“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?”