which necessitated my going home immediately; for my step-father, Bernie Franks, was away in South Africa. I left Ninette in Paris until—after the funeral—I could settle our future plans. When I returned, she had vanished, and I have never seen her from that day to this.”

Lady Marjorie uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Did you not make inquiries?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, I made full inquiries, but in vain, and to be candid, I was not dissatisfied with the result. When I returned to England, and mixed among my friends again, I saw how foolish I had been to imagine I could be happy with a woman of Ninette’s calibre: the scales seemed to suddenly fall from my eyes. Then the responsibility of Celia’s up-bringing devolved upon my shoulders; and I was secretly glad to think that she would be spared the undesirable companionship of my wife. Celia is still unaware of my marriage.”

“And did you never hear anything of your—your wife?”

“Yes. I received a letter from her a few months after the wedding asking for money, but vouchsafing no explanation of her strange conduct. I went to the address—it was in London—and found it to be a small stationer’s shop. The woman in charge said a foreign man always came for the letters, but he spoke little English, and she knew nothing about him. Without pursuing my quest further I sent the money, and asked Ninette to come back to me, or at least to grant an interview. She refused to do either, and wrote that she considered our marriage a mistake, adding that as long as I sent her a little money occasionally, for her favourite pastime, she would trouble me no further. I was not sorry to get out of the wood that way, and complied with her request, generally sending the money to the Poste Restante, Paris. After a while, however, I grew tired of despatching large sums to be squandered on betting, and told her so, whereupon she threatened to come to Durlston and assume her rightful place as mistress of the Towers. She evidently knew that I had some sort of a position there; and that for a wife—and such a wife—to suddenly appear on the scene would reflect discredit upon myself. That was about three or four years ago; and curiously enough, I have had no word from her since. I began to believe that she must be dead; but a friend of mine—the only one who knows my secret—has seen her twice during the last six months, once at Monte Carlo, and the second time alighting from a Channel boat at Dover. On both occasions he tried to get an opportunity of speaking to her, but she evaded him, and he lost her in the crowd. So that is how the matter stands, Marjorie. I have not a wife in the true sense of the word, yet I am fettered by the marriage laws. It is a cruel predicament for a man to be placed in.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she said, with the first touch of reproach. “Oh, it was cruel of you to pose as a bachelor all this time—especially cruel towards me. I would have died rather than have confessed my love, had I known the truth.”

She spoke quite calmly, but she could not repress the tear which trembled on her lash. It wended its way down her cheek when Karne admitted that he had been cruel, foolish, and weak; woman-like she could not bear to hear him blame himself.

And then she began to think of the future—her lonely, empty future. All the castles she had built in the air—the happy day-dreams of a life blessed with love—struck down at one blow. She had been living in a fool’s paradise; now she would reap the consequences of her folly.

Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her; and an eager yet half-frightened expression came into her eyes.

“Herbert, if you were free, would you marry me?” she questioned, in a low tremulous voice. “Don’t be afraid of hurting me; I want to know the truth.”

“I would marry you to-morrow if I could,” he answered despondently. “Do you think this doesn’t hurt me as well as you? I am not quite such a brute as to filch a woman’s love, and then toss it aside without caring, Marjorie. Besides, you’ve been so sweet and good to me. A man couldn’t know you as I do, without loving you and wanting to be loved in return. I’ve tried to steel my heart against you all along, but it was impossible. Love is so strong; it will not be bound down by rules and regulations: it has been too powerful for you and me.”

“Yes, love is strong,” she repeated breathlessly. “Stronger than death. We can’t stifle its promptings any more than we can stay the flow of the waves. It’s the future I’m thinking of, dearest, the future. What shall we do?... What shall we do?... Nobody knows about your wife—nobody need know.... Couldn’t we—just you and I—go right away, out of England, perhaps, and—— Oh, God, what am I saying? Herbert, Herbert, you have broken my heart!”

She hid her face in the silken sofa-cushions, and burst into a torrent of weeping. For the moment she felt as if she could never look any one in the face again. An overwhelming sense of shame took possession of her whole being. Worst of all, she had lost her self-respect in the eyes of the man she loved!

But Herbert knew that her words were the result of a mind distorted by anguish, for it was surely not the pure and virtuous Marjorie who thus set herself forth as temptress! Flinging himself down by the couch, he tried to comfort and soothe her, begging her forgiveness for the suffering he had caused. And then he reminded her, that, in spite of the dreariness of the outlook, she still would have the comfort of her child.

“Yes, thank God I have my child!” she murmured brokenly. “Life would not be worth living—now—without Bobbie.”

Presently the clock struck six—the time she usually went home. She rose to her feet and dried her eyes; and scarcely had she done so ere the door opened to admit her little son, armed with her cloak and hat. Fortunately, being dusk, he did not notice the unwonted dejection of her manner, or that her eyes were red with weeping.

Lady Marjorie sent him off to see if the carriage had arrived; then, when the last sound of his little feet trotting down the stairs died away, she turned once more towards Karne.

“This must be our good-bye, Herbert,” she said, in a muffled voice. “Of course I cannot come here any more. Do not tell Celia the reason; I would rather she did not know.”

“As you wish,” he replied gloomily. “You’ve no idea how I shall miss your visits, Marjorie. Must it really be good-bye?”

“Yes,” she rejoined quickly. “To look into your eyes, to hear you speak, would be torture to me now—I couldn’t bear it. Away from you I may be able to forget. That is what will be my chief aim in the future—to forget.”

“Perhaps some day—” he began hopefully. But she shook her head. His wife was just as likely to live as long as either of themselves.

“I wonder if you will ever really forgive me?” he added sadly. “I shall never forgive myself.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, true to the innate sweetness of her nature. “There was no adequate reason why you should have kept your marriage a secret from me all these years; it was quite unnecessary. But we all make mistakes sometimes. It was not your fault that I was so foolish as to give my love unasked.”

She paused, for Bobbie reappeared upon the scene. Herbert wished to escort his visitors to the carriage; but Lady Marjorie reminded him that he was still an invalid: it was cold and draughty downstairs.

Bobbie endorsed her statement; and advised him to remain where he was.

“I’ll ’scort mother,” he said cheerfully. “I know how to take care of her quite as well as any growed-up person. Come along, mother. You’ll be all right with me.”

“I am glad that you have such a worthy protector,” Herbert said in a low voice, aside. “I trust he may ever be as attentive as he is now.”

“I trust so,” she rejoined, the tears springing to her eyes. “Good-bye—Mr. Karne.”

She held out her small ungloved hand. He pressed it gently, then almost reverently raised it to his lips.

“Good-bye, Lady Marjorie—good-bye.”

One last look—and then she was gone. All the freshness and brightness of the room seemed to go with her. Herbert shivered, and rang the bell for a lamp; for some inexplicable reason he could not endure the glare of the electric light just then. All the evening he remained in his chair, deep in thought; and having left his dinner untested, went despondently to bed.

On the following afternoon, the weather being congenial, he went for a stroll. Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards Durlston House, although he had not the slightest intention of calling there. To his surprise he found all the blinds down, the house having an unwonted appearance of desertion. Without pausing to think twice, he rang the bell, and inquired for Lady Marjorie Stonor. The lodge-keeper informed him that her mistress had left suddenly for London, where she intended leaving her son at school. From thence she would proceed to Paris en route for the South. More she did not know.

Karne thanked the woman and turned away. Suddenly he paused, and looking up at the silent windows, raised his hat, as though greeting a friend. “Poor Marjorie!” he exclaimed softly to himself, heaving a deep sigh. “Poor little Marjorie!”

Then, squaring his shoulders, he resumed his walk.

“I think you are the most ungrateful and undutiful child,” said Mrs. Friedberg, surveying her youngest daughter with keen disapproval. “Your Pa and I have done our very best for you ever since you were born; and now that we are anxious to get you settled, you behave just like a silly schoolgirl, doing your utmost to thwart our wishes. It’s all the fault of those penny novelettes you’ve been reading. Now, remember this: I forbid you to bring any more of those trashy things into the house; and every one I find I’ll burn. Do you hear?”

Dinah stared back sullenly. “Yes, I hear,” she retorted pertly. “I should be deaf if I didn’t. You talk loud enough, anyhow, ma.”

Then she sat down at the table, and went on with her interrupted letter to David Salmon, which had been the cause of her mother’s outburst of wrath. It really was most annoying from Mrs. Friedberg’s point of view. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams had found a very nice man possessing the necessary qualifications for a chosan;[20] and Dinah, taking a foolish dislike to him at their first meeting, refused point-blank to have anything to do with him, scarcely treating him with civility. Moreover, she declared her intention of marrying David Salmon or nobody: and as David earned barely sufficient to gratify his extravagant tastes, much less keep a wife, such a decision was ridiculous in the extreme.

“What fault have you to find with Mr. Finkelstein?” her mother asked in exasperation. “He may not be good-looking, but looks are not everything. He’s got a good business, which is the chief thing, and I’m sure he is a very amiable sort of fellow. Girls are so particular nowadays. I suppose you would prefer one of those penny-novelette young men, with blue eyes and a curly moustache, eh?”

Dinah shrugged her shoulders. “I won’t consent to marry a man I couldn’t kiss,” she jerked out, nibbling the end of her pen.

“What nonsense!” rejoined Mrs. Friedberg, smiling in spite of herself. “I have never heard of such a thing. Besides, if it comes to that, I see no reason why you should not kiss Mr. Finkelstein.”

The girl made a grimace, and shuddered. “Ugh!” she exclaimed. “Fancy kissing that! Why, he’s got a beard like a door-mat. He looks as though a visit to the Hampstead swimming-baths wouldn’t do him any harm, either. There is too much of the Schneider-how-ye-vas? about him for me, thank you, Ma. You can tell him that I am already engaged.”

“But you are not already engaged,” her mother rejoined with anger. “A girl is not engaged until she has the ring. I wish you would have done with this nonsense, Dinah. You cannot marry David while he is in his present position; and you are not going to waste the best years of your youth in waiting for him. So understand that.”

Dinah went on writing in silence, knowing that words were useless in the present instance. When her mother had gone out of the room she produced a small case from her pocket, and, opening it, disclosed a pretty pearl and diamond ring, which she slipped on her finger. It was not half as valuable as Celia’s had been, but Dinah was quite satisfied with it, and wore it with a sense of proud possession. Her lover was at present away on business in the north of England, but she heard from him nearly every day. He always addressed his letters to the care of the Brookes, next door—Harold very kindly handing them to her over the garden-wall,—so her mother had not the slightest idea that the two refractory young people were carrying on such an ardent correspondence.

As soon as his engagement with Celia Franks was broken off, David had gone to Dinah for consolation; and the merry dark-eyed girl had responded to his attentions with a spontaneity that was quite refreshing. She had always been fond of him, even when she had snubbed him so cruelly, and, now that he was free, she did not hesitate to tell him so.

Before he went away, he proposed to her, and gave her the ring; but on account of the opposition of her parents, they decided to keep their engagement strictly private for the present. Dinah, however, was not quite happy about it. The prospect of being engaged for an indefinite period did not please her—it was too vague. One thing was certain, they could not get married without Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg’s consent, for to do so would mean the loss of the dowry and wedding-presents. It was a very mundane reason; but it had to be considered, for they could not possibly afford to dispense with such matrimonial perquisites.

Whilst David was away, Dinah was struck with an idea. She would try to enlist the sympathy of her brother-in-law, Mike Rosen, who was her lover’s employer, and see what good that would do. So she waited for an opportunity; and one morning, when her mother had gone to Lottie’s house in Canonbury for the day, jumped on an omnibus for the city. She hoped Mike would not mind her going to see him at his place of business, but she knew that if she went to Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Adeline was sure to be there, and she wanted to see him alone.

The Acme Furnishing Company’s premises were situated in the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road. Dinah found them with little difficulty, for, by dint of extensive advertising, they were well-known. She stood outside and surveyed the well-stocked windows with admiration. Each window represented a bedroom or sitting-room in miniature, fitted with all the latest improvements in the furnishing line. Mike Rosen must be very rich to be the owner of such a magnificent establishment, she thought.

Her intention was to go in and inquire for her brother-in-law straightway; but with her usual aptitude for fun, she thought she would amuse herself first. So with a bold step and a merry twinkle in her eye, she pushed open the swing-door, and stepped inside. A young man in a fashionable frock coat came forward to attend to her requirements. Dinah put on her most dignified manner.

“I have come,” she said, sinking on to a comfortable settee with an air of importance, “in answer to an advertisement of yours in the Daily Post, in which you term yourselves the benefactors of mankind.”

“Yes, madam?”

“You offer to accommodate young couples just about to get married, with furniture on the easy-payment system. I am just about to get married, and I want to pay easily, if you can understand.”

“Quite so, madam?” The young man regarded her with gravity. “How many rooms would you require to furnish?”

“I can hardly tell you yet. We have not yet decided whether it is to be a little back room in Bloomsbury or a villa in Hampstead. It all depends on circumstances. Lots of things depend on circumstances, don’t they?” she added with a sweet smile.

