Chapter III: The Barrier of Race and Faith

The studio at the Towers was built on elevated ground at the north side of the house; and was approached by a short flight of steps leading from the hall. From where the artist sat at his easel, he could obtain a bird’s-eye view of Durlston, which consisted of chimney-pots and church spires, relieved by a small park in the centre of the town, with grassy fields surrounding it; and, beyond that, the smoky haze of a manufacturing city.

There was not much in the prospect from which to derive inspiration, but it was all-sufficient for Herbert Karne. He liked to look up from his picture and note the varying aspect of his garden at the different seasons of the year. There was always something new to see and admire, for Nature is ever-changing, and Herbert knew of every bud that blossomed, and every flower that bloomed.

It was autumn now, the season of decay. The richly tinted leaves were falling fast, and made quite a thick carpet on the gravelled paths. The trees, which but a few months ago had been so fresh and green, were adopting sombre hues of golden-brown. Some of them were already bare, and waved their gaunt arms in the breeze as though in warning. “Life and youth are short,” they seemed to say, “and all must die.”

The artist’s brain was busy as he worked. He cast his mind back to the time of his mother’s death, some twelve years ago. Her second marriage had not been a success, for Bernie Franks had never properly understood her refined and gentle nature; so that when, attacked by the money-making fever, he went off to Johannesburg to make his fortune, his wife, on the plea of delicate health, remained at home with her two children.

She never saw him again, for he enjoyed life out in South Africa so much, that he would not trouble to come home, even when he knew that she was ill. When she died, he wrote for little Celia to come out to him, but changed his mind before the next mail, and wrote again, saying that her coming would greatly inconvenience him, and asking Herbert to find a boarding-school for her.

Karne was studying art in Paris at the time, but he returned to England before the funeral, and, in accordance with his mother’s last wish, took charge of his little half-sister. He and Celia were devoted to each other, and the child begged so hard not to be sent away from him to boarding-school, that he engaged a housekeeper whom his mother had known, and sent the little girl to a high school. Her education became his greatest care; and when she showed marked ability for music, he had her taught by one of the cleverest professors in the county, in order to have her talent developed in the best way possible.

And now she had come to womanhood, and was anxious to spread her wings and see a little more of the world. Her teacher, Professor Bemberger, had imbued her with the idea that, with a voice like hers, it would be a thousand pities if she did not become a professional singer. He made her dissatisfied with her quiet life at Durlston; it was tame and dull, he said. In London, she would live, not vegetate; and in glowing terms he described what her life as a successful singer would be.

Her half-brother received the idea with disfavour. Celia had no need to earn money by her voice, he said, for she was the daughter of a wealthy man; and in professional life there was disappointment to be met with, as well as success. He painted the reverse side of the picture, the hard work and many worrying details which must of necessity arise; but Celia would not be discouraged, and, as she had so set her heart on it, he reluctantly gave his consent. Now, however, that her going was decided, and everything definitely arranged, he wondered if he had done right after all.

Celia, besides being an accomplished musician, was a beautiful and winsome girl, and although not altogether lacking in _savoir faire_, possessed very little knowledge of the world. Might not her beauty prove a danger to her in her new life? Hitherto she had been carefully guarded, for her brother had himself chosen her friends, and her tastes and ideas had been led in the right direction. Was he wise in sending her away from his influence, where she would come into contact with all sorts and conditions of people, and must inevitably pick up fresh ideas of evil as well as good?

He was so engrossed with these thoughts that he did not notice the click of the latch as a lady opened the French window from without, and only when he heard the rustle of silken skirts was he made aware of her presence. She was a very daintily clad little woman, with a bright face and vivacious manner. Her blue eyes sparkled with kindliness, and her small mouth betokened a keen sense of humour.

Lady Marjorie Stonor may have possessed a great many faults, but her worst enemy could not have accused her of being dull. She was in the habit of dropping in at the Towers when she knew that she would find the artist at work, and although she disturbed him seriously with her light chatter, Herbert could not but be glad to see her, for she had helped him a good deal with his work amongst the factory people, and was one of Celia’s greatest friends.

He rose to greet her, and she established herself comfortably in a low wicker chair. She had come, she said, firstly to bring him an order from the county hospital for one of the factory men, and secondly to discuss Celia’s future. She was anxious to know if Mr. Karne were aware that all the Durlston people were anticipating Celia’s engagement to Dr. Geoffrey Milnes!

Mr. Karne was not aware of it; he was most astonished; he had never dreamt of such a thing. He turned round and confronted his interlocutor with a look of consternation. How on earth could such a rumour have got about?

Lady Marjorie gave vent to a rippling laugh of amusement.

