Chapter XI: Under the Mistletoe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Going away?” she faltered, in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Celia scanned the cablegram which Herbert handed to her:--

“Mr. Bernie Franks died suddenly to-day; sudden failure of the
heart’s action. Wire instructions.--Bell and Boyd, solicitors,
Capetown.”

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

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

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

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

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

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