“Quite so, madam.” The young man thought her a somewhat queer customer.

“I have not come to order anything to-day,” she continued with dignity. “I’ve only come to inspect. You say in your advertisement ‘Inspection invited,’ you know. By-the-by, if we can’t pay up to date, I suppose you come and grab the chairs and tables, don’t you? That is a disadvantage—a decided disadvantage.”

The clerk cleared his throat. “Well, madam,” he replied, “we always endeavour to exercise the greatest leniency possible. Of course, before we send any goods to your—ahem—place of abode, we shall have to satisfy ourselves as to your ability to pay. I do not suppose you will object to our making full inquiries?”

“Oh, not at all,” said Dinah, complacently. Why should she object?

“Unlike some firms, we conduct our business on thoroughly honourable and equitable principles,” the young man went on to assure her. “Then there is our free insurance scheme. If your husband were to die——”

“Oh, but he is not going to die,” the girl interposed quickly. “Why, he has only just begun to live!”

“Just so, madam; but life at best is uncertain. I was going to say that, were your husband unfortunately to die, the furniture would be yours—as his widow—without any further payment.”

“How nice!” Dinah murmured. “You give me the cold shivers down my back. Widow indeed! And I’m not even married yet. Can I see your chief this morning?”

The clerk looked dubious. “That is scarcely necessary, madam, at this stage of the proceedings,” he replied. “The head of our firm is a very busy man——”

But Dinah had espied a familiar figure looming in the background—a figure with a broad waistcoat and a heavy gold chain.

“Mike!”

“Dinah! Why, what an unexpected treat this is, little girl!”

He came forward to greet her, his good-natured face beaming with pleasure. Dinah bowed with a saucy air of apology to the astonished clerk, and favoured her brother-in-law with a hearty kiss. Then she linked her arm in his, and passed down a narrow passage which was lined on either side with bedsteads of every description.

“Mike,” she said impressively, “I have come to talk to you about something very serious. I am going to take you into my confidence; that is why I have come down here. It is just between ourselves. Do you understand?”

Mike nodded gravely. “Perfectly,” he replied. “You will do well to take me into your confidence. But it is just my luncheon-time. Thompson, lay another knife and fork, please”—this to another of his numerous clerks. “Things of importance are much better discussed after lunch, you know. You are not in a hurry to get home?”

“No, Ma is out, so it doesn’t matter. You are not vexed with me for coming here, Mike?”

“Not at all, not at all. Quite delighted, I assure you. It’s not often I get a visitor to lunch, though Adeline brings the kiddie occasionally.”

He led the way up a short flight of stairs to a room marked “private,” and, opening the door, stood back for Dinah to enter. Although not large, it was a sumptuously furnished room, fitted with all the comforts that the owner could possibly desire. Red was the predominant tone, the wall-paper, carpet, hangings and upholstery being all of that colour. A large pigeon-hole cabinet and desk combined took up the whole of one wall, whilst a small card-table bore testimony to the fact that the proprietor was not averse to a little recreation in the midst of work. One picture only adorned the walls: it was an enlarged portrait of the woman he cared most about—his wife.

Dinah inspected her surroundings with undisguised approval, then sat down to the table, which gleamed with the finest cutlery and silver.

Suddenly something pink streaked with fat caught her eye. She glanced at it casually at first, then fixedly, and finally gasped in astonishment.

“Mike, you humbug!” she exclaimed in a tone of pained surprise. “It’s—it’s—ham!”

Mike felt himself go red down to the back of his neck. What an idiot he was not to have ordered the unlawful viand to be removed before the girl entered the room—but he had scarcely had time.

“Yes,” he replied with exaggerated carelessness, “my doctor recommends it as an extremely nutritious article of food. Adeline objects to have it in the house at all at home, so I am obliged to partake of it down here. However, I will not hurt your feelings by offering you any. This is a very tender chicken.”

He proceeded to carve the bird, handing a well-filled plate of it to his guest.

Dinah’s face fell. Looking longingly at the ham, she began to trifle with her chicken.

“I suppose I had better not ask whether this is kosher?” she inquired diffidently.

“Oh, it is quite kosher; it came from Abrahams’,” Mike answered quickly. “I would not offer it to you unless it were.”

He poured out two wine-glasses full of port: it was ’57 port. Dinah clinked her glass against his, and drank. Then she looked at the ham again, and sighed.

“Have a bit?” suggested her brother-in-law, with a sly wink.

She shook her head, but it was not a very decided kind of shake. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, with a feeble attempt at casuistry—

“Mike, the ham has rubbed shoulders with the chicken. They are both on the same dish, therefore one is no more kosher than the other. I think you may give me a piece just about the size of a sixpence. I’ve never tasted it before in my life.”

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity. “Here, give me your plate. If you eat a little bit, it’s just as bad—or as good—as eating the whole lot. There—now what do you think of it?”

Dinah cut a small piece, and pricked it with her fork. “‘Get a piece of pork,’” she murmured softly, “‘and stick it on a fork, and give it to the——’” Here she popped it into her mouth. “Oh, Mike, it’s positively scrumptious. But you won’t tell Ma, will you?”

“Oh no, I won’t split on you,” he replied cheerfully. “You see, we are both in the same boat.”

Pushing back his chair, he rose from the table; for a ring on the telephone claimed his attention.

“Do you know who that was?” he said, when he sat down again. “It was Mr. Salmon talking from Manchester. I would have told him you were here, but there was no time.”

“It is about David that I have come to see you,” Dinah began, somewhat nervously. “You must not tell anybody yet, but we are engaged.”

Her brother-in-law raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “Why, I thought that Ma——”

“Yes, Ma and Pa are both against it,” she hastened to explain. “That is the trouble. But I have quite made up my mind not to have Mr. Finkelstein or any other snuffy old creature they may choose to rake up for me. I am going to marry the man I love, and that is David. Oh, I love him so much, Mike—awfully much! I feel I shall do something desperate if anything happens to prevent us from marrying.”

She spoke quickly, and evidently meant what she said. Mike puckered up his brow, and having obtained the requisite permission, lit a cigar.

“It’s a pity,” he said between the puffs. “Couldn’t you place your affections on somebody more reliable than Salmon? I don’t say he’s not a nice lad—in fact, I rather like him myself; but he is not steady, he doesn’t stick to his business. I should like to see you comfortably married, Di, but to somebody with more backbone than David Salmon.”

“I know he is not a saint,” she answered eagerly. “I don’t want him to be. I couldn’t stand a paragon of perfection for more than a week. But he is not bad, Mike. You have no idea how good-hearted he really is. And he has promised me not to bet or gamble any more. Oh, I’ll make him stick to his business when we are married; you don’t know what a tremendous influence I have over him.”

“H’m!” Mike grunted, and scratched the back of his head. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to give him a lift,” she pleaded earnestly; “to put him in a position that will enable him to marry me with the consent of my parents. I wouldn’t ask you to help us if you were not such a thoroughly good fellow, Mike. You give away such large sums in charity, that I thought you wouldn’t mind going in for a little of that charity which begins at home. You offered to take David into partnership when he married, you know.”

“Ah, yes, but that was a different matter. If he had married Celia Franks he would have had her money to invest. I withdrew my offer directly the girl so foolishly threw away her fortune. You cannot expect me to take him into partnership if he hasn’t a farthing to put into the business—now, can you, Dinah?”

“No, I suppose not,” she answered dejectedly, scarcely knowing what to say.

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. The same clerk who had attended to Dinah came in to state that the head of a contemporary firm wished to see Mr. Rosen on important business.

Dinah jumped up and drew on her gloves, thinking she had taken up enough of her brother-in-law’s valuable time. Mike flicked the ash off his cigar.

“Well, I will have a serious conversation with David when he returns,” he said, as the clerk withdrew. “And if I can see my way to promote him, I will do so, for your sake, little girl. Anyway, I’ll give you all your house-furniture for a wedding-present, and a handsome cheque besides. So keep your pecker up, Di; I’ll see you through.”

Then, with a hasty farewell, he ordered the clerk to call a hansom and pay the driver. Dinah appreciated the attention, and quite enjoyed her free ride home. She was delighted with the result of her mission, for she knew that her brother-in-law would be as good as his word.

As for Mike, he went home and told his wife everything; and, as usual, asked her advice. Adeline hemmed and hawed, and cross-questioned her spouse until he marvelled at the shrewdness of womankind. Finally she said—

“Di won’t be happy till she gets him, Mike. We had better let her have him, and between us all we’ll manage to keep him straight.”

And so it was, that within the next fortnight the engagement between Dinah Friedberg and David Salmon was formally announced.

It was a Sunday afternoon in November. Outside, a grey mist hung over streets and squares, filling the air with unpleasant dampness; but inside—in this particular St. John’s Wood drawing-room, at least—there was warmth and comfort. The lamps under their crimson shades combined with the crackling fire to generate a cheerful light and heat, the pleasant effect of which was heightened by the clink of tea-cups and the buzz of human voices.

A stranger had merely to glance casually around to know that this was the apartment of one who was in some way connected with the drama. There were portraits everywhere: on the walls, the mantelpiece, the boudoir grand piano, and on both sides of a large screen; in fact, in every nook where there was the smallest space. Most of them portrayed the charms of well-known actors and actresses, some of them being the leading lights of the dramatic profession in England, America, and France. Art and music were also represented, although in a lesser degree; and each portrait was signed by the autograph of the original, in some cases supplemented by a friendly inscription.

The latest addition to this collection was a panel portrait of Celia Franks, in the character of Galatea, which was the last part in which she had performed at the Academy; and in close proximity to it sat Celia herself, carelessly stirring her tea. She was talking to the famous and marvellously beautiful actress, Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who, having at Haviland’s request attended the dress rehearsal of the new play, was so delighted with Celia’s acting as to wish to give her a few hints before the important first night. This was a great honour, for Mrs. Potter Wemyss did not usually trouble to give a novice the benefit of her advice; so Celia, appreciating it as such, listened with eager attention.

There were several other people in the room, including a little woman in black, who poured out the tea and spoke to nobody—she was the insignificant mistress of the house; Guy Haviland himself, genial as ever; his sister Grace, who was talking to Mrs. Neville Williams; and Lord Bexley, who sat silent in a far-off shadowy corner.

Bexley looked preoccupied as he absent-mindedly twirled his moustache. He watched Celia Franks and Mrs. Potter Wemyss, and wondered which of the two distinct types of beauty were the more perfect from the artistic point of view. Mrs. Potter Wemyss was Irish, with typical Irish eyes, and plump yet delicately moulded features. Celia, although her profile reminded him of a Greek statue, had the advantage of her Semitic descent; and with her red-gold hair would have made an excellent study for the Madonna, the accepted ideal of Jewish virginal beauty.

Bexley admired lovely women, especially when they were women of intelligence also, so that to gaze unobserved at these two afforded him keen pleasure. Their every movement was a graceful pose—perhaps studied in the case of the elder woman, but not so with the younger; and their long clinging gowns served to enhance the beauty of their well-proportioned forms.

“A pretty picture,” remarked Mrs. Neville Williams, in an undertone, suddenly appearing beside his chair. “Age instructing youth in the way of vice.”

She glanced towards the pair as she spoke. Her words jarred on Bexley in his present mood.

“I do not know why you should think that,” he returned with warmth. “I should say that Mrs. Potter Wemyss would be more likely to teach virtue than vice.”

“Oh yes”—with a laugh that was half a sneer,—“I know she is very good. Goes to church regularly, refuses to travel on Sunday, and won’t act during Lent. But it’s just a fad, you know, which she, being at the top of the ladder, can afford to indulge. It’s a good advertisement too. An actress does not usually possess a reputation of that kind.”

Bexley wondered what it was that made Mrs. Neville Williams so ungenerous to those of her own sex. Whenever he met her, which was very frequently of late—more often, if the truth be known, than he desired,—she always had something spiteful to say about one of their mutual acquaintance. He did not admire this trait in her character, and generally felt called upon to defend the lady who happened to be under discussion.

“It is hardly fair to take it for granted that Mrs. Wemyss is guilty of hypocrisy,” he said with a touch of asperity. “I consider it very praiseworthy on her part to stick to her Christian principles even though she is on the stage. Her example is one which might be followed to advantage by the lesser luminaries of her profession.”

“That sounds very nice,” Mrs. Williams replied with a shrug. “But I am afraid that I do not believe in such goodness. The world—especially the theatrical world—is too full of sham and make-believe.”

“And yet there is plenty of unaffected sincerity too, if we only know where to look for it,” the peer returned musingly, his eyes still on Celia and Mrs. Potter Wemyss. “Do you know, I used to think that when a human being ceased to believe in goodness, and in God as the Author of all goodness, he—or she—was no longer fit to live. Sometimes I think so now.”

Mrs. Neville Williams bit her lip, although it was not Bexley’s fault if she chose to apply the remark to herself.

“That is rather a strong expression,” she said, her small foot tapping the ground.

