Chapter VIII: The Ring Returned

“Well, what do you think of this d----d nonsense about Celia?” was David Salmon’s polite greeting when he met Herbert Karne in the King’s Road, Brighton, the next day.

He was so full of his grievance that he did not trouble to exchange the customary civilities with the artist. Instead, he broke into a torrent of abuse against the Wiltons, Lady Marjorie Stonor, and even Karne himself, for having combined to lead his _fiancée_ astray. He had been up to Woodruffe that morning, he said, in order to give the Wiltons a piece of his mind, and to implore Celia not to persist in her tomfoolery; but the girl was as obstinate as a mule.

“Did you tell her what the consequence of her act will be, so far as money is concerned?” asked Karne, who was not favourably impressed with Salmon’s blustering manner.

“Yes, of course; but that didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. She just went a bit white, and looked at me in a queer sort of way; then said some stuff about ‘renunciation,’ and that was all. It’s my opinion that those Wiltons must have worked upon her until her mind has become diseased; and the sooner she gets away from them, the better. I have never heard of such an idiotic affair in my life.”

Celia did not look, however, as if she possessed a morbid or diseased mind. Her brother went over to Woodruffe in the afternoon, and found her playing tennis. The exercise had lent a healthy glow to her cheeks; and she looked much better and brighter than when he had last seen her in London.

The Wiltons received him kindly, although they were not sure whether his visit were hostile as Mr. Salmon’s had been, or whether he was disposed to be friendly; but their doubts were set at rest when he cordially invited Enid to accompany Celia back to the Towers for the fortnight before her rehearsals for the Haviland play began, and the invitation was accepted with alacrity.

After tea they tactfully left the brother and sister alone, thinking, with kindly consideration, that the two would have much to say to each other. They were not mistaken. Herbert immediately began to ply Celia with a volley of questions; and was some little time in eliciting all the information he desired. Then he bade her consider well the gravity of her intended action--an action that would cut her adrift from her own people, and make her, for ever, an outcast in Israel.

“Do you know what your father would do, if he were alive?” he said seriously. “He would sit _shiva_,[15] and mourn for you as one dead.”

But he did not blame her, nor did he cavil at her faith. He was kind, even sympathetic; and all he asked her to do, for the present, was to wait awhile.

Celia, however, would not hear of procrastination in this matter; for the Rev. Ralph Wilton was about to return to his parish, and she particularly desired him to assist at the baptismal ceremony before he left. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by waiting, she declared; her mind was fully made up, her determination taken.

Herbert then advanced the monetary consideration, urging her not to yield to a rash impulse she would probably live to regret; but, as he had expected, this plea influenced her not at all.

“If the early Christians had allowed themselves to be guided by social expediency, there would probably be little Christianity in the world to-day,” she returned convincingly. “I must do what I feel to be my duty. But you need not fear for me, Herbert. I am young and strong; and I have my voice.”

“And what of David Salmon? Have you considered him at all? You know, it comes rather hardly upon him, after having been led to expect that you would bring him a fortune.”

Celia’s eyes fell. “If he really loved me, he would be just as willing to marry me poor as rich,” she rejoined.

“True; but I am afraid that he is not so unworldly as yourself. Tell me, sis dear, would it hurt you very much if he were to give you up?”

Her heart beat fast; she had never thought of such a possibility.

“Do you think he would do that?” she asked, evading his question; and her brother did not omit to notice the eager light in her eyes.

“Well, I had a lengthy conversation with him this morning,” he answered slowly. “And it appears to me that this affair has brought out a new side to his character; not a very commendable one, either, I am afraid. Of course he, in common with the Friedbergs and Rosens, is shocked and disgusted; not so much because of your change of faith--although the idea of his marrying a converted Jewess is repugnant to them all--but because, by so doing, you are deliberately throwing away a fortune. He informed me that, on his marriage, Mr. Rosen intended taking him into partnership; but were he to marry you without your money, the scheme would, of necessity, fall through. Then he asked me what dowry I would give you, in the event of your losing your inheritance. Now, you may be sure, dear sis, that I shall always do my best to make ample provision for you; and you shall never want, I trust, whilst I am alive; but I thought I would just meet Salmon on his own ground. So I told him that I lived up to my income, pretty well--which is quite true,--and that, having never foreseen this contingency, I found myself utterly unable to provide you with a marriage portion. I don’t think he quite believed that; anyway, he suggested my raising a mortgage on the Towers, or something of that sort. Then, when he saw that I was obdurate, he said that, much as he likes you, he could not afford to marry a girl without money; so that, if you persist in what he calls your madness, the engagement will have to be broken off. Finally, he asked me to persuade you to reconsider your decision; and sincerely hoped that I would bring him back good news.”

