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Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

1. Which of the following statements is a correct definition for a Brønsted-Lowry acid?

A) Proton acceptor C) Electron pair acceptor B) Electron pair donor D)
Proton donor

2. Which of the following statements about a Brønsted-Lowry base is true?

A) The net charge may be zero, positive, or negative.
B) All Brønsted-Lowry bases contain a lone pair of electrons or a bond.
C) All Brønsted-Lowry bases contain a proton.
D) The net charge may be zero or positive.

3. Which of the following compounds is both a Brønsted-Lowry acid and base?

A) I, II B) I, III C) II, IV D) I, IV

4. Which of the following species cannot act as both a Brønsted-Lowry acid and base?
A) HCO3- B) HSO4- C) HO- D) H2PO4-
5. Which of the following species is not a Brønsted-Lowry base?
A) BF3 B) NH3 C) H2O D) PO43-
6. Which of the following statements about Brønsted-Lowry acids and bases is true?
A) Loss of a proton from a base forms its conjugate acid.
B) Loss of a proton from an acid forms its conjugate base.
C) Gain of a proton by an acid forms its conjugate base.
D) Brønsted-Lowry acid-base reactions always result in the transfer of a proton from a
base to an acid.

7. Which of the following species is the conjugate base of methanol, CH3OH?

A) CH3OH2+ B) CH3O- C) CH3- D) CH4

8. Which of the following species is the conjugate base of the hydronium ion, H3O+?
A) H3O B) H2O- C) H2O D) HO-
9. Which of the following species is the conjugate acid of ammonia, NH3?
A) H4N B) H3N+ C) H2N- D) H4N+

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 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

10. Which is the conjugate acid in the following reaction?

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

11. Which is the conjugate base in the following reaction?

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

12. Which is the conjugate acid in the following reaction?

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

13. Which is the conjugate base in the following reaction?

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

14. Which of the following statements about acid strength is true?

A) The stronger the acid, the further the equilibrium lies to the left.
B) The stronger the acid, the smaller the Ka.
C) The stronger the acid, the larger the pKa.
D) The stronger the acid, the smaller the pKa.

15. Which of the following compounds is the strongest acid?

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

16. Which of the following compounds is the strongest acid?

A) CH3OH B) BrCH2OH C) CH3NH2 D) CH3Cl

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 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

17. Which of the following compounds is the weakest acid?

A) HF B) HCl C) HBr D) HI

18. Which of the following compounds is the weakest acid?

A) H2S B) PH3 C) HCl D) SiH4

19. Which of the following species is the strongest base?

A) HO- B) H2N- C) CH3COO- D) Cl-

20. Which of the following ranks the compounds in order of increasing basicity, putting
the least basic first?
A) CH3NH2 < CH3OH < CH4 C) CH4 < CH3NH2 < CH3OH
B) CH3OH < CH3NH2 < CH4 D) CH4 < CH3OH < CH3NH2

21. Consider the following molecule with protons labeled, I-III. Rank these protons in
order of decreasing acidity, putting the most acidic first.

A) I>II>III B) I>III>II C) III>II>I D) III>I>II

22. Rank the following compounds in order of increasing acidity, putting the least acidic
first.

A) III<I<IV<II C) II<I<IV<III
B) III<IV<I<II D) III<I<II<IV

23. Rank the following compounds in order of increasing acidity, putting the least acidic
first.

A) I<IV<III<II C) II<III<IV<I
B) I<III<IV<II D) II<IV<III<I

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 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

24. Rank the following compounds in order of decreasing acidity, putting the most
acidic first.

A) IV>II>III>I C) I>II>IV>III
B) III>II>IV>I D) III>IV>II>I

25. Rank the following compounds in order of decreasing acidity, putting the most
acidic first.

A) IV>II>III>I C) III>IV>II>I
B) IV>III>II>I D) III>IV>I>II

26. Rank the following conjugate bases in order of increasing basicity, putting the
least basic first.

A) II<I<III B) II<III<I C) I<II<III D) I<III<II

27. Rank the following conjugate bases in order of decreasing basicity, putting the
most basic first.

A) II>I>III B) I>II>III C) III>I>II D) III>II>I

28. Which of the following is the strongest base?

A) CH3COCH3 B) CH3COOH C) NH3 D) H2O

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 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

