Chapter XII: David Salmon Pays a Visit of Condolence

It was strange how quickly the news of the death of Bernie Franks became known the next morning. It was the one topic of conversation in Durlston that day, and the front door bell at the Towers scarcely rested. There was a short but important paragraph in the London paper about it, which may have accounted for the numerous telegrams Celia received from people with whom neither she nor her half-brother had the slightest acquaintance, but who, according to their messages, had been on the most intimate terms with her father.

The afternoon train from London brought David Salmon to Durlston. He put up at the best hotel in the town, and, after having refreshed himself from the effects of the journey, started off for the Towers, wearing a black tie and a mourning-band on his hat. He was in very exuberant spirits, and walked along the High Road whistling and humming the latest music-hall tunes; then suddenly recollected his _rôle_ as mourner and sympathizer, and managed to assume the requisite amount of gravity. He had been to the Towers once before, for the purpose of making Herbert Karne’s acquaintance, so did not consider himself a stranger there. Judging by the way he made his entrance, the house might have been his own property, and the home of his ancestors.

A little boy, in a man-of-war suit, was playing about the hall when he arrived, and watched him take off his hat and overcoat with a show of interest. He had put his own hat on the head of a statue which held an electric lamp, and looked as if he expected David to do the same.

“Cely’s papa is dead,” he informed him gravely. “An’ my papa is dead, and Mr. Karne’s papa is dead. Is your papa dead too?”

“Yes, my papa is dead too,” answered David with mock gravity. He wondered what the youngster was doing there.

“It’s very funny, isn’t it?” said the little boy, looking up into his face with round solemn eyes. “They fasten all the papas up tight in a box, and put ’em in a long hole in the ground, and then they go to Heaven. But when old Patrick died--that’s our gardener--I stood by the hole ever such a long time after they putted him down, an’ I didn’t see him go to Heaven. Perhaps he wasn’t good enough, though--he used to swear at me drefful sometimes in Irish, and vicar says it’s only good people that go to Heaven. Do you know what I fink?” he added, putting his finger in his mouth and looking very wise. “_I_ fink that, instead of putting them down a hole, they ought to put them on top of the church tower, so that they wouldn’t have so far to go to get up to Heaven; and then, if they rang the church bells, the angels might hear, and come down and carry them away.”

David smiled, and patted the child’s head indulgently.

“He’s a rum ’un, is Master Bobbie,” said the butler in parenthesis. “He’d keep you chatting all day if you would stay. Is it Mr. Karne you wish to see, sir, or Miss Celia?”

“You can’t see Mr. Karne,” put in the little boy, decidedly. “I wanted to ask him lots of fings, but he is busy writing letters, an’ he told me to run away and play. You had better come up and see Cely. Mother’s up there with her, and lots more ladies. Cely looks drefful sad; I fink she’s going to cry. That’s why I comed out; I don’t like to see growed people cry--do you?”

He danced up the stairs and across the landing, his chubby face aglow with vivacity and health.

“It’s all right, Higgins,” he called out to the butler. “I’ll show the gentleman the way. What is your name--Mr. Salmon? How funny! We eat salmon, don’t we, an’ it’s pink?”

He opened the library door cautiously, and peeped in. A buzz of conversation met their ears.

“It’s all right,” he informed David, in a loud whisper. “She’s not crying.” Then, imitating Higgins, he went forward, and announced, in a stentorian tone of voice, “Mr. Fish!”

Celia rose with some surprise, for she knew no one of that name, and, although it was very foolish of her, she felt her colour rise as David Salmon entered. He was the last person she wished to see just then, for she had not yet recovered from the shock of Geoffrey Milnes’ veiled avowal. She managed to retain her self-possession, however, and, having thanked him for his expression of sympathy, introduced him to her friends.

Lady Marjorie Stonor he had already met at Mrs. Friedberg’s house, and she extended her hand in that hail-fellow-well-met kind of manner which was one of her own particular charms.

“I am sorry you fell into the hands of my small son,” she said with urbanity. “He is a veritable _enfant terrible_. I never know what he will say or do next. Come here, Bobbie, and let me introduce you to Mr. Salmon.”

But Bobbie had established himself comfortably on the knee of a charming young lady, and did not feel inclined to disturb himself.

“Oh, it’s all right, mother,” he said equably. “We have been ’duced; we knowed each other downstairs. Mr. Salmon’s papa is dead too.”

