Chapter IV: Geoffrey Receives Unpalatable Advice

Herbert Karne was greatly disturbed by what Lady Marjorie had told him; and he was vexed with himself for not having foreseen the possible consequences of Dr. Milnes’ frequent visits to the Towers. Now that he came to think of it, there were several little lover-like attentions which Geoffrey had paid to his sister before his very eyes, and he had been so dense that he had never noticed them before. He attempted to find out now how far the mischief had gone, and if any understanding had taken place between the two. He scarcely cared to ask Celia outright, for if Lady Marjorie were, after all, mistaken, he did not want even to suggest to the girl that such might be the case. He could hardly bring himself to believe that Celia would think of becoming engaged without having first consulted him, for she was of an open and confiding nature, and knew quite well that her half-brother was her best and truest friend.

The next few days passed like lightning, for Celia had a great deal to do and several farewell visits to pay. She began her packing several days in advance, assisted by her bosom friend Gladys Milnes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons. Gladys hated packing unless she were going away herself, and the only service she rendered was to sit on the top of the trunks when they were full, and to relieve Celia of some of the chocolate which Herbert had brought back from Paris. Herbert came upstairs occasionally to see how they were getting on, and found the two girls in a state of great excitement. Either they were squabbling about what should be taken or left behind, or else they were giggling over something quite absurd, or else they were in tears at the thought of parting; and the ways of girls being past his understanding, he decided to leave them severely alone.

Dr. Milnes had been to Manchester for a few days, and only arrived home the day before Celia’s departure, when they met him at a little dinner-party at Durlston House, the residence of Lady Marjorie Stonor.

Celia was not in the drawing-room when he arrived, for she had gone up to say good night to Lady Marjorie’s little boy, Bobbie; but when she did make her appearance, looking very charming in a gown of the palest shade of blue, Geoffrey pounced upon her immediately, as was his wont, and, drawing her aside into a small alcove, they engaged in an animated conversation.

Herbert Karne watched them with some disapproval, for, however much he liked Dr. Milnes as a friend, he scarcely cared to regard him in the light of Celia’s lover. When dinner was over, he invited him to have a hundred up in the billiard-room before they rejoined the ladies, and Geoffrey, although a little bit surprised, readily agreed. The artist, however, had not the slightest desire for a game, and, after knocking the balls aimlessly about, put down his cue, and meditatively lit a cigar.

“I say, old man, I want to ask you a straight question,” he said; “will you give me a straight answer?”

Geoffrey Milnes looked surprised. “Certainly, if I can,” he replied, as he struck a match. “What is it? Fire away.”

“Well, it’s simply this. Have you been talking any nonsense to my sister?”

Geoffrey coloured up. “It depends on what you consider nonsense,” he replied. “Our conversations are not often of a weighty description, I admit, but----” He finished off with a shrug.

“You know what I mean,” broke in Karne, impatiently. “It has been brought to my knowledge that you have been indulging in a flirtation with Celia. I simply want to know if there is any truth in it or not?”

The young doctor looked him straight in the eyes. “There is no truth in it whatsoever,” he answered. “I hate flirtation, for it is not only in bad taste, but it is cruel also, and I never go in for it in the slightest degree. But as we are on the subject, Karne, I may as well tell you that I do love your sister very dearly--she is the one girl in the world for me; and, if all goes well, I hope, some day, to win her for my wife.”

“Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.” Herbert threw down his cigar, and leant against the mantelpiece. “Listen to me, Geoffrey. You are an old friend of mine, and I like you; I don’t know of any fellow that I like better, so I want you to take what I am going to say in good part. Celia is a pretty girl and a thoroughly good girl, but she would not be a suitable wife for you. Firstly, you are a country doctor, and, as the son of the Vicar of Durlston, you have certain social and parochial duties to fulfil, in the performance of which your wife should materially assist. Celia could not do this--she is not adapted to it; and when she has tasted professional and social life in London, I am quite sure that she will not be content to rusticate as a country doctor’s wife. There is no offence meant, Geoff, of course.”

“But I hope I shall not always be a country doctor,” interposed the young man, quickly. “I am not without ambition, Karne, and I mean to try and work myself up to the top of my profession. Besides, as you know, my uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, practises in Harley Street. He is getting old now, and has given me every reason to believe that I shall step into his shoes when he finds that his energies are flagging. I should not dream of asking Celia to become my wife until my position was assured.”

“I suppose you know that Celia will inherit a considerable fortune at her father’s death?” asked Herbert, as he watched the other’s face keenly. “Bernie Franks is one of the richest men at the Cape, and that is saying a good deal.”

Geoffrey’s countenance lengthened, and he puffed away vigorously at his cigar.

“I did not know of it, or if I did know it I had forgotten,” he said gloomily. “Of course that makes it harder for me. With wealth as well as beauty and talent, Celia can wed some one in a much higher position than I can ever hope to attain. This is your chief objection, I suppose, Karne? It was kind of you not to tell it me in so many words.”

Herbert ignored the last remark. “Another thing,” he pursued earnestly, “Celia is a true Jewess by faith as well as by race, and you are, so far as I know, a devout and earnest Christian. I contend that there cannot be absolute unity ’twixt husband and wife when difference of religious opinions exists between them. Of course you might endeavour to convert Celia to your own faith, but I do not think you would succeed. We Jews have deeply rooted opinions--call them prejudices if you will,--and we instinctively cling to the faith of our ancestors. However lax we may be in the performance of our religious duties, we like to remember that, in spite of everything that tends to draw us away from Judaism, we still are Jews, and we set our faces hard against any attempt at our conversion.”