29. What is the direction of equilibrium when acetylene (C2H2) reacts with H2N- in an
acid-base reaction?

A) Left B) Right C) Neither D) Cannot be determined

30. What is the direction of equilibrium when acetylene (C2H2) reacts with ethoxide
(CH3CH2O-) in an acid-base reaction?

A) Left B) Right C) Neither D) Cannot be determined

31. Which of the following statements explain why H2O is a stronger acid than CH4?
A) H2O can form hydrogen bonds while CH4 cannot.
B) H2O forms a less stable conjugate base, HO-.
C) CH4 forms a more stable conjugate base, CH3-.
D) H2O forms a more stable conjugate base, HO-.
32. Which of the following statements explain why HBr is a stronger acid than HF?
A) Br- is more stable than F- because Br- is larger than F-.
B) Br- is less stable than F- because Br- is larger than F-.
C) Br- is more stable than F- because Br- is less electronegative than F-.
D) Br- is less stable than F- because Br- is less electronegative than F-.
33. Which of the following compounds has the lowest pKa?
A) H2O B) H2S C) NH3 D) CH4

34. Which of the following concepts can be used to explain the difference in
acidity between acetic acid (CH3COOH) and ethanol (CH3CH2OH)?
A) Hybridization B) Electronegativity C) Resonance D) Size

35. Which of the following concepts can be used to explain the difference in
acidity between acetylene (C2H2) and ethylene (C2H4)?
A) Size B) Resonance C) Inductive effect D) Hybridization

36. Which of the following concepts can be used to explain the difference in
acidity between ethanol (CH3CH2OH) and 2-fluoroethanol (FCH2CH2OH)?
A) Size B) Inductive effect C) Resonance D) Hybridization

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 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

37. Rank the following compounds in order of decreasing acidity, putting the most
acidic first.

A) I>II>III B) III>II>I C) II>III>I D) III>I>II

38. Which of the following statements about Lewis acids is true?

A) Lewis acids are proton donors.
B) Lewis acids are proton acceptors.
C) Lewis acids are electron pair donors.
D) Lewis acids are electron pair acceptors.

39. Which of the following statements about Lewis bases is true?

A) Lewis bases are electron pair acceptors.
B) Lewis bases are electron pair donors.
C) Lewis bases are proton donors.
D) Lewis bases are proton acceptors.

40. Which of the following is a Lewis acid but not a Brønsted-Lowry acid?
A) CH3OH B) H2O C) CH3COOH D) BF3

41. Which of the following species can be both Lewis acid and Lewis base?

A) I, III, IV B) I, II, IV C) II, III, IV D) I, II, III

42. What is the correct classification of the following compound?

CH3-O-CH3
A) Brønsted-Lowry acid and Lewis acid. C) Brønsted-Lowry base.
B) Brønsted-Lowry base and Lewis base. D) Lewis base.

43. Identify the Lewis acid in the following reaction.

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

Page 6
 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

44. Identify the Lewis base in the following reaction.

A) I B) II C) III D) IV

45. Which of the following compounds is not a Lewis acid?

A) AlCl3 B) HCl C) H2O D) CBr4

46. What is the role of methylchloride (CH3Cl) in the following reaction?

A) Lewis acid C) Brønsted-Lowry acid

B) Lewis base D) Brønsted-Lowry base

47. What is the electrophilic site in the following compounds?

A) I = Carbon; II = carbon; III = boron. C) I = Carbon; II = oxygen; III = boron.

B) I = Chlorine; II = carbon; III = boron. D) I = Carbon; II = carbon; III = fluorine.

48. What is the nucleophilic site in the following compounds?

A) I = Hydrogen; II = electrons in bond; III = nitrogen.

B) I = Oxygen; II = carbon; III = nitrogen.
C) I = Hydrogen; II = carbon; III = carbon.
D) I = Oxygen; II = electrons in bond; III = nitrogen.

Page 7
 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

Answer Key
1. D
2. B
3. B
4. C
5. A
6. B
7. B
8. C
9. D
10. C
11. D
12. D
13. C
14. D
15. D
16. B
17. A
18. D
19. B
20. D
21. C
22. B
23. A
24. D
25. B
26. A
27. C
28. C
29. B
30. A
31. D
32. A
33. B
34. C
35. D
36. B
37. D
38. D
39. B
40. D
41. A
42. B
43. B
44. A

