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.