“You may be sure that I should respect Celia’s religious beliefs, and I should certainly not try to convince her otherwise against her will,” responded Geoffrey. “I believe that conversion should be voluntary; it is seldom sincere and lasting when brought about by coercion or persuasion. And as for wishing Celia to become a Christian from motives of expediency, you ought to know me better than that, Karne.”

He paused. From the drawing-room there arose the sound of sweet music. His sister Gladys was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat, and although her rendering of it was not at all Chopinesque, and her technique faulty, her playing was not without charm. They listened in silence until the last note died away, and each was busy with his own thoughts.

“Are you sure that Celia reciprocates your feelings of affection?” asked the artist, suddenly. “I know that she likes you very much indeed, but I doubt whether she has ever considered you as a possible lover.”

“That I don’t know,” said Geoffrey, with a sigh. “I wanted to find out before she went away.”

“Well, the best advice I can give you is to wait a while. You are both young, and have your lives before you. If you spoke to Celia now, you would unsettle her mind, and perhaps cause her pain. I want her to start out on her musical career without anything to worry her, so that she may give her whole attention to her studies. It will be much better for both of you to wait a few years. When Celia has met more people and has seen a little more of the world, she will be better able to judge whether she loves you or not; and, you know, love that will not stand the test of time and separation is not real love at all.”

“Yes, that’s all very well; but if I let Celia go without a word, she may think that I am indifferent to her. I feel that if I do not come to some understanding with her now, while her heart is free and she is unspoilt by flattery and adulation, I may lose her for ever. You speak so coolly, Karne. Have _you_ never had a love-affair of your own? Cannot you understand how I feel?”

He spoke impetuously, and did not stop to think that his question was, perhaps, a presumptuous one. Although they had been friends for so long a time, Herbert had never been confidential so for as his _affaires du cœur_ were concerned, and love was a subject he had hitherto tabooed. Yet to his nature love was a necessary adjunct, and without it his life would have been incomplete.

“My love affair was a fiasco,” he said slowly, while his face assumed a hard expression. “It is a painful subject to me, Geoffrey, and that is why I have never spoken about it. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you all, but not now. I am paying the penalty of it even yet; and therefore I am doubly anxious that Celia’s happiness should be assured. It is much better, so much better, to wait a few short years, than to make a lifelong mistake such as mine has been.”

Geoffrey Milnes was surprised and moved; and his face lit up with ready sympathy. He knew that there was some secret at the back of Herbert Karne’s life, some trouble that was continually weighing him down: and though he would have been glad to have found out what it was, so that, if possible, he might have helped his friend, he had the tact not to press for his confidence just then, but to wait until it was voluntarily given.

The drawing-room door was opened, and they heard the hum of voices on the stairs. Celia’s silvery laugh floated towards them; she was coming up to search for the deserters.

“Well, I will take your advice and say nothing to Celia at present,” Geoffrey said hurriedly, as he handled his cue and sent the balls rolling over the table. “But I am in earnest, Karne, and I shall remind you of this at some future time.”

The door was opened sharply, and Gladys Milnes entered with a bounce.

“There they are, the truants!” she exclaimed, as Celia followed more leisurely. “We all think it extremely rude of you to desert us in this unchivalrous manner. Lady Marjorie wants you to come and hear Miss Stannard recite. It’s something very tragic, so Celia and I thought we had better take our leave in case we were overcome with our emotions. The last time we heard her recite, we exploded in the middle of it, and she hasn’t forgiven us yet. Father said it was very bad manners, but we couldn’t help it, for Miss Stannard’s tragic recitations are too funny for anything. Come on, Geoff, you can sit just inside the drawing-room near the door, and Celia and I will stand outside and pull faces at you. I bet you anything we’ll make you laugh, especially when Miss Stannard comes to the part about the ‘ruddy gore,’ and the ‘br-r-reaking hear-r-rt.’ Won’t we, Celia?”

“Don’t be so silly, Gladys,” admonished her brother severely; “you get more babyish every day.”

He switched off the electric light, and they passed down the shallow staircase.

Miss Stannard had already begun her recitation, and, not wishing to disturb her, they lingered in the hall. Celia seated herself on the stairs with her feet resting on the lowest step, and, as a natural consequence, Geoffrey followed suit. He rested his chin on his hands, and heaved a deep sigh. It seemed so very hard to have to part with Celia without having told her of what was in his heart, when perhaps some other fellow in London would snap her up before she had time to look round. He had half a mind to tell her everything there and then, in spite of what Herbert had said, but he managed to restrain his desire, and contented himself with looking very forlorn instead.

Celia glanced at him curiously. “Whatever is the matter with you, Geoffrey?” she whispered. “You are sighing like some love-sick swain.”

“Supposing I were a love-sick swain,” he answered, with a faint attempt at a smile; “what would you advise me to do?”

“I scarcely know,” she returned without embarrassment. “But I will give you an antidote which Major Denham told me. It is to go and see your best girl before breakfast one morning when she does not expect you, and her hair is in curl-papers, and she is wearing a dowdy blouse. Major Denham says that a little touch of prosaic realism like that is the best thing to counteract the effect of romantic sentiment. He has found it a most efficient cure himself.”

“Yes, but if my best girl never wears curl-papers or a dowdy blouse, what then?”

Celia rose to join the others in the drawing-room. “In that case I’m afraid I cannot advise you,” she said, with a roguish glance from under her long lashes. “But if you consult Major Denham, perhaps he will be able to tell you what to do.”