“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.