[CONTENTS]
[FOOTNOTES]
[TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE]

NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK

NEITHER JEW NOR
GREEK

A STORY OF JEWISH SOCIAL LIFE
BY
VIOLET GUTTENBERG

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1902
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
TO
MY FRIEND
MARIE CORELLI
AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO HER
GENIUS
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

CONTENTS

BOOK I
PROBATION

NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK

CHAPTER I
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE

“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.”

CHAPTER II
INTRODUCES A SWEET AND LOVABLE JEWISH GIRL

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.

CHAPTER III
THE BARRIER OF RACE AND FAITH

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.”

CHAPTER IV
GEOFFREY RECEIVES UNPALATABLE ADVICE

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.”

CHAPTER V
THE FRIEDBERGS OF MAIDA VALE

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.

CHAPTER VI
AN ACADEMY STUDENT

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.”

CHAPTER VII
ENTER—DAVID SALMON

“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.

CHAPTER VIII
AT SYNAGOGUE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY

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.”