“Yes, one feels strongly sometimes,” he rejoined; then turned to Haviland’s little girl, who had just come into the room.

Mrs. Williams moved away wondering what had occurred to vex his lordship, for that he had been put out about something was evident. It was a question whether she would have been pleased, had she known.

That very morning Lord Bexley had proposed marriage to Celia Franks, and, to his sorrow, had been refused. She liked and respected him immensely, she said, and felt honoured that he should desire to marry her; but she did not love him, and, having once experienced an engagement without love, she was anxious to avoid a repetition of the mistake. It was no wonder, therefore, that he was not in the happiest of moods. He had known all along that, having given up her own fortune for the sake of her belief, his rank and wealth were not likely to carry much weight; but such knowledge did not make his disappointment any the less keen.

“I think I shall join my sister in the South,” he said, when, Mrs. Potter Wemyss having taken her departure, he was able to speak to Celia. “London seems suddenly to have become cold and grey. It will be a relief to see sunny Italy once more.”

Celia turned to him with an expression of regret. “You make me feel that I am sending you away,” she said, with a touch of self-reproach. “I am so sorry, Lord Bexley, sorry that I have had to hurt you, I mean.”

“Never mind, it was my own fault,” he rejoined, not wishing her to feel that she was in any way to blame. “It was foolish of me to imagine that you could fall in love with an old stager like myself. Oh, that’s all right”—as the girl was about to remonstrate,—“I am getting old, you know. Well, well, we will not say any more about it; only I do hope that when Mr. Right comes along, he will be worthy of you, Cely. You are a dear girl, you deserve to be made happy, and I sincerely trust that some good man will make you so.”

There was a suspicious moisture in Celia’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply, with one of her wonderful smiles. “It is very kind and generous of you to wish me all that; I hope, though, you won’t go away before Thursday,” raising her voice slightly, for Miss Haviland’s eyes were upon them. “I made sure that Lady Marjorie would be present at the theatre on the first night. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if you are away too.”

“Then I will stay,” he hastened to rejoin. “It is very kind of you to express such a desire.”

Thus ended Lord Bexley’s love affair, the only one he ever had.

The important Thursday came in due course, as every long-anticipated day comes, whether its advent be hailed with delight or dread. Celia was excited one moment, calm the next, and all the time cherished a secret fear lest she should be overcome with stage-fright at the crucial moment.

Late in the afternoon a large floral horse-shoe arrived from Mrs. Potter Wemyss. Haviland had it hung up in Celia’s dressing-room at the theatre, for luck. Accompanying the emblem was a note from the great actress wishing the author and his heroine a huge success. She was unable to attend the performance herself, having a professional engagement of her own to fulfil, but hoped to join them later at the Carlton, where Haviland was giving a supper in honour of the occasion.

Her good wishes were, happily, gratified. “The Voice of the Charmer” was a decided success. From the first ring-up to the final fall of the curtain, it went without a hitch. Beautiful scenery and costumes, good acting, a whimsical but fascinating plot—all these things were in its favour; and the audience being enthusiastic, ready to applaud on the slightest provocation, the good fortune of the play was thus ensured.

Celia’s cue did not occur until the latter part of the first act. She was heard singing in the distance until, after a melodious cadenza, she herself appeared. From the first moment of her entrance she held the stage. Opera glasses were immediately levelled and focussed, as with almost breathless interest the audience took in the beauty of her face and form, the profusion of bright hair falling over robes of filmy white; and then, the marvellous sweetness of her voice. Slightly nervous at first, she soon gained confidence; and, taking no heed of the audience, lost herself in the identity of Mallida, the hypnotist’s daughter, who, living in an old-world German town, lures men and women on by the magic power of her voice, until, arriving on her father’s domain, they are forced to submit to his evil machinations.

It was a curious play, recalling “Dr. Faustus” in the mystic impossibility of its first act, but becoming more plausible as it proceeded. The first scene was a secret cave in the heart of the Hartz mountains, where the hypnotist hid the spoil he had plundered from his victims; the last act represented, in striking contrast, a modern London ball-room; Haviland having run the whole gamut from the romantic to the commonplace.

The theatre was crowded in every part. Celia could not have desired a better reception than the one which was accorded her. Many of the people in the stalls and boxes had met her, when, like a meteor, she had flashed upon society under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor. Claiming personal acquaintance, therefore, they were particularly interested, and vied with pit and gallery in thundering their applause.

Sitting far back in the stage-box sat Herbert Karne, who had arrived from Durlston the preceding day. Although he was naturally gratified at his sister’s success, he felt strangely unattuned to the spirit of the performance, and was not as elated as he should have been. The depression which had accompanied his convalescence seemed to have settled upon him with deeper gloom. Try as he would, he could not reclaim that buoyancy of disposition which had been his aforetime. The sudden departure of Lady Marjorie had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible. Not only did he miss her cheering visits, her dainty attentions, her vivacious ways, but he also felt that, in spite of extenuating circumstances, he had treated her badly. A hundred times a day her face rose up before his mental vision—her face as it had been after he had told her of his past. And, however hopeless it might be, he loved her. Waking or sleeping, she was continually in his mind.

When the lights were switched on after the end of the second act, he recognized Lord Bexley, but avoided a direct glance. He was, perhaps, hyper-sensitive, but—although he might have been sure that Lady Marjorie would not tell even her brother of what had occurred—he felt that if Bexley were to approach him with a horsewhip, he would have no right to display resentment.

The peer was in an opposite box with friends. One of them, a lady, sat sideways, apparently studying her programme. There was something curiously familiar to Herbert Karne in the contour of her face. He was not able to regard her for long, however, for at that moment Guy Haviland appeared at the door of his box, offering to take him to the vicinity of the stage. He stayed there for the remainder of the performance, being much interested in the working behind the scenes.

Haviland and Celia received quite an ovation when the curtain fell for the last time, the author insisting in sharing the honours with his heroine. As soon as Celia had got rid of her make-up and changed into conventional evening dress, they all drove to the Carlton, where the flowers which had been presented during the evening were already displayed on the tables reserved for their party. Herbert Karne was allotted the place next to Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who had arrived with her husband a few minutes earlier. The two seats on his right were still vacant, but he was so absorbed in studying the radiant beauty of Mrs. Wemyss, that he did not particularly notice the fact.

“Good evening, Karne. Glad to see you again. How is the arm?” said a voice behind him; and, rising, the artist was confronted by Lord Bexley. With averted eyes he shook hands, and uttered a commonplace greeting; then started suddenly, scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of surprise.

A lady was standing by the side of the peer, the same he had seen in the theatre. Although dressed entirely in black, her appearance was by no means sombre, for her corsage, neck, and arms blazed with diamonds; the same jewels gleaming from amongst the unnatural brightness of her hair. Tall and erect, she towered above Herbert with an expression of calm triumph on her face; then, as Lord Bexley introduced him, held out her hand.

“I think we have met before,” she said with her peculiarly crisp accent, half French, half Scotch. “Perhaps Mr. Karne does not remember? It was in the Quartier Latin a few years ago.”

Herbert grasped the back of the chair; the whole room seemed to spin.

“Yes, I remember,” he answered thickly. “It would be impossible to forget——”

The lady prepared to take her place on his left. “How charming of you to say so,” she said, as she sat down. “We shall be able to talk over old times. To recall pleasant reminiscences is quite a favourite pastime of mine.”

It was a merry little supper-party. Guy Haviland kept the table going with his clever wit; he was a past-master in the art of entertaining. Although the evening had been a trying one, Celia did not seem to be fatigued. She enjoyed being made much of—what girl does not?—and her face glowed with happy excitement as she responded to the congratulations of her admirers.

Her brother felt like the death’s-head at the feast. Had Celia been less excited, she could not have failed to notice his unwonted moodiness. Mrs. Potter Wemyss made several efforts to sustain a conversation, but finally despairing of eliciting any but monosyllabic answers, left him to himself. His brain was in a whirl; he could not eat, nor could he speak. All he could do was to stare straight in front of him and marvel at the irony of fate. He had not caught the name of the woman to whom he had been reintroduced; he did not know in what guise she posed or how she came to be an honoured guest at Haviland’s table. It was enough for him that she was there; and being there, claimed recognition.

She confined her conversation principally to her partner, with whom she seemed to be on terms of intimacy. Several times, however, she turned towards the artist with a “Do you remember such and such a thing in Paris?” or, “We had delightful times in those old student-days, didn’t we, Mr. Karne?”

Herbert was amazed at her coolness, being unaware that on her part the meeting with himself had been anticipated. He was completely staggered, too, at the metamorphosis which had taken place in her. He had always credited her with being arrogantly clever, but how in those twelve years she had managed to transform herself from a rank Bohemian into a conventional society lady was more than even he could understand. Judging by the smiling bows of recognition which passed between herself and others who were supping at the Carlton, she was well known: that she had been in the company of Lord Bexley all the evening was in itself sufficient guarantee as to her social standing.

Not until the guests were dispersing did he get an opportunity of speaking to her alone; and then it was only for a second. She was standing in the vestibule, having just said good night to some friends whilst her cavalier went to see after her carriage. Herbert approached, and, with a gesture, drew her aside.

“Ninette!” he exclaimed; and then again, “Ninette!”

She smiled the slow tortuous smile he knew so well of old.

“Not ‘Ninette’ in England,” was her laconic answer.

“I must speak to you,” he said hurriedly, noticing that in spite of the difference in her age and position she was little changed. “Where can I see you, and at what hour? I must have an explanation.”

She drew herself up with dignity. “There is no ‘must’ where I am concerned,” she replied haughtily. “But if you care to call and see me to-morrow, I shall be at home. Here is my card.”

He took it hastily and placed it in his card-case. “At what time?” he asked again. “Ten o’clock?”

“You surely do not expect me to be up at that unearthly hour of the morning?” she answered in an aggrieved tone. “You can come at twelve.”

At that moment Lord Bexley reappeared, and, with a bow, the artist moved away. Then, when he had taken leave of Celia and was on his way to his hotel, he paused under a street lamp to examine the card.

“Mrs. Neville Williams,
150 Cromwell Mansions,
South Kensington, S.W.”

Such was its inscription.

Herbert read it aloud. “Mrs. Neville Williams.” The name seemed to have a familiar ring about it. Where had he heard it before? Suddenly he recollected. It was the name of the Vicar of Durlston’s brother-in-law, the late Dr. Neville Williams of Harley Street. Good Heavens! Could Ninette have had the audacity to pose as the doctor’s wife?—or of what had she been guilty?

A cold sweat broke out upon his brow as he thought of it. In whatever way she had disgraced him, she was still his wife; and now that she had suddenly crossed his path again, there could be no more ignoring of the fact.

What would society say if the scandal were exposed? he wondered dully.

What would Marjorie say?

There was no sleep for Herbert Karne that night.

“Did you notice what magnificent diamonds Mrs. Neville Williams wore last night?” said Celia to her brother the following morning. “Mrs. Haviland says they belong to the Wallingcourt family, and that there has been some amount of litigation about them. Fancy her wearing jewels that are not her own!”

Herbert Karne made no remark, for to discuss Mrs. Neville Williams with his sister was impossible under existing circumstances. Celia had called for him at his hotel; and was engaged in looking over a pile of newspaper cuttings concerning the performance of the previous night. Opinion was divided as to the merits of the play; but the critics were unanimous in their praise of the acting of Mallida.

“I feel frightfully flat this morning,” she continued, stifling a yawn. “It is the reaction from last night, I suppose. I think a walk would do me good. Will you come for a stroll over the heath, Herbert? Mr. Haviland wants me at the theatre at two o’clock, but I am free until then.”

Herbert rose from the table and looked out of the window.

“It is not a very nice day for the heath,” he replied. “It seems inclined to be foggy. Besides, I have an appointment in Kensington at twelve.”

“A business appointment?” she asked with interest.

“No, a private appointment,” he answered briefly, apparently disinclined to be communicative. Then with a gesture of weariness he passed his hand across his forehead and sighed.

Celia tossed the papers aside, and regarded him with solicitude. There was a furrow on his brow which hitherto she had not noticed, and his eyes had deep lines under the lids. He seemed thoroughly dispirited, though for what reason she did not know.

“I wish you would tell me what is the matter, Herbert,” she said gently. “You are not your own bright self at all. I noticed it directly you arrived on Tuesday. Is anything troubling you, dear?”

He sighed again—for the sixteenth time according to his sister’s calculation—then confessed to being “a bit worried,” but would not divulge what was the source of his trouble.

“Won’t you tell me what it is?” she urged. “Perhaps I could help you if I knew.”

He shook his head. “It’s a trouble for which there is no help,” he replied; and all her coaxing could elicit no more.

When he parted from her an hour later, he hailed a hansom and drove to Kensington, where he found the neighbourhood enveloped in fog. The cabman, unable to see his way clearly, had some difficulty in finding Cromwell Mansions; but after making a circuit of the whole district, eventually arrived at the destination he sought.