Page 8
 Chapter 2: Acids and Bases

45. D
46. B
47. A
48. D

Page 9
Another random document with
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dexterously manipulated the cards. Celia thought they made too much of a
business of the game, for large sums of money changed hands during the
course of the evening; and she could not help noticing the evident
satisfaction of the winners, and the disagreeable expressions of the losers,
although to some of them it seemed a matter of indifference whether they
won or lost. A breathless silence reigned whilst each round was being
played, only to be followed by a noisy passage-at-arms between two or
more of the players as soon as it was over.
Mrs. Friedberg was constantly in trouble, for she was so busily engaged
in gleaning the latest bits of gossip from her friends, that she was not able to
give her undivided attention to the game. On one occasion she revoked, just
when her dearest friend Mrs. Solomon had gone a misere. The lady resented
it, and told her she ought to be more careful, whereupon Mrs. Friedberg’s
ire was aroused, and she began to be personal. An unpleasant quarrel
seemed imminent, until David Salmon threatened to leave the table if they
did not amicably settle the dispute.
Celia looked on in silent disapproval. The constant chink of the money
seemed to get on her nerves, and she found that the play made her fiancé
irritable. She was not sorry when Adeline asked her to sing, and the cards
were thrown down for a time. A general move was made to the drawing-
room, where a number of young people, led by Dinah Friedberg, were
amusing themselves in a somewhat noisy manner.
David took Celia’s arm with an air of proud possession. Her fair and
delicate loveliness formed a striking contrast to the pronounced features and
olive complexions which constituted the predominant type of beauty
present.
Mike Rosen vociferously sounded the gong—not for supper, but in order
to command silence. Then he asked Celia what she was going to sing.
“I will tell you what I should like to hear, and that’s ‘Jerusalem,’ ” he
said. “I heard a man play it on the cornet the other day; it was grand. I went
at once and bought the music for Adeline.”
“He means the ‘Holy City,’ ” explained his wife. “Mike likes anything
with a good swing about it.”
She found the music, which happened to be in the right key, and Lottie
played the accompaniment. Celia considered the song unsuited to a Jewish
audience, but she sang it with appropriate feeling, nevertheless, and no one
appeared to realize that the words were quite contrary to Jewish belief.
They made her sing the last verse over again, some of them lustily joining
in the chorus.
Mike Rosen was delighted. “It quite makes me want to go to Jerusalem,”
he said. “David, give me another brandy and soda on the strength of it.”
“Well, why don’t you join the Zionists?” said Lottie’s husband,
facetiously. “I believe they are on the look-out for people who want to go
there.”
“I do belong to the Zionists,” returned Mike, promptly. “Didn’t I
subscribe fifty pounds to the trust only last week?”
“Did you, indeed? Then I suppose you have already engaged a Pullman-
car to take you to Palestine. When do you start? We will all come and give
you a hearty send-off.”
A general titter of amusement went round the room. Mike chuckled
good-humouredly.
“Ah, that’s a different thing,” he said. “I will gladly pay to send the poor
Yidden[13] there, but as for going myself, I think I would rather wait until
they’ve got the electric light, the telephone, and the ‘tuppeny tube’ before I
go, thank you. There is no Fitzjohn’s Avenue in Jerusalem. I wouldn’t mind
going there on a visit, though. Don’t we say, ‘next year at Jerusalem?’ ”
“We don’t always say what we mean,” answered his wife. “Be quiet,
Mike, Celia is going to give us another song.”
Mr. Rosen obediently remained silent, and Celia proceeded to charm her
audience once more with her full, sweet voice. She sang entirely without
affectation of manner, and the natural ease with which the tuneful notes
issued forth from her slender throat elicited surprise and admiration.
The song concluded, supper was announced. Mike Rosen gave his arm
to Celia, and called her “little Tommy Tucker,” because she had sung for
her supper. He considered that very funny, and felt somewhat aggrieved that
no one else appreciated his wit. With great dignity he took her into the
dining-room, and gave her the place of honour at his right hand.
On her left sat David Salmon, with Dinah Friedberg as his partner. Dinah
had grown into a very stylish girl, with plenty of what her mother called
chein.[14] She had lovely dark eyes, which she used as a kind of battery to
enforce the homage of the opposite sex, and was not averse to boasting of
the conquests she had made. She snubbed David unmercifully, and teased
him with a pertness of manner which put him on his mettle, but she was
very fond of him all the same; and, although she would not have confessed
it, was terribly jealous of his fiancée.
As the meal progressed, her flippancy increased, and she insisted on
drinking his health in champagne. Then when order was called for the Rev.
Isaac Abrahams to say grace, she made a dunce’s-cap out of her serviette,
and stuck it on David’s head. This proceeding quite shocked Celia; but she
found to her surprise that many of the young men followed suit. They were
obliged to cover their heads while grace was being said; and as serviettes
met the needs of the case, they did not trouble to fetch their hats. The Rev.
Mr. Abrahams, who wore a black silk cap, smiled at them indulgently as he
chanted the long Hebrew prayers. He evidently saw no irreverence in
adorning one’s head like a guy in order to praise one’s Maker, although to
Celia’s way of thinking it was little less than an insult to the majesty of
God. The young people, however, seemed to consider it a good joke, for it
created a diversion, and lightened the tedium of the grace.
In talking over the events of the evening on the drive back to Great
Cumberland Place, Celia commented on the incident, and expressed her
disapproval.
David was greatly amused. “What a curious girl you are!” he said. “I
wonder what makes you notice these things? You always seem to be
picking Jewish habits and customs to pieces. You take everything so
seriously, Celia. A little incident like this isn’t worth talking about; it is
such a trifling thing.”
It was indeed a trifling thing, but a straw shows how the wind lays; and
it was just those trifling things which filled Celia with disgust, and ratified
her opinion of the lack of spirituality in modern Judaism.
However, it was of no use to discuss the question with David; he would
not, or could not, understand.

