Chapter VI: Celia’s Awakening

In due course came Sunday. The boys appeared at breakfast in their best suits, with faces that seemed to have caught the reflection from their patent leather shoes, for they had received an especial Sunday shine. The little girls were attired in embroidered silk frocks, with strict injunctions not to soil them. A sense of best clothes and quiet behaviour pervaded the air; Woodruffe was enveloped by an atmosphere of Sunday.

Celia was given the option of accompanying the family to church, or of going for a walk with Enid, who, with her eldest brother, had already attended the early Communion Service. She chose the former alternative, partly out of interest, partly because Ralph had been invited to preach, and she knew that Enid would like to hear him. With the exception of two weddings at Durlston, she had never attended a church service before, and hoped she would not shock the congregation by her ignorance of Church customs. She felt quite uncomfortable when they arrived within hearing of the deep-toned bells and in sight of the pointed spire. She almost wished she had not come.

But this feeling was quite dispelled when they came within the precincts of the sacred edifice, and a strain of organ music fell upon their ears. It was an air from Mendelssohn’s _Elijah_--“If with all your hearts,” and because it was familiar to her, Celia felt less strange.

She could scarcely restrain an exclamation of surprise as they passed through the swing-doors and up the aisle; she had had no idea that a church could be so beautiful. The altar, with its brass cross, tall candles, and white flowers; the richly painted window above it reaching right up to the wainscoted roof; the ornamental inscriptions on the walls; the brass eagle-shaped lectern; the elaborately carved altar rails, choir stalls and pulpit;--all these excited her admiration; and when, a little later, the white-robed procession of choristers and clergy filed to their places in the chancel, she considered the scene, as a beautiful picture, complete.

Throughout the service Celia was deeply impressed. The dignity of the Liturgy, the solemn beauty of the music, and, most of all, the evident sincerity of the worshippers, moved her strangely. Presently she began to consider the religion itself. Judaism, as practised in the present day, she had found impossible. Deism was unsatisfactory. What of the religion from which she had always been kept aloof? She was not entirely ignorant of the doctrines of the Christian faith; and from early childhood had cherished the deepest respect for the Founder of Christianity, just as she had admired all the great men who have made history. But now it was gradually dawning upon her that in Christ’s religion she would find that spirituality she had sought so long in vain. She knew the principles it inculcated: love, charity, self-sacrifice, peace, and piety--all that conduced to the development of man’s spiritual nature.

During her week’s stay at Woodruffe she had already discovered that religion was, to the Wiltons, a practical reality; that it tempered all their actions; that they were as certain of its truth as they were of life itself. She found herself wondering if, although she had been taught to the contrary, Christianity were true after all; and as the service came to a close, determined to study the subject to the best of her ability.

She would have liked to discuss the subject with Enid, but, although she could not have explained why, felt shy of introducing the subject.

In the afternoon, however, an opportunity occurred. They were out for a stroll on the cliffs with Irene and Doris. A fresh breeze was blowing, covering the waves with foam. Enid found a nook sheltered from the wind; and the four girls threw themselves down on the long dry grass to rest awhile.

Far out at sea a small fishing-vessel was battling against the tide, tossed hither and thither by the force of the wind and waves. Shading their eyes with their hands, the girls watched it. Celia was of opinion that it was too frail to weather a storm, should one arise.

“It looks so tiny, and the sea is so vast,” she said meditatively. “I wonder if any one would miss it if it were to sink?”

“Yes, I think so,” Enid replied. “There is a man in it, and he probably has a wife and children at home. Just imagine how they would feel if he went out and never came back!”

Celia gave a little shudder. “The sea is cruel,” she said. “It looks grey and hungry. Don’t you get tired of being always near it, Enid?”

“No; I love it. It is ever changing; it always seems to have some new tale to tell. And it isn’t cruel when one remembers the protecting Providence above.”

“You believe in that protecting Providence above,” said Celia, with a sigh. “I wish I had the same kind of faith.”

For answer Enid sat up with her elbows resting on her knee.

“Irene,” she said, turning towards her small sister, “say that little passage about the sea which Ralph taught you this morning.”

The child thought a minute, and then recited in a clear voice--

“‘They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in
great waters:
These men see the works of the Lord: and His wonders in the deep.
For at His word the stormy wind ariseth: which lifteth up the
waves thereof.
They are carried up to the heaven: and down again to the
deep: their soul melteth away because of the trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man: and
are at their wits’ end.
So when they cry unto the Lord in their trouble: He
delivereth them out
of their distress.
For He maketh the storm to cease: so that the waves
thereof are still.
Then are they glad, because they are at rest: and so He bringeth
them unto the haven where they would be.’”

“What beautiful poetry!” exclaimed the girl, who had listened with interest. “Who is the author of it?”

“Don’t you know?” answered Enid, with surprise. “It was written by one of your own people: it is an extract from the Book of Psalms.”