The charming young lady bent down and whispered something into the little boy’s ear. She was afraid that he would say something that might hurt Celia’s feelings, for his childish mind seemed full of her bereavement. He was very fond of his dear “Cely,” and he did not like to see her look so sad.

David Salmon was awkward and ill at ease. He possessed no interest in common with these stiff and formal county people, and felt that as Celia’s _fiancé_ he was being criticized, and would afterwards be commented upon. He was not sorry when Celia suggested that he should go and hunt up her brother, and, rising with alacrity, went from the room with an air of relief.

He found Herbert Karne in the study, busily attending to a formidable pile of correspondence; and, fearing to intrude, would have withdrawn, but the artist called him in, and made him sit down.

“I have only two more letters to write, and then I shall have done,” he said, when they had shaken hands. “I am glad you have come, Salmon. I should like you to tell me what you know of poor Franks’s affairs presently, if you will.”

He took up his pen and indited another letter, whilst David lit up a cigar, and watched him through a thin haze of smoke.

Karne was certainly a man worth looking at, and, like his half-sister, possessed a marked personality. He had straight jet-black hair, contrasting sharply with a pale, almost sallow complexion. His features were clear-cut, and but slightly suggestive of his Jewish origin, the nose being high-bridged like Celia’s, and the clean-shaven chin firm and resolute. His eyes were dark and brilliant, and reflected his varying emotions as if they had been, in truth, the faithful mirrors of his inner self.

They were the eyes of a thinker and a dreamer of dreams. If Karne’s poetic instincts had not found an outlet in allegorical art, he would in all probability have been a musical composer or a writer of verse. Yet, in spite of his tendency towards romance, his nature was encrusted with a strain of prosaic common sense which gave strength to his character, and made him essentially practical.

When David Salmon had heard of his charity to the workers at Mendel’s factory, he had attributed it to a good nature which could easily be imposed upon. He found, however, that he was mistaken; it would not be so easy as he imagined to hoodwink Herbert Karne.

As the artist put down his pen and sealed the last letter, the door opened to admit a gentleman in clerical attire, who, judging by the familiar way in which he greeted him, appeared to be an intimate friend of his. He had a kind, cheery face, and, although rapidly approaching ripe middle age, looked very little more than forty-five. Time had used him well; and his vigour was as great now as ever it had been in his youth. He was a man who enjoyed the good things of life, and thanked God heartily for them. He liked to be happy himself, and nothing gave him keener pleasure than to see those around him happy also. Genial, courteous, and complaisant--such was the Vicar of Durlston.

“You seem to be busy, Herbert,” he said, when he had been introduced to David Salmon. “But don’t be alarmed; I can only stay a few minutes, as Gladys is waiting for me to take her home. I want you to be so good as to give me what information you can concerning Jacob Strelitzki. He was, until just recently, in the employ of Messrs. Mendel & Co., so you have no doubt come in contact with him at one time or another.”

“Yes, I have,” rejoined Karne, dryly. “And I am rather surprised if he has referred you to me for a character. He ought to know pretty well what opinion I have of him by this time.”

“He did not refer me to you,” corrected the clergyman, affably. “I will tell you how it is, Karne. The man came to me about a fortnight ago, and said that he was convinced of the truth of the Christian Faith as expounded by the Church of England, and wished to be baptized accordingly. Also that his fellow-workers were so incensed against him for giving up Judaism, that he could not possibly stay at Mendel’s factory, and was obliged to leave. He was quite without means of subsistence, and I organized a fund amongst my parishioners for his relief. Since then I have been able to obtain a situation for him as steward to Squire Stannard, with whom I think you are acquainted. The squire is much interested in Strelitzki’s case, and will, I am sure, be exceedingly kind to him. Before he goes, however, I should like to be assured that he bears a good character, for of course the squire will hold me responsible, in a measure, for his future conduct.”

“Just so,” agreed Herbert, smiling somewhat cynically. “Have you baptized him yet?”

“No, not yet,” returned the vicar. “All being well, I hope to perform the ceremony on Sunday week.”

“Well, before you do so, Milnes, I should advise you to ascertain whether he has ever been baptized before,” said Karne, his brows drawn together in a frown. “I am very sorry to have to destroy your good faith in the man, but I am not going to stand by and see you taken in by a scoundrel like Strelitzki. There exists, unfortunately, a certain class of low Jews--mostly foreigners--who will change their religion until they have joined almost every recognized sect, so long as there is some pecuniary advantage to be gained by their doing so. They are generally men out of work, being unable or too lazy to get employment; and so they prey upon these various missionary and conversionist societies, who, in their misguided zeal, welcome them with open arms. Their material necessities are attended to, as well as their spiritual needs, so that they find that, at least temporarily, conversion is a paying game. That Strelitzki belongs to this class, I am confident, and the less you have to do with him the better.”