CHAPTER IV

A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA

“David is growing impatient,” Celia said the next morning, after breakfast.
“He thinks we have been engaged long enough, and wants me to name the
day.”
“I am not surprised at that,” returned Lady Marjorie, looking up from her
work. “What are you going to do?”
That was just what Celia did not know. She sighed heavily, and remained
lost in thought. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, for she had lain
awake all night in uneasy deliberation of the question. Souvie jumped on
her knee and demanded her attention; he never allowed his mistress to leave
him unnoticed if she happened to have any spare time on her hands.
Lady Marjorie was artistically arranging some flowers in a bowl. She
looked just as nice in her morning blouse as she did in a Parisian toilette.
When she had finished, she came over to the couch where Celia was sitting.
“Girlie,” she said, “I want to talk to you seriously.”
Celia looked up in surprise.
“I have been watching you for the past few months, and I don’t quite
know what to make of you. When you became engaged to David Salmon, I
supposed it was because you were in love with him; but it seems to me now
that you are not quite happy in your engagement. Now listen, Celia. Either
you mean to marry him, or you do not. If you do, why have you this
unnatural desire for procrastination? I consider, honestly speaking, that you
have kept him waiting an unreasonable length of time. If, on the other hand,
you do not intend to marry him, the sooner you break off the engagement
the better, both for his sake and your own. Perhaps, during your long
courtship, you have found out that he and you are not so suited to each
other as you thought you were, and yet you do not like to hurt his feelings
by telling him so? You long for freedom, but you are reluctant to strike the
blow that will set you free. Girlie, darling, tell me the truth as it is in your
heart. Am I right?”
She sank on to the couch, and looked into the girl’s face with a tender
solicitude in her kindly blue eyes.
Celia’s heart gave a leap. How exactly had her chaperon diagnosed the
case, and how she despised herself that it should be so! The blood rushed to
her cheeks, as, hiding her face in Souvie’s silky coat, she murmured, so low
that it could scarcely be heard, the single monosyllable, “Yes!”
 Lady Marjorie did not exhibit surprise. She had guessed as much for
some time. But she thought, and did not hesitate to say, that Celia had done
very wrong in allowing the engagement to continue, when on her part she
did not intend it to terminate in marriage. She came to the conclusion that
the girl had not possessed the courage to face the question out; she had
always put away the thought of her marriage with David as a disagreeable
necessity of the future; she had dissembled with her own conscience.
In this she was right. Celia had given way to weakness, but she had not
intentionally done wrong; and when the matter was threshed out, as Lady
Marjorie was threshing it out now, she saw the magnitude of the injury she
had done to her fiancé.
One thing was certain: there must be no more equivocation.
“You will have to give David his congé as nicely as you can,” her
chaperon said when it was all explained. “It will be a painful interview, of
course; but it will have to be gone through, and the sooner you get it over
the better.”
But Celia had decided otherwise. It became evident to her that, having
plighted her troth, she was bound to abide by it. If she had acted foolishly in
becoming engaged before she knew her own mind, she must be ready to
pay for her folly. How could she, who almost prided herself on her fidelity
and stability of character, allow herself to be accused of inconstancy,
classed as a fickle coquette? Her cheeks tingled at the very thought.
“There will be no painful interview,” she replied, in a firm low voice. “I
shall marry him before the year is out.”
“You will, after what you have admitted!” Lady Marjorie was genuinely
astonished now.
“Yes, I will. I must! What would he think of me if I jilted him now, after
three years? What would his friends say? Would they not have reason to
condemn me? Oh, I couldn’t do it. I should never be able to hold up my
head again.”
It was a difficult predicament. Lady Marjorie acknowledged that, from
David Salmon’s point of view, Celia’s conduct would be looked upon as
reprehensible; but, on the other hand, she did not consider that the girl was
justified in making an unhappy marriage for the sake of saving some
immediate unpleasantness. Secretly she thought that he was not worth the
sacrifice; she had never been very favourably impressed with him from the
first.
“I am sure it will be better for you to tell Mr. Salmon the truth now,
before the irrevocable step has been taken,” she said, after a pause. “It will
be unpleasant, I admit, especially if he is reluctant to release you from your
promise; but it will blow over after a little while, and at least you will be
free. Just think what a loveless marriage means: an uncongenial husband, an
unhappy home. And, perhaps, when it is too late, you may come across a
man whom you could really love. How would you feel then? Dear child, do
consider well before you lay up for yourself a store of unhappiness which
will last until your life’s end.”
But Celia’s determination remained unshaken. She would be true to her
promise, and she would try not to be unhappy over it either. It seemed to her