“Psalm one hundred and seven,” put in Irene, who liked to be exact.

“I am dreadfully ignorant of the Bible,” said Celia, half ashamed to make such a confession. “I know my Shakespeare twice as well. The Bible is not much read amongst Jewish people, except in Hebrew, which most of them can barely translate.”

“How strange!” Enid rejoined. “Why, if I were a Jewess, I should claim it as my special heritage. Do you know, I have sometimes wished I were a Jewess. It must be so inspiring to think that you belong to the same race as the holy men of old--the patriarchs, the prophets, and the apostles.”

Celia looked doubtful. “I don’t think you would like to give up your Christianity for Judaism,” she said.

“No, of course not. But if I were a Jewess, I should be a Christian too. I can scarcely conceive of a religion that excludes Christ.”

“That is because you have been brought up to it,” Celia replied. “I wish I possessed your faith.” She paused to pluck a little field-flower, and continued a trifle nervously. “If I could be convinced of Christ’s Divinity, I think I should become a Christian. I feel the need of a pure spiritual faith; and Judaism does not satisfy me. I’ve been thinking about it a good deal lately.”

“Have you really?”

Enid’s face lit up with eagerness. She had often wished that her friend followed the same creed as herself; but being aware how prejudiced most Jewish people were against Christianity when applied to themselves, had hitherto refrained from touching on the subject.

“You must have a talk with Ralph,” she said. “He will be able to explain all you wish to know so much better than I can. I am sure he will be able to convince you of the truth.”

Such was indeed the case. Celia introduced the subject at the first opportunity, and the Rev. Ralph, being greatly interested, did his utmost to enlighten her. She proved an apt and intelligent pupil, and, although inclined to be shy at first, soon unbent under the influence of his tactful kindliness, so that it was not long before he was aware of the exact nature of her ideas. Although she had scarcely been conscious of it, the spark of faith had been kindled in her soul long years before; and it only needed this encouragement to make it develop into a pure and steady flame.

Her teacher wished her to approach the subject so far as was possible from the Jewish standpoint, and to this end advised her to study the New Testament side by side with the Old. Very carefully he pointed out the numerous Hebrew prophecies--particularly those of Isaiah,--together with their marvellous fulfilment in the incidents of the Gospel.

With the light of Christianity thrown upon it, the Old Testament became, to Celia, a much more interesting and comprehensive book. By degrees she was able to trace through its pages how wonderfully God had educated the Israelites of old: giving them at first a narrow and material conception of Himself--a conception which was not too far above the level of their understanding,--preparing them by types and shadows for the fuller manifestation that should afterwards appear; then gradually weaning them from their crude ideas of His nature and attributes, until, after many generations had passed, they were, although unworthy, permitted to receive the sublime teaching of the Incarnation.

She discovered also that each important rite instituted by the Mosaic law had its counterpart, only with deeper spiritual significance, under the Christian dispensation; and that Christ’s religion did not oppose Judaism, but was a fuller, nobler, and grander expansion of the same.

Ralph Wilton was astonished at the fallacious opinions she had held respecting Christian doctrine, and which she informed him were common to the majority of Jews.

“It seems to me,” he said on one occasion, “that the Jews will not seek enlightenment simply because, on account of their foolish prejudice, they _don’t want_ Christianity to be true;” and Celia was obliged to agree with him on that point.

“There are none so blind as those who wilfully shut their eyes,” remarked Enid, who happened to be present. “But do you know what I was thinking, Ralph? That Celia’s friends will consider it rather mean of us to have won her over to our religion. I can just imagine, for instance, what Mrs. Friedberg will say.”

“Yes, I am afraid that Miss Franks will have some unpleasantness to face,” returned her brother, regretfully. “But that cannot be helped. If we owed a duty to her friends, we owe a still higher duty to our Master. I know that in certain quarters it is regarded as ‘bad taste’ to interfere with the religion in which a person happens to be born; but I could not possibly have withheld from our friend the instruction she so eagerly sought.”

“Please do not dream of reproaching yourself,” said Celia, earnestly, turning towards the vicar with a bright smile. “I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, and I shall thank God every day of my life for this visit to Woodruffe. As for what my friends will say--that does not trouble me in the least. My greatest friend, Lady Marjorie Stonor, is herself a Christian, so that she cannot possibly blame me for my change of faith.”

“But your brother and Mr. Salmon?” put in Enid, with hesitation. “Don’t you think they will receive the news with anger?”

“Herbert will not; he is too sensible,” replied the girl, readily. “But about David I cannot say. However, I trust he will take it in the right light. I really cannot see that my religion need make any difference to him.”

But Enid was not so sanguine; she knew that David Salmon possessed a lofty contempt for everything pertaining to matters spiritual.

“I hope he will be nice about it,” she said doubtfully. “But--I can’t help wishing that you were going to marry a Christian, Celia dear.”

And in his heart her brother re-echoed her wish.