With a nervousness quite foreign to his disposition, Herbert paid the man and rang for the elevator. He had not chafed at the delay; quite the contrary, even though the fog were more or less unpleasant. He was going to see his wife, but what the result of that interview would be, he had not the slightest idea: his mind seemed a positive blank.

Arrived at the third floor, he pressed the electric bell, and was immediately admitted by a trim parlour-maid, who ushered him into an artistically furnished room of octagonal shape. An ugly pug, who lay coiled up on the hearthrug, was the only occupant, and greeted the visitor with a snarl. Herbert quieted it with a word; then, as the servant went to inform her mistress of his arrival, proceeded to look about him.

Some of the outside fog had penetrated within; and the only illumination was that obtained from an electric lamp, which, under a heavy golden shade formed to represent a daffodil, cast a subdued light over the room. As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, he discovered that the appurtenances certainly suggested taste and refinement. Books, pictures, music, and the many dainty knick-knacks which women delight in, all these were there. Of the pictures, two he recognized as his own handiwork, painted at the time of his infatuation for Ninette. The sight of them brought back a host of recollections. Quite vividly he could see again his old studio overlooking the chimney-pots of Paris; and Ninette perched on the dais with her favourite poodle in her arms. In the next atelier there had lived a pianist, who shared the room with an artist brother, and practised Liszt’s fourteenth rhapsody energetically every day. Herbert could almost hear the crisp, dotted notes of that rhapsody now. It is strange how, in our minds, a certain musical phrase will persist in connecting itself with certain past events; and we can never think of the one without the other recurring to us also.

The creak of the door as it swung back on its hinges broke his reverie, and in another moment Ninette stood beside him. In the half light he could not see her very distinctly, but she was clad in a loose tea-gown trimmed with a profusion of ribbons and lace.

“Good morning,” she said as coolly as though his visit were of daily occurrence. “I hardly expected you in this fog. Won’t you sit down?”

He touched the tips of the fingers she held out as though the action almost hurt him.

“Thanks; I prefer to stand,” he answered briefly. “I suppose you are prepared with your explanation, Ninette?”

She sank on to an arm-chair with an air of weary languor, the pug nestling against the folds of her gown.

“Yes, I am quite prepared,” she answered calmly. “But, first of all, I do not wish to be called Ninette any more: the sobriquet savours too much of Paris and Bohemianism. My real name, as I thought you were aware, is Marie, which my late husband preferred to translate into Mary. I was always plain English Mary to him, never the frivolous Ninette you knew.”

“Your late husband,” repeated Karne, a trifle cynically. “To whom do you allude?”

“To my second husband, of course,” she returned evenly. “Dr. Percival Arthur Neville Williams, of Harley Street, London, and Bolton Lawns, Surrey.”

Herbert paced the room in agitation. “You say that the late Dr. Neville Williams was your second husband,” he said incredulously. “Have you forgotten, or do you pretend to ignore the fact of your marriage with myself?”

“I do neither,” she rejoined, lifting the pug on to her knee. “As it happens, however, my marriage with you was annulled on the very day that the ceremony took place.”

The artist stood still and confronted her with amazement. He could hardly believe his ears. The marriage annulled! How could it have been annulled? Surely Ninette was trying to fool him, as she had so often done before. Judging by her manner, she attached but light importance to her words; her calmness quite irritated him. It might have been a little thing to her, but it meant a great deal to him.

“Listen!” she commanded, not heeding his evident excitement. “If you will be so good as to desist from tramping round the room like a caged lion, I will tell you everything. I need not tell you unless I like—I have kept it back all these years—but, for a certain reason, it pleases me that you should know now. To begin at the beginning: At the age of eighteen I was legally and properly married, in the presence of relatives and friends, to Armand Douste, an engineer in the French navy. Shortly after the wedding he was sent on a voyage from Marseilles to Hong-Kong, where he stayed two months. The boat on which he returned—the ill-fated Marie Antoinette—went down off Aden with all hands on board. There were five survivors, according to the newspapers, but Armand’s name was not amongst them; and after many futile inquiries, I naturally concluded that my husband had perished with the rest. The sudden bereavement was, of course, a great shock; but I could not afford to allow sentiment to affect my appetite, and I made as light of it as I possibly could. I stayed in Marseilles a few months longer; but meanwhile my mother died; and my father having lost heavily on the turf, I was obliged to consider some means of earning a livelihood. Armand had left me with only his current salary to live upon, intending to be back before the next quarter came due. I went to Paris, and adopted the profession in which you found me. My good looks and my talents were my sole stock-in-trade, so I was obliged to use them to the best of my ability. Then I met you; and although I had loved Armand devotedly, I rather admired your handsome face, and your quiet English ways. I was tired, too, of my mode of living at that time, and, wishing for a change, accepted your proposal of marriage. What happened then, you know. You were called home on the day of the wedding; I was left in Paris to await your return. Scarcely an hour after your departure, however, I was told that a gentleman wished to see me. I went into the salon, and to my astonished bewilderment, there stood my husband, Armand Douste! He seemed to me like one risen from the dead; and indeed he looked nearer death than life. He had been picked up by an English vessel bound for Singapore; where, having landed, he lay too ill to be moved for nearly eight months. As soon as he recovered, he worked his way back to Marseilles, and not being able to discover me there, eventually traced me to Paris. There, by dint of arduous perseverance, he found me, just married to another man!”

She paused to sip a fluid out of what looked like a medicine-glass. The talking seemed to tire her, and frequently she put her hand to her side as if in pain. Her interlocutor sat like one immovable. If what she were saying were true, he was free—free! Oh the joy of that thought! But he could not believe it—yet.

“Why did you not inform me immediately of what had occurred?” he managed to articulate as she placed the glass on the table again, and prepared to continue her story.

“Because, if I had done that, I should have had no further claim on you,” she replied promptly. “And knowing that you were in prosperous circumstances, I was obliged to make use of that knowledge. Armand had scarcely a sou in the world; I had very little more. Money we were forced to secure from somewhere, and you were our only hope.”

“But can’t you realize how cruel it was to have kept me in ignorance all these years?” he pursued reproachfully. “I would willingly have done my best for you and—your husband, if I had known the true facts of the case.”

“Ah, that is what you say now,” she rejoined dubiously. “I doubt if you would have said so then. Well, to continue my story, Armand, never having properly recovered from his illness, gradually grew weaker and died, leaving me in very low water for a time. Then, luckily for me, I came across an English lady, a Mrs. Hall. She was only a chance acquaintance, for I met her in a circulating library where I happened to find a pocket-book she had lost, but she took a liking to me at first sight. After having visited her constantly, I went to stay with her for a time, and eventually she introduced me to her friend, Lady Elstree, of Portland Place, London, who was in need of a companion. Lady Elstree was one of those shrinking kind of women who always seek refuge behind a stronger mind, and want even the most trivial matters decided for them. Before I had been with her a month, I was able to rule her whole household as though I were its legitimate mistress. Her husband, Sir Richard, although not a doctor, dabbled in therapeutics and hygiene, and spent most of his time in his laboratory, never troubling much about how his wife amused herself. He paid her bills with automatic regularity, and fortunately failed to notice that they almost doubled themselves during my régime. Being so pleasantly situated, my old love for the turf revived; and taking my advice, Lady Elstree backed certain horses that I happened to fancy. Sometimes they won, more often they lost; but when they did win, I retained five per cent. commission. Very soon I became familiar with London life and the ways of English society. Wherever I went, I was always introduced as Lady Elstree’s ‘friend,’ never as her companion. One day I happened to pick up a society paper containing an account of a reception I had attended. My name was included in the list of guests, and I was described as the ‘beautiful and brilliant Mdme. Douste.’ This fired my ambition, and I determined to become a society leader—a second Corinne, or Mdme. Pompadour. Then Dr. Neville Williams appeared upon the scene——”

“It is a wonder you did not seek some one in a higher position than a mere body-healer,” interposed Herbert, with a touch of satire.

“Yes, I might have done so, it is true; but I was rather struck with Neville Williams, although his disposition was the direct opposite of mine. He was then at the zenith of his fame, too, having managed to cure a royal princess by a special treatment of his own when all the highest physicians in the land had failed. He could have been knighted for that, had he wished. I saw a good deal of him, for he was a great friend of Sir Richard Elstree’s, and came often to Portland Place. We were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square—oh, you need not look sceptical; it was a bonâ fide marriage. Percival’s brother-in-law, the Rev. J. W. Milnes, officiated, assisted by the clergy of St. George’s.”

“And was your ambition realized?”

“Partially. Society was inclined to look askance at me first of all, but it was not able to withstand me for long. I was a woman, I had a tongue, I could talk. I had the knack of finding out whatever I wanted to know about certain people too. They discovered by experience that it was unwise to offend me. They called me a dangerous woman behind my back, but conciliated me to my face. The only drawback to my happiness was that Percival was comparatively poor, and although I managed to get long credit, I was continually pressed for ready money.”

“I had often heard of Mrs. Neville Williams from the Milnes’ family,” said the artist, musingly, “but of course I never dreamt of connecting her with you. Geoffrey Milnes used to say—pardon my telling you—that her extravagance, or rather yours, was the ruin of his uncle.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It may have been so, but he should not have married if he could not afford to keep me in proper style. He left me almost penniless when he died, and the house in Harley Street was mortgaged right up to its full value.”

“And how did you get on then?”

“Oh, the Duke of Wallingcourt—one of my greatest admirers—paid off the mortgage and set me on my feet again. Then there was the property in Surrey, which Percival had settled on me at the time of our marriage; that fetched nearly fifteen hundred pounds. Afterwards I became engaged to the duke, who, as you know, died a fortnight before the wedding was to have taken place. That was hard luck, for as Duchess of Wallingcourt I should have society at my feet.”

“Did it never occur to you to re-marry me after the death of either of your husbands?” asked Karne, still inclined to be satirical; “or was I altogether out of the running, as you would say?”

“I did think of it,” she answered equably. “But you lived in the country, which was a disadvantage, for I could not possibly exist for any length of time out of London or Paris. I heard also that you were very friendly with Percival’s people, the Milnes; and I feared that if you were as straitlaced as themselves, you would be too prim for me.”

Herbert could not resist a smile, but his countenance quickly resumed its gravity. He rose from his seat and glanced out of the window. The fog had almost melted away.

“So that is your story!” he said meditatively. “How am I to know that it is true?”

“Do you doubt my word?” she asked with pique.

“Well, not exactly,” he replied hesitatingly. “But you must admit that when I knew you, you did occasionally deviate from the truth.”

“Which means, in vulgar parlance, that I told lies,” she rejoined evenly. “Thank you for the compliment. As it happens, however, I have told you the exact truth. My reason for telling you was that I wish to settle up all my affairs. I am shortly going away—a little further than my beloved Paris. In plain words, Herbert, I am dying.”

The last statement was made so calmly that Karne thought he could not have heard aright. He glanced at her in astonishment, almost dumbfounded by the news.

Mrs. Neville Williams, with a swift movement, extinguished the lamp, and pulling up the window-blinds allowed the daylight to flood the room. Then she called the artist to her side.

“Now,” she exclaimed, turning her face towards him, “look at me!”

He looked, then gave an exclamation of horror. Could it be possible that this was the handsome and brilliant woman of yesternight? Her cheeks were haggard and drawn, the cheek-bones protruding with undue prominence; her eyes were sunken, her complexion yellow. Already the hand of death seemed to have set its seal upon her face. Yet only last night she had appeared before him, magnificent and splendid. What had happened in one short night to change her thus?

He turned aside, not knowing what to say. She sank on to a chair with a mirthless laugh.

“A clever woman, am I not?” she said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Clever to the last. You saw me last night, so you know how I looked. I shall look just as well when I am dressed for dinner this evening; I have a treasure of a maid, thank heaven. Any other woman afflicted with my disease would allow herself to be treated as an invalid, would eschew society, and go to bed. I have more pluck than that. And yet before the year is out, I shall probably be dead. A truly cheerful prospect, is it not?”

Herbert felt himself grow cold. That she spoke the truth now, he could not doubt; but it was positively gruesome to hear her talk like that.

“How long have you been so ill?” he asked, in a subdued voice. “Is there no cure?”

“None,” she answered resignedly. “It is over two years since I first contracted the complaint; but since last month I have rapidly grown worse. My husband’s consulting physician, Sir Dighton Forbes, has made me consent to undergo an operation on the 1st of December, although I do not at all like the idea of being butchered to satisfy the doctors.”

“Perhaps it may cure you,” suggested Karne, optimistically. “You must not lose hope.”

But Mrs. Neville Williams shook her head; she was convinced that she was doomed.

“Why do you bother yourself about society—now?” he asked, after a moment’s silence. “What is the use? If you really believe that your last days have come, why not spend the time that remains to you in peace and quietness?”

She gave a gesture of dissent.