that the majority of Jewish alliances were marriages of convenience,
contracted without much thought of love, yet the consequences were, as a
rule, quite satisfactory. Adeline, for instance, had admitted to her in
confidence that when she married Mike Rosen she had not cared for him in
the least, but love had come in time; and now they were devoted to each
other, and to their baby boy.
If Celia did not exactly love David Salmon, she possessed no feelings of
animosity towards him; and, being a sensible girl, she would do her best to
make him a good and dutiful wife. She felt relieved when she had thus
settled the matter in her mind; but her tranquillity was again disturbed when
the midday post brought her a letter which had been forwarded from
Durlston, bearing the Sydney postmark.
Lady Marjorie, catching sight of the stamp, and Celia’s sudden blush,
drew her own conclusions.
“You had forgotten him, girlie, hadn’t you?” she queried softly.
Celia slit the envelope. “No,” she replied; “but I thought he had forgotten
me.”
It was a letter of congratulation. Dr. Milnes had read of her début in
Paris, and could not resist writing to tell her of the pleasure the account of it
had given him. About himself he said very little. He and his partner were
rapidly increasing their practice, and had got on as well as they could have
hoped. He was on the brink of some new discovery in connection with the
prevention of tuberculosis. When it was made, he would probably come to
Europe, first to Vienna, then to England. He liked Colonial life, but would
be glad to see the mother-country once again. Meanwhile, he sent his kind
regards, and remained, “Sincerely yours, Geoffrey H. Milnes.”
The girl passed the letter over for Lady Marjorie’s perusal; there was
nothing in it that all the world might not read.
It was the first communication, with the exception of birthday and
Christmas cards, that she had received from him since he went away. The
sight of it brought back old associations, memories so tender as to be almost
akin to pain. Geoffrey’s honest face rose up before her mental vision; his
strong young voice almost sounded in her ears; his delightful
companionship was brought back to her remembrance. She rested her chin
on her hand, and lost herself in a dream of long ago. The pleasant rides and
drives they had enjoyed together, the hot-headed discussions, the musical
confabulations; with what force they all recurred to her just when she was
most anxious to forget.
Why does everything change so, she wondered, half rebelliously? Why
do all the sweet things of life pass away so soon to leave only bitterness
behind? Why is there so much misunderstanding in the world; so much
unhappiness brought about by cruel circumstance, so much heartache which
could be avoided if we were all absolutely candid and truthful in our
relations one towards another? Here was yet another side to that eternal
question, Why?
Lady Marjorie’s voice recalled her to the present once more.
“Poor old Geoff!” she exclaimed, replacing the letter in the envelope. “I
am glad he is getting on so well. I used to think that he and you——” she
paused. “Ah, well, never mind; I suppose I was mistaken after all. It is so
easy to make mistakes, isn’t it? Shall you send Geoffrey an invitation to
your wedding?”
She did not mean to be unkind; but Celia felt as if she had received a
sharp blow. Yet how foolish it was to be so sensitive.
“I shall certainly send him an invitation if he happens to be in England,”
she answered quietly; and there the matter dropped.
When she saw David, a few days later, Celia told him that she was
willing to be married before the close of the year. She was very quiet, very
submissive: and when he proposed, that if all were propitious, the wedding
should take place on her birthday, December 15th, she assented without a
protest.
In the meantime she had accepted an invitation to spend the month of
August with the Wiltons at Woodruffe, their place near Brighton. Enid had
left the Academy some time ago to blossom forth as a professor of music at
Hove; but although Celia had not seen her for nearly eighteen months, she
still kept in touch with her by means of a regular correspondence. The Rev.
Ralph Wilton had resigned his curacy at Hoxton—after having seen his
parochial affairs greatly improved as the result of Celia’s munificence—to
be promoted to a living in a quiet midland town; but he too would be at
Woodruffe for his holiday in August, and Celia looked forward to meeting
him there.
She would have to return to town in the autumn to attend the rehearsals
of “The Voice of the Charmer,” which was to be produced at the beginning
of November. Guy Haviland had found it no easy matter to coax Karne into
giving his consent, for Herbert possessed some decided views anent the
stage; but in the end he managed to overrule all his numerous objections,
and returned to London in triumph and great glee.
Lady Marjorie received the news with dubious satisfaction. She was not
enamoured of the theatrical life.
“Don’t let it spoil our girlie, will you, Haviland?” she said, when he had
acquainted her with the details of his plans. “She is so sweet and unaffected
as she is; it would be such a pity if she became imbued with the artificiality
of the stage.”
Haviland assured her that she need have no fear.
“I am just as anxious for the welfare of your girlie, as you call her, as
yourself,” he replied. “I will guard her as rigorously as any old duenna.”
And knowing that he would be as good as his word, Lady Marjorie was
content.