The good vicar was inexpressibly shocked. He thought, however, that his friend was slightly prejudiced against converted Jews, for, in the many arguments they had had on the subject, they had never yet been able to agree.

“This is a serious allegation, Karne,” he said gravely. “I have been greatly deceived if such is indeed the case. About these conversionist societies I know very little; but I hope--and, yes, in spite of what you say, I believe--that the majority of their converts are sincere. Unfortunately there are black sheep in every fold. But I certainly thought that Jacob Strelitzki was a genuine seeker after truth. Are you sure that you have not misjudged him, Karne? His character may not be irreproachable in other respects, I admit, but in this, at least, his motive may be pure?”

“Shall I tell you why Strelitzki left the factory?” said the artist, his eyes kindling with indignation. “Because he was turned away on account of his persistent drunkenness. You know me pretty well, I think, Milnes: I’m not the sort of fellow to give a person a bad character if I can possibly find anything good to say about him; on the contrary, I am always ready to take into consideration a man’s up-bringing, and to make allowance for the special temptations with which he may have had to cope. But I cannot sufficiently express my contempt for Jacob Strelitzki. He is not worthy of the name of Jew, And as for caring aught about his soul--why he has no more soul than this dog here; nay, not so much, for look into Dandy’s eyes and you will find honesty and integrity reflected in their depths, whereas Strelitzki possesses neither of these virtues. He has attempted to sponge upon me times without number; and now that I refuse to render him any further assistance, he uses threats, and curses me behind my back. That’s the kind of man Strelitzki is, and I am very angry indeed that he should have tried to impose on such generous-minded men as you and Squire Stannard.”

The vicar had never heard Karne speak so trenchantly before, and although he still felt half inclined to give Strelitzki the benefit of the doubt, he knew that his friend would not give vent to such a vigorous denunciation without good cause. He was terribly disappointed in what he had heard, for he was a simple-minded man with a great faith in human goodness, and it always pained him to have his favourite theory upset.

He looked quite worried as he adjourned with Karne and Salmon to the library, where his daughter was the last remaining visitor.

“Of course I shall have to refuse Strelitzki baptism for the present,” he said, when he had informed her of Herbert Karne’s opinion. “And we can give him no further help whilst he continues to be such a reprobate.”

“I told you I thought he was not really a Christian, didn’t I, father?” said Gladys, who prided herself on her perception of character. “We saw him loitering outside the King’s Arms the other afternoon, and he was using abusive language in connection with Mr. Karne. Geoffrey wanted to go and punch his head, but I restrained him, because I thought the man was drunk. I should advise you to carry a revolver about with you,” she added, turning towards Herbert. “He might try to murder you, one of these dark nights. Such things do happen, you know, and he is such a nasty-looking man.”

Herbert laughed. “I don’t think he would attempt that,” he answered carelessly. “He is too much of a coward.”

“Cowards become quite bold when they are drunk,” put in David Salmon, as if he knew all about it. “You really ought to be careful, Karne, if he is indeed such a scamp.”

Celia began to look anxious. “You make me quite nervous,” she said. “I shall be worried every time Herbert goes out alone. Perhaps Strelitzki will go away from Durlston though, when he finds he cannot get work here.”

“Not he,” rejoined her brother, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. “When he finds that his bogus conversion scheme won’t work, he will see the error of his ways and return to Judaism, and I dare say he will persuade Mendel’s to take him on again. But you need not be anxious on my account, I assure you, dear; I am quite capable of defending myself against Jacob Strelitzki even should he become obstreperous, and I do not for one moment think he will.”

He spoke lightly, but Celia was not altogether satisfied. From what Anna had told her on various occasions, she could gauge Strelitzki’s temperament fairly well, and feared that, if he had taken it into his head that her half-brother was his enemy, he would do his utmost to pay him back in some way.

She was not far wrong. Jacob Strelitzki went back to the factory in due course, as Herbert had surmised he would: and although he was generally civil to the artist when they met, he never forgot that he owed him a grudge. If time should ever give him an opportunity to retaliate, he meant to use it to the utmost; and if he did hit back at all, he would hit hard.