“What you call peace and quietness would be misery to me. It would give me too much time to think. I should go mad with thinking. Besides, I am loth to leave the good things of this world. To wear magnificent jewels, to be the best-dressed woman in the room, the cynosure of all eyes—it’s the breath of life to me—the breath of life! When I can no longer shine in society, I’ll die. I am not one of those devil-sick-was-he-devil-a-monk-would-be kind of persons. I’ll die ‘game.’ But do not let us talk about it any more; it is an unpleasant subject.”

Herbert rose and buttoned his overcoat. “I must be going,” he said. “But there is one thing I wanted to say. Did it never occur to you, in all the years of your silence, that I, too, might have my hopes and ambitions?”

“I wondered what you were doing,” she answered evasively. “If I had met you sooner, I would have told you before. I have all but met you so many times since Celia Franks made her début. By-the-by, Karne, take my advice; look after your sister well. She has a lovely face—a face that will turn men’s heads. If you want her to be happy—quietly happy in your own way—take her off the boards.”

He looked at her in approval. “You are right,” he said, half surprised at such counsel coming from her. “Celia only went on the stage in deference to Guy Haviland’s wishes. She has promised me that, however great her success, she will accept no further theatrical engagements. Do you feel ill?” he added suddenly, as she pressed her hands against her forehead. “I am afraid I have tired you with so much talking.”

“It is the pain,” she explained, when the spasm had passed. “It comes and goes. Last night I thought I should have had to leave the theatre. I shall lie down this afternoon. You will come and see me again?”

“I am going back to Durlston at the end of the week,” he replied, holding out his hand. “But I will try to come again before I go.”

Then, after an expression of sympathy, he left; and, taking his place in the elevator, descended into the damp atmosphere of the streets once more.

The fog had lifted; and it seemed to Herbert that a weight had been lifted off his heart at the same time. He felt happier than he had done for months, although as yet he could barely digest and realize all that he had heard. Of one thing he was certain, however, that he was free—free to marry his beloved. This thought superseded all the rest.

He was free!

The first thing Herbert Karne did, when he had thought over matters calmly, was to go to St. George’s Church, and with the assistance of the verger, look over the marriage register; where, to his satisfaction, he found the names of Percival Arthur Neville Williams, bachelor, and Marie Douste, widow, correctly inscribed. It was not exactly that he doubted Ninette’s word—she would always be “Ninette” to him—but he wished to settle the question of his freedom beyond the shadow of a doubt before informing Lady Marjorie Stonor of what had occurred. He also wrote to Harry Barnard, the friend who had been in his secret from the first, asking him, as he happened to be in Paris, to scour the cemeteries at Montmartre and Père Lachaise for the grave of Armand Douste. The same post also carried a letter to the curé of the church of S. Vincent de Paul, Marseilles, where Herbert was under the impression the marriage of Douste and Ninette had taken place; but not knowing the priest’s name or address, he had not much hope of eliciting a reply to this epistle.

Celia noticed the change in her brother’s manner at once, for it was strikingly evident in the brightness of his eyes, the briskness in his voice, the alertness of his step. He seemed like a man suddenly endowed with a new aim in life; his depression had vanished as at the touch of a magic wand.

She asked him the reason, but he did not see fit to tell her just then, promising she should know within a month. Her curiosity was whetted, however, and although she did not usually endeavour to obtain information that was not spontaneously vouchsafed, she was very anxious to know, in this case, at once. So she set herself the task of cross-questioning him, making fantastic guesses as to the cause of his jubilance.

“Perhaps it has something to do with Lady Marjorie?” she finally suggested.

“Perhaps,” he returned laconically, with a face as inexpressive as a mask.

“I am surprised at your looking so happy about it, then,” the girl continued, “considering that she is so ill.”

“Ill!” exclaimed Herbert blankly. “Who said she was ill?”

“Lord Bexley. He had a letter from her friend yesterday. Lady Marjorie recently took it into her head to go slumming, and on one of her expeditions managed to catch the malarial fever. Fortunately it is only a mild attack; but, according to her friend’s account she is very poorly and depressed. I should love to pay her a surprise visit, just for the sake of cheering her up.”

“Yes, so should I,” rejoined her brother fervently; and then on a sudden impulse he told Celia his story.

It took a long time to tell, but he was glad, after all, that she should know. It was a relief to be able to talk over his secret with a fellow-creature, and Celia was intensely sympathetic. Her astonishment was unbounded when she discovered that it was Mrs. Neville Williams of all persons who had been, at one time, her brother’s pseudo-wife. She felt half inclined to say hard things about her at first, but her resentment was soon abolished when Herbert informed her of Mrs. Williams’ serious condition. It is impossible to cherish harsh thoughts against the sick or dying.

Mrs. Neville Williams, however, looked neither sick nor dying when they happened to meet her at a fashionable restaurant on the following evening. The way she managed to get herself up was nothing less than remarkable. Enveloped in a long and loose theatre-cloak of silk trimmed with ermine, she carried herself more firmly erect than any other woman in the room. Sparkling eyes, crimson lips, and a complexion like a rose; no wonder she was able to vouch for the excellence of her French maid! It was, as it happened, almost her last appearance in society. A week later she was confined to her room; even her indomitable energy being powerless to resist the oncoming of the dark and mighty foe.

Herbert Karne, in fulfilment of his promise, went to see her the day before he returned to Durlston, but she was unable to receive him, and he knew that he would in all probability never meet her again.

When he arrived back at St. John’s Wood, he found a letter awaiting him. It was from Harry Barnard, stating that by consulting the books at the cemetery of Père Lachaise, he had easily found the grave of Armand Douste. There was no doubt, therefore, as to the authenticity of his death, and the date of his decease. Herbert was relieved at the news, although, under the circumstances, it scarcely mattered. Ninette was dying, so that in either case he would soon have been loosed from his bond.

He wrote a long letter to Lady Marjorie, detailing all that had happened, and asking her to come back to England as soon as she was well enough to travel. At the same time, he sought out Lord Bexley, in order to inform him of his matrimonial intentions, for Bexley was shortly going to join his sister in Rome. This accomplished, he went back to Durlston to finish his paintings, and to await the return of his bride.

Meanwhile, the “Voice of the Charmer” was playing to crowded houses nightly, and it looked as if the piece would enjoy a long run. Celia secretly hoped that such would not be the case, for the late hours and constant excitement were already beginning to tell on her health. She was all right at night, and braced herself up to do her best; but each morning she experienced a dull feeling of weariness, accompanied by a most distressing headache. The Havilands used all their powers of persuasion to induce her to rest until midday; but she flatly refused to sleep away what she called “the golden hours.” The stage, too, was beginning to lose that glamour with which she had endowed it when her only point of vantage had been from the stalls. She was glad that her brother had made her promise to confine her abilities to the concert platform when her present engagement expired. She felt that she would care very little if she were forbidden to ever enter a theatre again.

One Wednesday morning, she attired herself in her prettiest outdoor costume, and sallied forth to witness the marriage of David Salmon and Dinah Friedberg. Although she ran the risk of being pointed out as the bridegroom’s “cast-off” fiancée, Celia made a point of being present at the ceremony, just to show her goodwill towards the happy pair. Her appearance certainly excited considerable attention, almost detracting from that due to the bride.

The synagogue presented a festive appearance, the space before the Ark being adorned with palms and choice white chrysanthemums, which contrasted prettily with the crimson velvet of the wedding-canopy. Dinah, with her curly hair and bright eyes, made a very charming bride. She appeared to be not a whit subdued by the solemnity of the occasion; and when the Chief Rabbi uttered his excellent words of admonition and advice, looked up at him as much as to say that she did not need to be instructed on how best to tread the path of conjugal felicity.

Her lover, in marked contrast, was nervous in the extreme. He trod on her train, almost dropped the ring, and performed the ceremonial breaking of the glass in the clumsiest way possible. Then, to add insult to injury, he had the audacity to declare—whilst the bride was signing the register—that he would be able to manage it better next time!

Celia, leaving her seat after the ceremony was over, mingled with the wedding-party, and joined in the general buzz of congratulation. Mrs. Friedberg, all smiles, with a conspicuous lace handkerchief in readiness to catch the tears of joy, kissed promiscuously all round—Celia receiving this mark of affection in the neighbourhood of the left ear. The Brookes were there, expressing their interest in the quaint Jewish ritual; and so was Mrs. Leopold Cohen—now a widow—who, despite her avowed disappointment at Celia’s secession from Judaism, greeted the girl with unaffected warmth, and invited her home to early dinner. Celia was unable to accept the invitation; but she appreciated it nevertheless, and readily promised to avail herself of it one morning in the following week.

Then, having shaken hands with the Friedberg family and some of their numerous friends, she took her departure, wondering if she would have looked as happy as Dinah, had she—instead of her friend—stood beside Salmon as his bride.

After lunch she went out again, this time to Kensington. She had promised Herbert to go and see Ninette, but for some unaccountable reason had hitherto shrunk from paying the visit. Now, however, her conscience pricked her for having delayed so long; so, taking some music, and a bunch of the brightest flowers obtainable, she went.

Mrs. Neville Williams was feeling a little better that afternoon; and, clad in a loose wrapper, lay on the sofa in her pretty drawing-room. She was not prepared to entertain, and on account of the haggardness of her natural complexion, refused to see any one who called; but Celia Franks was an exception, and she hailed her appearance with delight.

“How good of you to come,” she said effusively, inhaling the fragrant perfume of the flowers. “I thought you had a Wednesday matinée. No? Well, take off your things and make yourself cosy; but for heaven’s sake don’t look at me, child. I am as yellow as a guinea to-day.”

Celia loosened her fur, and drew off her gloves. She could not help looking, for the woman before her seemed to her a positive wreck. She made no remark, however; and Mrs. Neville Williams plunged into a conversation, chiefly society gossip, which showed that, however ill she might be, the joie de vivre was not yet extinguished within her breast.

“So your brother is going to marry that little Stonor woman,” she remarked, apropos of the mention of the artist’s name. “Bexley told me the last time I saw him. I should scarcely have thought he would have chosen a milk-and-watery creature like Lady Marjorie.”

“Why do you call her ‘milk-and-watery’?” said Celia reproachfully, “She is quite one of the sweetest women I know.”

“Yes, of course; but that is what I complain of—she’s too sweet. She looks as if she couldn’t say ‘bo!’ to a goose. And then her clothes, my dear! Why, she actually wore the same frock two seasons in succession! Did you ever hear of such a monstrous thing?”

“It was a crime, certainly,” the girl admitted with light satire; but the incipient and frivolous vanity of the woman almost shocked her.

“Do you think Herbert would mind deferring his marriage until after I have shuffled off this mortal coil?” went on Ninette complacently. “I don’t like the idea of Lady Marjorie crowing over me on her wedding-day. She never liked me, I know; and she will flatter herself that she has scored a triumph over me. I would much rather be out of the way first, so that she will be denied that satisfaction.”

Celia shivered. “Oh, Mrs. Williams, I don’t like to hear you talk like that,” she said. “I am sure Lady Marjorie is too nice to do anything of the sort. Besides, you may get better: I sincerely hope you will.”

“That is not likely,” rejoined Ninette, with a sigh, “although I am certainly a little more hopeful to-day. My nephew is coming over from Australia to assist at the operation, and I have great confidence in him.”

Celia pricked up her ears. “Dr. Milnes?” she queried, the colour rising to her cheeks.

“Yes. Oh, you know him, of course: I had forgotten. I received a letter from him this morning, in which he says he will arrive in England a week after I receive it. You can read it, if you like.”

She stretched out her hand for the missive, and passed it over to the girl, who devoured the contents with avidity.

Miss Thornton again! Celia’s heart sank. She would not have confessed it, but she had taken a positive dislike to the name. She handed the letter back in silence, her face becoming thoughtful as she tried to imagine what Miss Thornton would be like.

Mrs. Williams continued to gossip, scarcely waiting for the girl to reply; but suddenly her mood changed as she received the well-known signal of coming pain. She glanced at Celia, drinking in the freshness of the girl’s striking beauty, and inwardly she raged. What would she not give to be young again? To feel the warm blood coursing through her veins; to experience that exuberance which is the natural attribute of youth; to be fresh and healthy and strong; able to expend all the forces of activity without fearing the dearth of a fresh supply! At that moment she could almost have written an elegy on her dead-and-gone youth.

“Celia!” she burst out suddenly, “I envy you; I’m jealous of you, child. You have all your life before you; you are only on the threshold as yet. Oh, the joy, the power that is yours! For years to come you—in all probability—will be living, and moving and speaking; eating, and drinking, and enjoying yourself; playing your part in the comedy of life; bringing men to your feet by the charm of your face and voice: whilst all the time I—who possess such zest for life—shall lay cold and silent, crumbling away into dust. Oh, what a horrible, hateful thing is death!”

Celia scarcely knew how to reply. With the tears springing to her eyes, she knelt by the side of the couch, and gazed earnestly into Ninette’s drawn and weary face.

“Why do you envy me my youth?” she said at length, in a suppressed voice. “Have not you, too, been young? Oh, I know how hard it must be to feel that before very long you must leave this bright world, and the sunshine and the flowers; but, if only you had faith in the future life, you would give no thought to your poor body crumbling in the dust: you would think only of the deathless soul-world, so much fairer than this earth. Surely you cannot have been so enamoured of the joys of what you call the comedy of life as to wish to cling to them for ever? I enjoy life, too, and I am young; but I already know that those joys are not to be depended upon; they are apt to disclose their hollowness, and to cloy. Everything changes so. People change, circumstances change, even we ourselves change; only God and Nature and Love are immutable. It seems to me that we can only be truly happy by allotting to our present, material joys, their due proportion—so infinitesimally small—in the great scheme of the whole life eternal. Then we shall no longer regret our past delights, and death will only be to us the mere shedding of our mortal chrysalis. Oh, I wish I could explain more clearly what I mean! I wish, with all my heart, that I could make you feel as I do about these things!”

Mrs. Neville Williams patted the girl’s cheek almost tenderly, although she could not quite make out what she meant.

“I am too prosaic and matter-of-fact,” she replied, with a sigh. “I am not spirituelle, like you. You have your brother’s dreamy and philosophical temperament, child. I wonder if you will hold the same opinions when you arrive at my age. It is so easy to breathe defiance at death when one is young and strong. But enough of this. I see you have brought some music. Sing to me, Celia: something sweet and soothing to frighten the bogey away.”

With ready obedience the girl rose, and, taking up her music-case, unfastened it. She had brought three songs with her: the “Snake-song,” from the “Voice of the Charmer,” a light French chanson of Massenet’s; and Stephen Liddle’s beautiful setting of Lyte’s “Abide with me.” After a moment’s thought she unfolded the latter; and opening the top of the piano, placed it on the music-stand.

“This is really a contralto song,” she explained, settling herself on the music-stool. “I have only heard one woman sing it to perfection, and that is Madame Clara Butt. However, I’ll do my best.” And then, striking the preliminary chords, so melodious and deep, she began.

With half-closed eyes Mrs. Neville Williams listened. The plaintive sweetness of the melody pleased her, as did the particularly rich timbre of Celia’s voice. What a splendid thing it was to be able to sing so perfectly, she thought! Then, when the second verse was reached, she found herself realizing the tenor of the words—

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see—
Thou who changest not, abide with me.”

Here was more philosophy—or what she chose to term philosophy. She tried to listen to the melody only, ignoring the words; but presently the music increased its tempo, gaining in intensity; and Celia’s enunciation was so clear that even against her will the words impressed themselves upon her consciousness—

Then, so softly that she almost held her breath to listen, came the last verse—

There was silence while Celia put the music away; and then Mrs. Neville Williams spoke.

“That is a fine song, and you sing it well,” she remarked, feeling that she was expected to say something. “But it seemed, somehow, to mock me. I am out of sympathy with the words. Won’t you sing something catchy and bright? I want cheering up, for I feel almost as heavy as lead.”

Celia glanced at her in pity; but without a word, sat down at the piano again, and playing a short prelude, dashed off into a gay little drinking song she had learnt in Paris. This was more to Ninette’s taste, and her eyes brightened visibly as she rapped a tattoo on the chair in time to the vigorous refrain. She had been of a frivolous disposition all her life; she considered serious people and serious things a “bore;” her motto had ever been “vive la bagatelle:” it was surely too late to change now.

“Come and see me again,” she said, when Celia prepared to take her leave. “I know you don’t mind my looking like a scare-crow. You won’t tell any of my friends of my wretched appearance, though, will you?”

Celia promised faithfully not to divulge, and then, as she fastened the last button of her glove, she said wistfully—

“Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, Mrs. Williams?”

“No thank you, child, I would rather not. He could do me no good, and would probably make me feel uncomfortable: say that my illness was a judgment for my sins, or something equally horrid.”

“Oh, I don’t think he would,” the girl rejoined diffidently. “Besides, even if he did make you feel uncomfortable at first, he would not leave you without telling you the ‘comfortable words,’ and making you happy in the knowledge of them, you know.”

But Mrs. Neville Williams would not be persuaded, and with a look of seriousness on her expressive face, Celia left.

“Mrs. Williams seems better to-day, does she not?” she said to the maid who was in attendance at the halldoor. “What did Sir Dighton Forbes say when he called this morning?”

“He didn’t say nothing, miss, except that he is sending an ’orspital nurse to-morrow, and she is to stay over the operation. But we haven’t much hope, miss. The picture of the mistress that hangs in her bedroom tumbled down and smashed last night; and that’s a bad sign as I know for a fact; for when my young man’s mother took ill and died of the influenza—which will be two years come Christmas—her photograph, as was a hornament to the parlour, fell off the mantelshelf and——”

But the remaining words of the sentence were lost; for the elevator arrived; and with a hurried apology, Celia descended.

The orchestra had just struck up the overture to the “Voice of the Charmer,” when two young men entered the auditorium and took their places in the stalls. Their faces contrasted strongly with their immaculate shirt-fronts, for they were bronzed, even weather-beaten; and their general appearance gave one the impression that they had recently returned from some distant clime. The one clean-shaven and square-shouldered, was Dr. Geoffrey Milnes; the other—shorter and of slighter build—Dick Stannard, the squire’s son. These two, although they had not seen much of each other when at home, had become fast friends out in Australia. Stannard was rollicking and bright, with a fresh breezy manner which acted as a kind of tonic on Geoffrey’s more serious disposition. He had taken a fancy to Milnes, and their mutual home-connections served to form a link between them. When the young doctor had been utterly disheartened by the absolute failure of his research in connection with tuberculosis, it was Stannard who saved him from morbidly dwelling on his defeat, and insisted on his taking an active part in the social life of Sydney. He took upon himself the part of mentor, and ruled Geoffrey with a rod of iron; not, however, that the advice he gave was in any way severe. His deep conviction was that it was the duty of every one to endeavour to obtain the maximum of enjoyment with the minimum of discomfort; and although he could not quite convert his friend to his way of thinking, he did succeed in capturing his medical tomes and papers, thus bringing his work to an abrupt standstill. Geoffrey scarcely appreciated his attention, and on the voyage home had threatened to duck him more than once, but he certainly felt more “fit” since he had been obliged to give his brains a rest.

“I say, Milnes, I’m awfully curious to see her,” Dick said, when he had devoured the contents of his programme. “The last recollection I have of her was at our Christmas party in Durlston, when she had very long hair and very short skirts, and stood on a hassock to recite ‘The Spider and the Fly.’ I suppose she has altered a good deal since then. I wonder if it is true that she is engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor’s brother?”

“Can’t tell you, I’m sure,” Dr. Geoff rejoined with a frown; and then the lights were lowered and the curtain rose.

They both had neither eyes nor ears for any one but Mallida. Before she came on, the play lagged and filled them with impatience, but at her entry all was changed. Geoffrey felt thrilled to the core, as, at the sound of her well-remembered voice, he craned his head to catch the first glimpse of her sweet face and snowy draperies. Then a strong feeling of indignation took possession of him as he realized that, for the mere price of a seat, any fellow could avail himself of the privilege of basking in the sunshine of her smile, and drinking in the richness of her voice. And although he enjoyed the play and admired Celia’s acting, he hated to see her upon the stage, hated to think that for three hours every evening she belonged absolutely to the public; that her smiles and tears were alike artificial, mechanically assumed for their benefit. It seemed to him little less than desecration of the gifts with which she had been so liberally endowed.

Dick Stannard was wildly enthusiastic, and at the end of the first act, declared his intention of going behind. Geoffrey, for some inexplicable reason of his own, refused to accompany him, so, having thought out a few particularly flowery compliments to offer, he went alone. A few minutes later, however, he returned with an obvious expression of disappointment on his rugged face; and flinging himself on to the seat, uttered the inelegant but forcible expression of “Rot!”

“My dear boy!” expostulated Geoffrey. “Have you forgotten that you are in decent company for once?”

“No; but it is rot all the same,” returned Stannard, indignantly. “The fellow, whoever he might be, absolutely refused to take in my card. Said Miss Franks saw nobody at the theatre, not even her most intimate friends, and that I might possibly be able to see her by appointment at Mr. and Mrs. Haviland’s house in Acacia Road. I told him that I had just arrived from Australia, and was going on to the North to-morrow morning, but it made no difference. He said he had his orders which he was bound to obey, and as he wasn’t the sort of man to take a tip, all I could do was to turn to the right about and come away.”

“Which you did with a very bad grace, I am sure,” rejoined the doctor, with a smile. “Moral, don’t attempt to pry where you are not wanted.”

“It’s utter rot!” reiterated Stannard, emphatically. “What would it hurt if I just went and wished her good evening?”

But Geoffrey was secretly glad that the rules were so stringent, for they must save Celia the annoyance of interviewing many an undesirable visitor, he thought.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Celia was dressing for the second act. She would not have been so calm and collected, perhaps, had she known who was in the stalls. Her dresser was relating some of her humorous and varied experiences as she dexterously braided the girl’s long hair: and Celia, engaged in spoiling her complexion with grease-paint and powder, listened with genuine amusement. Mrs. Jackson had been chief dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at one time, and was very proud of the fact. Many were the tales she had to tell of the great actress’s kindly words and deeds. “Mrs. Potter Wemyss used to say,” was her favourite mode of beginning a sentence; and “just like Mrs. Potter Wemyss” her ideal of perfection. Had Celia not known the lady in question, she would probably have grown tired of her name, but being a personal friend, her interest never flagged.

“You are ready early to-night, miss,” she said, as she put the finishing touches to Celia’s toilette. “It is a pity Mr. Haviland won’t let you see anybody. It would help to pass away the time. There’s that little Mr. Smiffkins always a-hanging round the stage door—the one who wears the overcoat with the tremendous fur collar and cuffs. He offered me a sovereign if I could get him an interview with you.”

“Did he really? What a waste of money!” was Celia’s comment.

“It’s rather a shame, though, miss, that Mr. Haviland is so strict. Why, you could have this room crammed full of flowers every show if he would let Jones take them in, not to mention boxes of chocolates and all manner of nice things. I don’t think as it’s right to deny an actress her perks. I should kick agen it if I was you, miss, that I would.”

“But how could I possibly accept presents from people I don’t even know?” said the girl with wide-open eyes. “Surely Mrs. Potter Wemyss never did!”

“Oh well, Mrs. Potter Wemyss is Mrs. Potter Wemyss. She’s got a great strapping husband six foot one in his stocking-feet, and they do say as he knows how to strike out with his fists. It wouldn’t do for young men to be sending her flowers and billydoos. But you are quite another matter, miss, you are ‘free and unfettered,’ as it says in the play.”

Celia smilingly shook her head, and rising, surveyed herself in the long pier-glass. It was certainly a picturesque figure which met her gaze. Her dress with its long train of bejewelled cloth, fell in stately folds around her form, glittering and scintillating with every fresh ray of light. A silver belt of cunningly chased design adorned her waist, whilst her peculiar head-dress—a quaint kind of cap—set off to the best advantage the rich colouring of her hair.

As she turned away, satisfied with the result of her dresser’s labours, she heard a foot-fall in the stone passage. Then, without knocking, and in evident agitation, Grace Haviland stumbled into the room. She was breathless and excited, and dropped on to a chair with an air of exhaustion. Clutched in her grasp were two of the evening papers and an unopened telegram. Instantly Celia divined that something had happened.

“What is it, Grace?” she asked, with apprehension. “Is anything wrong?”

Miss Haviland nodded, but for the moment was unable to speak.

“This telegram came directly you were gone,” she panted, as soon as she had recovered her breath. “I wouldn’t have troubled about it, only there was something in the evening paper which told me it was of importance. I thought you ought to know at once, so that’s why I’ve rushed here. I have not seen Guy yet: I think he is with Mr. Calhoun at the wings. Perhaps they will be angry when they know I’ve told you, but I thought it cruel not to let you know.”

Celia took the telegram, and tore it open. Then she uttered a little cry.

“Mr. Karne met with a serious accident. Come at once.—Higgins.”

And then she caught sight of the head-line of the newspaper column, “Attempted murder of Herbert Karne, R.A.;” and underneath, in smaller type, “The assailant a raving madman.”

For the moment she thought she must surely be the victim of nightmare. She rubbed her eyes, as though expecting her surroundings to float away and to find herself in her bedroom at Acacia Road. But, unfortunately, it was no nightmare; it was stern reality. There, unmistakably, was the dressing-room with her stage-dresses hung upon the walls, and all her stage-belongings strewn round the room. There also, was the dresser, looking startled and bewildered as she stood with her arms akimbo, and Grace Haviland, pale and agitated, hating to be the bearer of such bad news. And worst of all, there were the horrible words staring her in the face: Attempted murder.

Suddenly the electric bell announcing the ring-up of the curtain resounded through the building. The sound recalled Celia to the present exigence, and with a shudder she leant against the table.

“I can’t go on acting, now: it’s impossible,” she said, tremulously; “quite impossible. Mrs. Jackson, go and find Miss Graham; she must be in the theatre somewhere; tell her she must get ready at once to take my part. Tell Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Haviland that I’ve had bad news, and have to go to Durlston immediately; and ask them to drag out the stage business as much as they can. We’ve about twenty minutes’ grace: oh, do be quick!”

The dresser flew to obey her behest, and with nervous haste Celia began unbuckling her belt. But her fingers had suddenly lost their power, and she fumbled at the clasp in vain. The hooks of her bodice, too, seemed as if they were never intended to unfasten. Before she could succeed in getting out of her costume, the stage-manager and Haviland appeared.

Ernest Calhoun was one of those men who are able to retain their presence of mind under the most untoward circumstances; and while Haviland stood excitedly haranguing his sister for having brought the bad news in the midst of the performance, he himself remained serene and unruffled to the last degree.

“It is most unfortunate,” he remarked calmly; “and I deeply sympathize with you, Miss Franks; but I ask you candidly, what are we to do? If you refuse to go on with your part, the performance will have to be stopped, which, as you know, would entail a vast amount of inconvenience and expense.”

“But where is the understudy?” put in Grace with eagerness.

“Miss Graham has the evening off to-night,” answered Haviland, crossly. “I wish you would learn not to interfere with what does not concern you, Grace. I shall not forget this upset for a long time to come.”

Calhoun waved his hand. “Hush!” he commanded. “We must not waste time. Miss Franks, I appeal to you. Will you pull yourself together and try to carry the thing through?”

The girl shrank back in despair. “Oh, I can’t—I can’t!” she said, in a tense voice. “How can you expect it? My brother is seriously ill, perhaps dying. I must go to him. Surely you wouldn’t have the heart to keep me away? He is the only relative I have in the world! How can I act, and sing, and laugh, when there is a weight like lead at my heart?”

The stage-manager eyed her pityingly. “I know it’s very hard,” he said, in a softened voice. “But just consider a moment. You cannot get a train to Durlston to-night, for the last one went at about six o’clock; so you would have to wait till morning in any case. Now, suppose you go back to St. John’s Wood, what will you do? Simply sit still and make yourself ill with fretting, most probably. Whereas, if you remain here, your mind will, at least temporarily, be diverted into other channels. Miss Franks, I am sure you are a brave young lady. Won’t you try?”

“Oh, it’s cruel, Mr. Calhoun——” Grace Haviland began, but her brother would not allow her to finish the sentence.

Celia was well-nigh distracted. Although loth to cause the stage-manager so much inconvenience and bother, it would be too terrible to think of Herbert, perhaps dying, with none of his own kin near him, whilst she was playing on the hateful stage. Calhoun pulled out his watch, for the precious minutes were speeding away. All three looked at her in eager expectation. What would her answer be?

After what seemed an eternity, although it was in reality only about fifty seconds, she heaved a deep sigh.

“All right, I’ll go through with it,” she said with an effort. “Or at least I’ll do my best. But please—leave me alone—just for a few minutes.”

“That’s a brave girl!” exclaimed Haviland, with gratification. “I knew she wouldn’t put us in such a fix.”

“In seven minutes the call-boy will be here,” said the stage-manager; and then with a word of encouragement the two men withdrew.

Celia sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands. She tried to think, even to pray, but her senses seemed quite dulled. Fortunately the possibility of her stumbling or breaking down never entered her mind. She had promised to go through with it; and she meant to fulfil her promise. There might be tears and pain at heart, but there would be the usual stage-smile on her face. When she raised her head, there was an expression of almost fierce determination on her countenance. She would not, must not, fail!

Mrs. Jackson readjusted the details of her costume, whilst Grace tried to utter words of commiseration and encouragement. Then the former produced a small spirit-flask and glass, and bade Celia drink.

“There’s nothing like a drop of brandy neat, for putting life into a body,” she said cheerfully. “Come now, drink it, missie; it will do you good.”

But the girl demurred. “No thanks, I would rather not,” she replied. “I am all right now;” and then the patter of flying feet heralded the coming of the call-boy.

For years after Celia remembered that night, and declared she could never have gone through it again. Calhoun said she had never acted so well. In the third act, in which she was the central figure all through, she surpassed herself, and as the curtain fell, evoked a veritable tumult of applause. And not one out of that light-hearted, pleasure-loving audience had the slightest idea how it hurt her to give that merry ringing laugh at the end of the first scene; or that when, later on, she had to say, “Where is my beloved?... My beloved lays a-dying!” the tears in her voice were unfeigned.

But her nerves were stretched to their utmost limit of endurance, and the reaction was bound to follow. She returned to the dressing-room in a state bordering on exhaustion, scarcely heeding Mr. Calhoun’s “Well done!” Fortunately, however, the worst was over, for the remaining act entailed but slight exertion. She begged Grace Haviland to read the account of the assault at Durlston whilst she was changing her costume; and, occasionally interrupted by sundry comments from Mrs. Jackson, Grace complied with her request.

The gist of the matter was this:—

Jacob Strelitzki, a former heeler at Messrs. Mendel and Co.’s boot factory at Durlston, had, after an absence of two months, returned and run amok at the factory, attempting to wound three men with a large clasp-knife. Being of the opinion that he was either the victim of delirium tremens, or else had lost his reason, the factory people made every effort to detain him, but he cleverly managed to slip through their fingers and made his escape. Nothing more was heard of him until that very morning, when he had forced his way into the studio at the Towers, and, without any warning, attacked Mr. Karne—who was at work upon a picture—with the same clasp-knife he had used on the former occasion. Mr. Karne’s servants had come to the rescue, and managed to subdue the man, who was undoubtedly a raving lunatic, but not before he had been able to inflict serious injury to the unfortunate artist. No adequate motive for the crime was assigned, except that for some time Strelitzki had cherished a senseless grudge against Herbert Karne, and had so worked upon his comrades at the factory, that at his instigation they had even set fire to the artist’s house. Recently, however, a complete reconciliation between Herbert Karne and the factory people had taken place; and the latter were shocked and horrified in the extreme at the dastardly action of their former colleague. Meanwhile, Mr. Karne lay in a critical condition, having been wounded in the thorax and right lung.

Celia’s face blanched as she listened, whilst a sickening anxiety tore at her heart. Oh, if only Higgins had despatched the telegram a little earlier, she would have been well on her way to Durlston by now. As it was, she would have to wait till morning. Would morning ever come?

Mrs. Jackson thought the girl was going to faint, and insisted on forcing some brandy down her throat. She was very sympathetic, almost obtrusively so; for it was that tactless sympathy which is worse than none at all.

“Keep your heart up, miss,” she said cheerily, noticing that Celia’s tears were making havoc with her make-up. “You can’t rely on some of them ha’penny papers, you know. I don’t suppose it’s really so bad as they put it there. Not but what you’ve not cause to be anxious, for all that. I remember when my poor daughter—her that was on the trapeze business at the ’alls—fell right down from the roof to the floor without so much as a net to catch her, they sent for me—I was dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at the Haymarket then—and I arrived at the ’all just in time to find the poor gel stiffening. They told me at first it was only a slight accident; but she was stretched out dead when I got there, miss, and looking as calm as calm can be. Them accidents are nasty things, I reckon. I do hope as you won’t find your poor brother laid out ready——”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop!” called out Grace, imperatively. “Can’t you see that you are frightening Miss Franks?”

She felt ready to throw the hand-glass or any other convenient missile at the woman for her arrant thoughtlessness.

Poor Celia was pale and trembling, whilst visions of her brother lying dead flashed before her mind’s eye. How she managed to get through that last act she never knew. The dim faces of the audience looming out of the semi-darkness seemed to her like rows of grisly skeletons mocking her with sardonic mirth. The sweep of the violins in the orchestra sounded like a funeral dirge. Two or three times she was almost overcome with dizziness; but at length all was over, and, for the last time, the curtain fell.

“You did splendidly, Cely,” Guy Haviland said to her on the way home. “You are what I have a great admiration for: a brave girl—a girl with ‘grit.’”

But Celia felt brave no longer. She leant back in the brougham with her head against Grace’s shoulder, and cried quietly all the way. She was utterly worn out.

An unmistakable air of gloom hung over the factory club at Durlston. The members, instead of playing cards or chess as usual, gathered round the fire and smoked their pipes in silence; whilst one of them sat over in the corner, and with his velvet cap carelessly donned, droned prayers to himself out of a well-thumbed Hebrew book. They were all anxiously awaiting the result of the medical consultation concerning their benefactor, Herbert Karne; and could settle to nothing until their suspense had been relieved. Now that they had relinquished their enmity towards him, they went to the other extreme, and exalted him into a kind of demi-god. If he lived they would do all in their power to make amends for their past ingratitude; if he died they would lament him as a martyr, for it was by one of themselves that he had been struck down.

Presently the door swung open to admit the foreman, Emil Blatz; and at his appearance the men looked up with expectancy plainly written on their faces.

“Well, what news?” said one, as though half afraid to ask the question.

The new-comer closed the door and came forward. “The Manchester physician has just gone back,” he answered. “Strelitzki has been sent to the Prestwich asylum.”

“And the doctors’ verdict?”

“Mr. Karne will live.”

“Gott sei dank!” ejaculated the man in the corner. He had wanted Herbert Karne to change his name, so that the Angel of Death would be deceived, and pass on without claiming his prey.

There was not a man in the room who was not intensely relieved by the news. Each clamoured for further particulars, and went to the Towers to read the bulletin for himself. Once more they were able to enter into their various pastimes and pursuits without feeling that to laugh or chat would be to exhibit callousness or bad taste. A load had been lifted from their hearts. Mr. Karne would live.

For nine days he had hovered ’twixt life and death—a time of heartrending anxiety to his sister, who attended him with untiring devotion, and scarcely ate or slept until the crisis had been overcome. On the tenth day Lady Marjorie arrived; and by a coincidence it was on the tenth day that he began to mend.

“He will get better quickly now that you are here,” Celia said optimistically; and her prophecy was, happily, fulfilled. Herbert had so much to live for now, that he was determined to make a good fight for life and health. He recovered quickly and thoroughly, quite astonishing Dr. Forrest by his unusual obedience to his orders.

Lady Marjorie looked thin and pale; and quite unlike the vivacious little woman of a few months ago. During her stay abroad she had suffered both mentally and physically, the sorrow on her mind having greatly retarded her recovery from the fever. But as her lover grew stronger, she also picked up health. The roses returned to her cheeks, and the sparkle to her eyes; until by degrees she regained the sprightliness which had been hers of old.

“It was a good thing Strelitzki did not quite finish me off just as our happiness was on the horizon,” Herbert said to her half playfully one day. “Just imagine if you had come back to find a nice little urn awaiting you, labelled ‘Concentrated essence of Herbert Karne.’ I am an advocate of cremation, you know!”

But Marjorie’s eyes filled at the very thought. “Oh, darling, I can’t bear to hear you jest about it,” she rejoined seriously. “If that wretched lunatic had killed you, I should have died too.”

And her lover, although he persisted in making light of the whole affair, knew that her words were no vain exaggeration. He began to wonder what Marjorie could see in him, that she should love him so. He considered himself quite the luckiest man in the world.

A fortnight before Christmas the good people at Durlston were somewhat surprised to hear that Durlston House was about to change hands, the new owner being a Mrs. Thornton, of Sydney. One or two of them went to Lady Marjorie expressing their regret; and asked her if she were leaving the town for good.

“Oh no, not for good,” she answered with a merry twinkle in her blue eyes. “Only for about six weeks.” And more she would not divulge.

But somehow the news leaked out, and there was quite a crowd of well-wishers outside the registrar’s office on the following Monday morning. They were mostly the tradespeople who attended at Durlston House and the Towers, probably drawn thither by the fascination which always seems to hover round a bridal couple, whatever their degree.

It was a dreadfully plebeian way of getting married, they said to each other; in fact, it was hardly respectable. “No banns, no church, no wedding-bells, no cake, no free drinks, no nothing.”

“And it’s not as if they couldn’t afford it, neither,” said Mrs. Smith, who kept the chandler’s shop in the High Street; “she being a hearl’s daughter and all.”

“Perhaps it’s because she were a widder,” hazarded Mrs. Jones. “Widders ain’t so pertikler as spinsters, seeing as it’s their second try.”

At the station, however, Mr. Karne somewhat redeemed his character in their eyes. The factory people, despite the fact that he was marrying out of the faith, had sent a deputation to wish the bridal pair good luck and a pleasant journey. In replying to their congratulations, Herbert said that on account of the state of his health, he had been obliged to have the marriage as quiet as possible; but when, in the course of a few weeks, he brought his bride home to the Towers, he hoped to be well enough to organize all the festivities generally associated with a happy wedding.

His little speech elicited general satisfaction, and after some consideration it was unanimously agreed throughout the town that he could not very well have had a “big” wedding, when he had so recently lain at death’s door.

