“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.”