CHAPTER V

THE WILTONS OF WOODRUFFE

Woodruffe was an old-fashioned country house, standing in a little valley
of its own formation, and thus protected from the high winds which came
from the sea. It affected the Gothic style of architecture, with long windows
which opened outwards, and a porch like that of a church. From the front an
extensive view of cliffs and ocean was obtained, while from the back one
could gaze on miles of verdant meadowland.
When Celia pulled up her blind the first morning after her arrival, it
seemed as though she were miles away from civilization. There was not a
vestige of anything human to be seen, yet she knew that less than an hour’s
walk would take her into busy Brighton. With a sigh of enjoyment she
threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh morning air: the fragrance of
flowers, the faint scent of hay, the strong salt breeze: how different from the
stifling heat of crowded London.
She had been thoroughly satiated with society during the waning days of
the “season,” tired of being dressed up like a doll to attend Lady
Somebody’s “crush:” of talking inanities to society worldlings, and of being
patronized by great ladies on account of her voice.
Lady Marjorie, noticing her pale cheeks and weary languor, had been
very wishful to take her with her to the Highlands, where she might breathe
the mountain air; but Celia would not be prevailed upon to postpone her
visit to Woodruffe, even though she would miss seeing her brother, who
was also due at Lord Bexley’s shooting-box before the important twelfth.
She had a vague feeling, almost a presentiment, that her visit to
Woodruffe would be fraught with importance; that it was one of those
opportunities which, if once missed, can never be recalled. She had been
invited by Enid on several occasions, but something had always occurred to
prevent her from accepting the invitation, so she was quite determined that
nothing should stand in the way this time. She never had reason to regret
her decision, for in after years she regarded that month at Woodruffe as the
turning-point of her life.
The Wiltons were a large family, with fresh complexions, high spirits,
and healthy appetites. It took Celia some little time to distinguish one from
the other, for there was a strong family likeness between them, especially
amongst the elder ones. She had scarcely recognized Ralph when he met
her at the station, for instead of being attired, as she had always seen him, in
the garb of a London curate, he wore a straw hat and flannels, and his face
and hands were almost as brown as a gipsy’s.
Ralph was the “big brother” of the family, and Celia soon discovered
that he was prime favourite at Woodruffe. The girls danced attendance on
him, and vied with each other in anticipating his wishes; the boys envied his
splendid physique, and made him director of their sports. He was what they
called “game for anything,” so full of activity, so humorous in his ways;
yet, knowing what he had so nobly endured in that poverty-stricken East
End parish, Celia could discern the deep earnestness which lay behind the
apparently gay exterior.
At breakfast the first morning he introduced her to all the members of
the family, for she had arrived late the previous evening, and had only seen
Enid and himself. There were his parents, who gave her a kindly welcome;
Cynthia, the eldest girl, who was engaged to be married; Claude the dandy,
who was at a susceptible age, and fell in love with her at first sight; Jack,
full of bluster and bounce, with a sharp tongue and tender heart; Eric, who
was the leading treble in their church choir; and the two little girls, Irene
and Doris, who were twins.
“What a crew!” exclaimed Claude, when Celia had shaken hands with
them all. “But it is holiday-time; we are not always at home, you know.
Parson Ralph lives away, Jack goes to Harrow—which is a mercy, for he is
a noisy little beggar,—and I go to dad’s London office from Monday till
Friday. You are not used to the ways of a large family, are you, Miss
Franks?”
“Oh yes,” Enid answered for her. “Celia has stayed with the people next
door to Uncle Brooke’s—the Friedbergs; and I think that their boys, Montie
and Victor, are even worse than ours.”
“Which is saying a good deal,” put in Cynthia, with a smile. “Still I hope
they will not annoy our guest in any way. Eric is as good as gold when Jack
is away at school.”
The two boys stared at Celia somewhat awkwardly at first, and the little
girls were very shy, but before the day was out she had made friends with
them all. They admired her beauty; and she had such an ingratiating manner
that each one of them fell captive to her charms. Even Jack, who possessed
an avowed aversion to the generality of girls, pronounced her “ripping.”
 She fell into their ways as easily as if she had been accustomed to them
for years. A greater difference to her life in town could not be imagined; but
she thoroughly enjoyed the change, and the colour returned to her cheeks.
Up at seven every morning for an early bathe with Cynthia and Enid, she
spent the rest of the day driving, boating, or engaging in field-sports with
the boys. An enjoyable musical evening, to which all the elder members of