Celia was filled with indignation; but, because she had never really loved him, the avariciousness of her _fiancé_ occasioned her no grief. Rather, she was relieved that his true nature was thus manifested before it was too late.

“It is a wonder he did not suggest my singing or acting as a means of support,” she said.

“He did; but I told him that I did not believe in a woman working to keep her husband, unless he happened to be incapacitated by illness, or there were some other urgent necessity. So it remains with you to decide whether you will marry him or not. From what Marjie--Lady Marjorie, I mean--has told me, I do not think your affections were deeply involved, so that I can guess pretty well what your answer will be--eh, Celia?”

The girl slowly drew off her engagement ring. “Yes,” she replied seriously, “I do not think I could marry him now, even were I to retain my inheritance. My respect for him seems to have been suddenly obliterated. Will you take him back this ring, please? And tell him that the man I marry must love me for myself alone. Say, also, that, as I mean to carry out my intention of joining the Christian Church, I am sure that there would often be contention between us on that account; therefore the best thing--the only thing--that I can do, is to dissolve our engagement.”

“And your decision is final?”

“Absolutely.”

Herbert made a wry face. “I cannot say I relish being the bearer of such a message,” he said, placing the ring in his pocket-book. “Still, as you have given it to me, I suppose I had better deliver it. I dare say Salmon will round on me for having incensed you against him; and perhaps he will prefer to receive your refusal from your own lips. I am afraid there will be a _mauvais quart d’heure_ for me when I get back to Brunswick Terrace.”

There was. David Salmon received the news with an oath, and broke into a fit of passionate rage. After having cursed women in general, and Celia Franks in particular, he declared that he would take to drink. When he had calmed down, however, he thought better of it, and decided to console himself with Dinah Friedberg. Dinah, so he said, besides being madly in love with him, possessed no silly notions about religion, and her father, although he did not make a pretence of being well off--as did Karne--would at least endeavour to provide his daughter with a suitable marriage dowry.

The next morning he presented himself at Woodruffe as though nothing had happened. Celia would have preferred not to see him, but could not very well refuse him the interview.

It was a painful one for both of them; and Celia, at least, felt relieved when it was over. David implored, beseeched, and entreated her to reconsider her decision, and refused at first to take back the few presents he had given her, although he accepted them in the end. Finding that all his pleading was of no avail, he revenged himself by indulging in cheap sneers at her new-found faith, taunting her in the way best calculated to wound her feelings. Finally, he encountered Ralph Wilton just as he was going out, and told the clergyman what he thought of him in no measured terms.

Wilton himself was calm and unresentful, and his demeanour had the effect of making Salmon a little bit ashamed of himself. He had the grace to attempt an apology, at any rate, and even went so far as to shake hands when he left.

Mr. Wilton accompanied him as far as the gate; then returned to the drawing-room, to find Celia in tears.

The sight filled him with dismay. “Miss Franks!” he exclaimed, hardly knowing how to express himself. “I--I am so sorry. I wish I could help you. All this has been too much for you, I am afraid.”

Celia dried her eyes and smiled at him through her tears, reminding the young clergyman of a burst of sunshine after a shower of rain.

“It--was--dreadfully weak of me!” she murmured in a small voice. “But I couldn’t help it. Mr. Salmon did say such cruel things; and although I know it’s foolish, they--they rankle. He made me feel as if I were about to commit a crime.”

Ralph Wilton looked at her with deep sympathy in his eyes.

“The crown of thorns does indeed press hard upon your brow,” he said compassionately. “You are being deprived of your fortune and your lover at one blow. But do not lose heart, Miss Franks; I feel sure there is much sunshine in store for you yet. Who can tell? Your self-sacrifice may lead to happiness you know not of. Only trust and believe, and all will yet be well.”

“Oh, I am not at all unhappy,” she responded hastily, not wishing him to be falsely impressed. “There is really no self-sacrifice in what I am doing.” She did not add that the breaking of her engagement came as an unexpected and not unwelcome release. Nevertheless, she felt it to be such, although it was some little time before she could altogether realize that she was indeed free.

The news of her conversion and its pecuniary consequence spread with astonishing rapidity, even leaking into the Jewish and society papers. Jewish people criticized her action as disgraceful, non-Jews as quixotic; and both unanimously agreed that by foregoing a public confession of faith--meaning the ceremony of baptism--she might have retained her fortune. But public opinion caused Celia no concern, for she knew that no other course than the one she had taken would have been possible to her for any length of time. If she had acted foolishly according to the world’s standard, she had at least done what she had felt to be her duty in the sight of God.

If she left Woodruffe the poorer in one way for her visit there, she was richer in another; and never, during the whole course of her life, did she ever wish her action undone.