“Oh, you men!” she exclaimed. “You are as blind as bats, and have no more perception than a rhinoceros! You have allowed Celia to see Geoffrey Milnes constantly, to ride with him, drive with him, and sing with him. He is a nice young fellow, and she is a beautiful girl, and yet you are surprised that they should fall in love with each other. Do you mean to say, seriously, that you have never thought of such a contingency, Mr. Karne?”

“Indeed, I have not,” he answered with contracted brows. “I am very grieved indeed, if such is the case, for nothing but trouble can come of it; but I think and hope that you are mistaken, Lady Marjorie. If I had had the faintest idea of such a thing, I should have put a stop to their intimacy long ago.”

“But why?” she asked eagerly. “He is only a country doctor, it is true, and has no brilliant prospects, but if they really love each other----”

“You forget that Celia is a Jewess,” he interposed gravely, “and that Dr. Milnes is the son of a Christian clergyman. Do you think that, much as the vicar likes Celia, he would approve of his son’s marriage with one whom he terms an unbeliever? And even should he approve, I should not do so, for I think most emphatically that mixed marriages are a mistake.”

Lady Marjorie’s blue eyes were quite troubled. “I don’t know about that,” she said musingly. “My dear husband was a Roman Catholic and I am a Protestant, yet we never had a single quarrel over religion; and he was a man with peculiar views, you know. I dare say you remember that, when he died, I had to send his heart to be buried in Jerusalem--that was just one of his religious fads, and he had many more, poor dear.” She paused a moment to raise a diminutive lace handkerchief to her eyes, and then added cheerfully, “But I let him go his way, and I went mine, and we were very happy together.”

“Yes, but in this case there is a difference of race as well as religion. Celia is not prejudiced in any way, nevertheless she would find many little things that would go against the grain, so to speak, and offend her inborn Jewish instincts. I do not think there can be perfect unity between a Christian husband and a Jewish wife, or _vice versâ_; there are bound to be certain jars for which neither is to blame.”

Lady Marjorie moved her position, so that he could not see her face.

“If you really loved a woman,” she said in a low voice, “it would not matter to you if she were a Heathen Chinee. Love knows neither nationality nor creed. Besides, Celia is not a Jewish Jewess, you know.”

“More’s the pity,” he answered, as he rose and paced the room. “I am afraid that I have not quite done my duty in allowing her to grow up without any Jewish society and influence other than my own. However, I am sending her to stay with an orthodox Jewish family in Maida Vale, where she will see more of Jewish home and social life than she has ever done before.”

He ceased speaking abruptly as the girl herself made her appearance. Her eyes were bright, and there was a slight flush on her cheeks. She sank on to a chair with an air of relief, for she had been for a long walk and was tired.

Lady Marjorie greeted her with warmth. “So you are going to leave us, naughty girl!” she said affectionately. “I hope that when you have become a second Patti, you will not forget old friends.”

Celia laughed merrily. “Oh no, I won’t forget you,” she answered lightly. “Besides, I am going to make my _début_ at your ‘At Home,’ you know.”

“Yes, that’s right. I shall be in town at the end of April, and shall quite enjoy being the first to ‘discover’ the coming singer.”

“I don’t suppose she will be allowed to sing in public for several years yet,” said Herbert, doubtfully. “There is a great deal of hard work to be gone through first.”

Celia made a little grimace. “Herbert is a dreadful damper,” she said with a pout. “I don’t believe he wants me to go.”

“Ah well, he will miss you, dear,” said Lady Marjorie, kindly. “There will be no one to look after him when you are gone.”

“He ought to get married,” suggested the girl with a smile. “A wife is just the very thing he wants. I wish you would persuade him to look out for one, Lady Marjie.”

There was an awkward pause. Herbert grew crimson and embarrassed; and Lady Marjorie bent down to stroke the dog which lay at her feet.

Celia looked from one to the other in surprise, whilst a new thought came into her mind. Had she hit upon the true reason of Lady Marjorie’s constant visits to the Towers, and her interest in Herbert’s work at the factory, she wondered? True, Lady Marjorie had professed to be very fond of her husband, but he had been much older than herself; whereas Herbert was about her own age, and they had many tastes in common.

She thought she had better change the subject, and showed her friend a jewel case which had just been given her. It contained a gold brooch, the pattern of which was two hearts entwined, with a ruby set in the apex of each.

“Who gave you this?” asked Lady Marjorie, with a significant glance at Herbert Karne. “It is very pretty.”

“Dr. Milnes gave it to me for a keepsake,” she answered frankly. “Was it not kind of him?”

“Yes, very. I suppose you will prize it highly? You like Dr. Milnes, don’t you, Celia?”

“Oh yes, Geoffrey is a nice boy,” she replied, looking at them both quite innocently. “He is a great friend of Herbert’s and mine.”