the family contributed, usually terminated the day. Celia sang her prettiest
songs; it was quite a pleasure to sing to such an appreciative little audience.
The high spirits and good humour of the Wiltons were contagious; she
found herself becoming quite an adept at witty repartee. One thing she
noticed: there was never a jarring note in their innocent fun. If any
disagreement arose between the boys, it only needed a word from one of the
elders to quell it in an instant. Unlike the Friedbergs, they were obedient to
authority. In spite of their mischievous proclivities, Jack and Eric could
always be prevailed upon to do what was right, not by threats of
punishment or parental wrath—as had been the case with Montie and Victor
—but simply for right’s own sake.
There was something about the whole family—a kind of high moral
tone, as it were—which had been entirely lacking among the Friedbergs.
Celia could not explain it, but she felt its force. There was a reason for it,
however; it was the result of their early training. From their tenderest years
they had all been taught to submit to a very high standard of right and
wrong, in order to bring their lives into harmony with a life which was, to
them, the very acme of perfection—a Divine Life which had been lived just
nineteen hundred years ago. It was this which dispelled selfishness, and
made them amenable to discipline; which gave them noble ideals, and
imbued them with the love of all that was good. Their evident spirituality
made a deep impression on Celia: she wanted to find out the reason of it;
once again she began to think.
One morning, when the girls were promenading on the West pier, they
passed a lady whose face was familiar to Celia, though she could not
remember for the moment where she had seen her before. The lady smiled,
and looked as if she wished to stop and speak; but Celia, not being sure of
her identity, passed on. Presently she recollected that she had met her at two
or three social functions, and had been introduced to her by Lord Bexley at
Richmond.
 By the band-stand they met her again, and this time she advanced
towards Celia with outstretched hand.
“You remember me, don’t you, Miss Franks?” she said with a fascinating
smile. “Mrs. Neville Williams, you know. I had the pleasure of hearing you
sing so charmingly at Richmond. It is quite delightful to meet somebody
one knows here. Brighton in August is so full of trippers and rich Jews——
Oh, I beg your pardon,” as Celia reddened. “I quite forgot. You are staying
with friends?” with a glance at the Wiltons. “Is your brother here also?”
“No, he is in Scotland,” replied Celia, when she had introduced the girls.
She wondered what made her ask after him, for to her knowledge the two
had never met. “Do you know him?” she added as an afterthought.
“Just slightly. I met him some years ago, before he made his reputation
as an artist. I do not think he would remember me. He is married, I
suppose?”
She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light
flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an
enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her face.
The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they
listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held out
her hand.
“Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave;
I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;” and
with another sweet smile she moved away.
Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like about
Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their seats. “I
fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie positively detests
her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look
at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.”
They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a
gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time.
Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not
desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a dislike
to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust of Mrs.
Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.
 There was a letter from Lady Marjorie waiting for her when she got back
to Woodruffe. She was enjoying herself immensely, and Herbert was having
good sport. Celia was surprised at the familiar way in which she wrote of
him. The letter was full of “Herbert;” he was no longer “Mr. Karne.” Were
they going to make a match of it after all, the girl wondered? She, for one,
would be delighted if they did.
There was also a letter from David Salmon, who was spending his
holidays in the Isle of Man. He would probably run down to Brighton
before the end of the month; and he hoped Celia was having a good time.
Celia read the letter twice, and then absent-mindedly tore it up into little
bits. Cynthia Wilton watched her in surprise.
“You naughty girl!” she exclaimed. “Is that what you do with your love-
letters? What would your fiancé say? Look, this is where I keep my
sweetheart’s letters.” She pulled one out from the inside of her blouse. “Just
over my heart, you see.”
“I don’t know that I have a heart,” Celia answered, half playfully, half in
earnest.
Then she sighed.