“Although it do seem to me that a bride and bridegroom hev no more right to put off their wedding breakfast than a dead Irishman has to postpone his wake,” remarked Mrs. Jones to Mrs. Smith. “Seeing as one follows the other quite natural-like, as you may say. Still, if them Jews at Mendel’s is satisfied, it’s nowt to do with you and me.”

And there the matter rested.

Celia drove back from the station with Lord Bexley and Mr. Harry Barnard, who had been the witnesses of the marriage. She could not help looking a little bit woe-begone in spite of Mr. Barnard’s jocularity. Although not begrudging Herbert and Marjorie their happiness—on the contrary, she was deeply thankful for it—she felt that Marjorie was the most enviable woman in the world, for she had gained her heart’s desire: she had married the man she loved.

At lunch Mr. Barnard suddenly bethought him of a letter which had arrived for Herbert that morning.

“It was a black-bordered envelope, so I advised Higgins not to deliver it, in case Bert should take it as a bad omen, coming on his wedding-day,” he said in explanation. “What the dickens did I do with it, though? Ah, here it is!” extracting it from the depths of one of his numerous pockets. “I suppose we had better forward it, Miss Franks?”

Celia examined the envelope. “I can open it,” she replied, with a sigh. “I know where it comes from. Poor Mrs. Neville Williams——”

“Do you mean to say she is——” asked Lord Bexley, in a tone of awe.

The girl nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” she rejoined solemnly, as she read the letter. “I am glad that you did not give this to my brother, Mr. Barnard.”

“But I saw Dr. Milnes last week,” pursued Bexley, as though he could scarcely believe it. “He told me that the operation was quite a success.”

“Yes, so it was, according to the nurse’s account also,” answered Celia. “She says: ‘The operation in itself was entirely successful, but the unfortunate lady succumbed to weakness following a relapse.’ Poor Mrs. Neville Williams! I am sorry she is dead!”

“She was a slap-bang and a dash kind of woman, if ever there was one,” remarked Harry Barnard, unfeelingly. “Never happy unless she was up to some sort of a lark. Great Scott, the tricks she used to get up to when Bert and I were in Paris! As flighty as a two-year-old she was, but as cunning as they make ’em. She would have made up to you if you had given her half a chance, wouldn’t she, my lord?”

Bexley looked over at Celia and felt uncomfortable. “Mrs. Neville Williams is dead,” he said with quiet emphasis. “Requiescat in pace.”

And then Celia, who considered Mr. Barnard’s remarks in somewhat bad taste, tactfully changed the subject.

The “Voice of the Charmer” had but another week to run, for the theatre was wanted for the Christmas pantomime. Celia had promised to return to the cast for the final performances; and accompanied by the two gentlemen, caught the afternoon train to London.

Haviland and Calhoun were glad to see her back, for the play without her in it had been like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark, even though Miss Graham had done her best to imitate the original Mallida’s interpretation of the part.

Celia was not sorry when the last night arrived, although she was bound to admit that all her co-workers had been exceedingly kind to her, from the manager down to the call-boy. But when Mr. Calhoun asked her if she would continue in the part if they resumed the run of the play in the new year, she quietly but firmly declined; and neither he nor Haviland could persuade her to alter her mind.

After Christmas, which she spent very enjoyably at Woodruffe, Herbert and Marjorie wrote for her to come and join them in Bournemouth, both assuring her that she need have no scruples about trespassing on the seclusion of their honeymoon, for there were two or three people they knew staying at the same hotel. The Wiltons, however, would not hear of her taking her departure until after their annual Christmas party, which was, to them, the great event of the winter season.

“Your brother ought to be able to spare you a little longer, now that he has a wife to keep him company,” said Enid, with authority; and to this all the other members of the family agreed.

But at length, after her sister-in-law had despatched three or four more letters of invitation, Celia bade farewell to them all and went. She found both her brother and his wife greatly improved in health; and the cordial welcome they gave her quite dispelled the fear she had had that her visit might be an intrusion. Their fellow-visitors at the hotel organized various forms of social enjoyment; and as the weather was genial—although it was January—they went about a good deal.

“There is somebody you know staying at Cliff Terrace,” Marjorie informed her whilst she unpacked. “He came to Bournemouth because he knew we were here. We scarcely expected you until Monday, and I told him so; but I should not be surprised if he came round to-morrow.”

“Who is it?” asked the girl with curiosity, but Lady Marjorie only smiled at her in a tantalizing manner, and refused to say.

The next day was Sunday. Celia expected the mysterious somebody all day, but he did not arrive. She wondered if it were Lord Bexley, and hoped he had not been trying to get his sister to intercede in his favour. She scarcely thought he would do such a thing, for he had appeared to take her decision as final, when she had rejected his proposal at the Havilands.

In the evening she expressed her intention of going to church; and as Marjorie was not allowed to inhale the night air, she went alone, her brother promising to meet her at the conclusion of the service. He did not scruple to allow her to go unaccompanied, for ever since she had passed out of the hands of her governess, she had been used to go about by herself.

The church was of modern build, fitted with electric light and numerous creature comforts unthought of in the days of our fathers. Celia nestled back in the corner of her pew, allowing the solemn stillness of the sanctuary to pervade her spirit. Evensong always had the effect of making her feel happy and restful; it was like a soothing lullaby after a busy day. She loved especially the jubilant Magnificat and the solemnly sweet Nunc Dimittis, for they were of peculiarly Jewish interest, and made her glory in her Hebrew descent.

After the service was over, and the bulk of the congregation filed out, she still remained in her seat, dreamily listening to the exquisite organ melody. It was one of Chopin’s most beautiful Nocturnes, sweetly mournful and pathetic in parts, but occasionally displaying the fervour of its restrained passion. Celia knew it well, but she had never heard it played amidst such surroundings before. The building was now in semi-darkness, the glare of the electric light having been replaced by the softening shadows of night. At the altar a surpliced choir-boy was extinguishing the six candles, one by one. He performed the action with care and reverence; and then quietly withdrew.

And still the music played on, rising and falling like the throbbing of a heart; and still, with her face turned towards the east—where the sacred symbol stood out in bold relief—Celia listened. At last, recollecting that her brother might be waiting, she passed on tip-toe down the aisle and through the porch. But he was not there; so, knowing that he would not like her to wait about alone, she began to make her way towards the hotel.

It was a fine night, frosty and dry. There was no moon, but the stars shone with dazzling splendour. Celia crossed over to the esplanade, and stood contemplating the prospect for a moment, whilst the salt breeze brushed against her cheek. As she gazed at the vast expanse of sky and ocean, and listened to the dull roar of the waves, some lines she had once sung in the “Golden Legend” recurred to her memory:

She loved all the sounds of Nature, but especially that “music of the sea.” Its chords were deep and resonant; and full of meaning to those who had ears to listen to its ever-changing harmonies. All around was mystery; mystery in the impenetrable height of the starry heavens; mystery in the great depth of the moving waters. What was beyond and below?—she wondered with reverential awe; and realizing—if ever so slightly—the majestic grandeur of the great Creator’s handiwork, an overpowering sense of her own littleness overcame her, until, with a sudden longing for human companionship, she turned to continue her walk.

“‘In maiden meditation, fancy free,’” quoted a familiar voice close behind her. “Star-gazing is a pleasant occupation for two, but rather lonesome for one in solitude. May I join you, Celia dear?”

It was nearly four years since she had last seen him, but even in the darkness, she recognized his stalwart form.

“Geoffrey!” she exclaimed. “At last!” And try as she would, she could not keep the joy out of her voice.

There was nobody about, and he took possession of her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And the funny part about it was that she did not feel the least surprise that he should do so. How he came to be there she had not the faintest idea; she did not even wonder about it. She only knew that his coming filled her with a delicious sense of happiness, and that the song of the sea sounded sweeter than it had done before.

“I arrived at your hotel just after you had gone,” Geoffrey explained. “So Herbert sent me on to meet you. I was in church, quite near you, all the time; but you looked so absorbed that I didn’t like to bring you down from heaven to earth until it was absolutely necessary. Celia, has Lady Marjorie said anything to you about me lately?”

“She told me that somebody I knew was staying at Cliff Terrace and intended coming to see me; but she did not say it was you. I was expecting the somebody all day.”

“Were you? Oh, if I had only known that you were here, I would have come round early this morning. Lady Marjorie has been very good to me; she has made me see what a timid ass I’ve been. It was not entirely my fault, though. Stannard would have it that you were engaged to Lord Bexley; and I was so busy looking after my poor aunt and Miss Thornton that——”

“Miss Thornton!” interpolated the girl, suddenly shrinking away from him. “I had forgotten Miss Thornton.”

Her sky was overcast again.

“You don’t know her, do you?” asked Geoffrey, wonderingly. “She is Stannard’s fiancée.”

Celia drew a deep sigh. Stannard’s fiancée! That made all the difference. But how foolish she had been to have made such a mistake!

“She used to be subject to fits,” her lover went on to explain. “But fortunately I have been able to effect a complete cure. She has been under my supervision for some months.”

“And she is going to marry Dick Stannard?” Celia asked, anxious to hear a corroboration of the statement.

“Yes, she is going to marry Dick,” he replied with satisfaction. “But I don’t want to speak about Miss Thornton just now. Oh, you dear, sweet girl, how nice it is to be talking to you like this after such a long time!” This with an affecting pressure of her hand. “You do love me just a wee bit, don’t you, dear?”

“I love you more than a wee bit, Geoffrey,” she answered, in the tone of one who makes a great confession. “I have loved you ever since that night when——”

“When I kissed you under the mistletoe? I remember. I’ve been living on that kiss for four years. I am just aching and hungering for another one. I am going to have it here and now.”

“Geoffrey!” she protested. “In the open street!”

“I don’t care,” he answered with determination. “There is nobody to see except Nature, and Nature keeps her secrets well. Ah”—as he put his desire into execution—“that was beautiful. But tell me, darling, if you really loved me all that time ago, why did you become engaged to another fellow?”

“Because you—you—didn’t——”

“Because I didn’t come forward and claim you?” he suggested, finishing the sentence for her. “But your brother made me promise not to speak: he thought it might hinder your career. He told me he did not approve of mixed marriages either, although he has not practised what he preached. Lady Marjorie is a Christian.”

“Herbert says now that love is more powerful than race and creed,” the girl said softly. “Love breaks all barriers down.”

“Yes, he is right,” her lover rejoined with deepening earnestness. “But there is no barrier of creed ’twixt you and me, now, darling; no barrier of any kind. Did you notice the text of the sermon, to-night, Celia: ‘Neither Jew nor Greek’? Oh, it seemed to me as if the clergyman must have chosen it because he knew we were in the church. ‘Neither Jew nor Greek’ ... united, made one in Christ. No difference between the Jew and the Gentile, for the same God is God of both!”

They had arrived at the hotel, and Herbert Karne was looking out for them in the vestibule. Geoffrey’s buoyant manner and Celia’s happy face told him, before he asked, that their meeting had been a satisfactory one.

Lady Marjorie looked up from her book with a softened expression in her blue eyes, when they made their appearance at the door of the private drawing-room.

“So your visitor has come at last, girlie,” she said, as Celia bent down and kissed her. “I told him that I thought you would give him a hearty welcome. Was I right, Dr. Geoff?”

“Yes, quite right,” the young doctor replied, as he gripped her hand. “I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, Lady Marjorie.”

“You really were the silliest pair of lovers I ever came across,” Marjorie said, as she glanced at them and thought what a well-matched couple they made. “I knew that each of you was just longing for the other; and yet you both held aloof, although there was no cause or just impediment why you should not have come together long ago. So I determined to intervene and make you happy. And, judging by the looks of you both, I think I have succeeded.”

“You have, indeed!” rejoined Geoffrey, as he drew his sweetheart closer to him; and Celia, whose heart was too full for words, expressed by her shining eyes, the great happiness which was hers at last.

* * * * *

On the deck of a channel-steamer bound for Calais stood a young girl, shading her eyes with her hand. She was watching the land as it receded from view, yet with no feeling of regret, for she was making the journey with the one she loved best in the world.

Less than twenty-four hours ago she had stood beside him at the altar, and made her marriage vows. The “Voice that breathed o’er Eden” was still ringing in her ears; the crashing chords of the Wedding March seemed interwoven with the throbbing of the ship’s engines; the very air seemed full of the far-off sound of wedding-bells.

It was a bright spring morning, a day fit for the renewing of energy and hope. All around was sunlight: on the shimmering waters, the polished deck, and on the girl’s bright hair. It seemed to her like a happy omen, symbolizing the sunshine on the sea of life. With a deep sigh of happiness she turned away; and, looking up, encountered the fond gaze of her lover-husband.

“Why such a sigh, sweet?” he asked, tenderly placing her hand within his own. “Of what were you thinking, my little wife?”

“Many things, Geoffrey,” she answered softly, her face lit up with a radiant smile. And then, as they both continued to gaze landwards, she added: “But—chiefly—that life is full of joy;—and God is good!”

THE END


PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

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