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.
 CHAPTER VII

WHITE HEATHER

“I believe I must be losing my youth, Janet,” Lady Marjorie said half

seriously. “This is the third grey hair I have found this week.”
She took up a silver-mounted hand-glass from the dressing-table and
surveyed herself critically. The suspicion of a wrinkle lined her forehead;
but her mouth was still as mobile, and her eyes as bright as ever they had
been. The old servant carefully removed the offending hair, and went on
arranging her mistress’s tresses. She had nursed Lady Marjorie as a baby, as
well as Lady Marjorie’s boy, and knew the Bexley family almost as well as
her own.
“Losing your youth indeed!” she exclaimed, inserting the last hairpin in
its place. “Why, you are not nearly thirty yet, my lady, and as young-
looking as can be.”
“Am I?” The young widow smiled. “I feel young, it is true; but I am
twenty-eight to-day, Janet, and it will soon be ten years since my wedding-
day. It doesn’t seem like ten years, does it, since we drove up to that great
cold church in Mayfair? Do you remember how nervous I was, and how I
shivered? But I was so young—only just out of the schoolroom; and poor
Mr. Stonor was thirty; he seemed dreadfully old to me then. Do you
remember, too, how my sister Olive pitied me for having to stand before the
altar with a man with mutton-chop whiskers? Poor Denis! he retained those
mutton-chop whiskers to the last.”
She glanced at a photograph which stood on her escritoire. Judging by
his portrait, Mr. Stonor could scarcely have been the kind of man to attract
the fancy of a young and pretty girl; but he had been considered a suitable
match for Lady Marjorie, and her parents had hurried on the marriage
almost before she had even realized the fact of her engagement.
Janet nodded. “Ay, I remember as well as can be,” she answered, shaking
out the folds of a shimmering evening dress. “Didn’t I deck you out for the
wedding myself, my lady? I shall never forget the bother I had with that
French mam’selle who wanted to make you look like a doll.” She hung up
the gown in a wardrobe, and continued significantly, “Maybe I shall have to
dress your ladyship once again for a wedding? Pardon me if it’s a liberty
I’m taking, but——” She hesitated.
“Well?” said her mistress, trying not to look conscious. “What do you
mean?”
“Mr. Karne——?”
Lady Marjorie paused in the act of clasping a bracelet on her wrist; and
looked up at her old nurse with an enigmatical expression, half pleased, half
shy, on her bright face.
“What of Mr. Karne, nursie?” she queried softly.
“Ay, my lady, what need to ask? Do you think I haven’t noticed the love-
light in your eyes when you’ve spoken of him, or when he’s been anywhere
near; or the little bit of white heather I’ve found under your pillow, which
he has given you the night before? Folks say the Highlands is the place for
romance, and I’m close on believing it. Anyway, I shall be mightily
mistaken if there’s not a wedding before long!”
But the mistress shook her head, whilst a look as of pain came into her
eyes.
“No, Janet,” she said quietly. “You are mistaken. Mr. Karne and I are
very good friends, but he pays no more attention to me than he would to
any other woman who happened to be his hostess.”
“Yet he gave you the white heather, my lady?”
“Yes, he gave me the white heather; but what of that? He did not tell me
to put it behind my pillow—that was just a silly fancy of mine. We women
are such fools, Janet. We have such an inordinate craving for love, that we
magnify the slightest attention of any man for whom we possess regard,
until we vainly imagine that we are really loved by him. That is what I’ve
been doing—giving way to imagination. I’ve been indulging in the
romantic day-dreams of a girl of seventeen.”
A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit
Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes.
Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his
birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead for
mercy.
“How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had
accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought you