"Oh, do be careful, my dear child!" cried Mrs. Tracy anxiously, as Juliet started to clamber up.
"I will see that she comes to no harm," said Mr. Mainprice, as he hastened after her.
With an air of relief, Mrs. Tracy seated herself on a rock to await Juliet's return, and Mr. Tracy remained with her.
To step from rock to rock by a kind of rude stairway to the top of the pile was a matter of little difficulty, and Juliet would have none of Mr. Mainprice's help.
To stand on that lofty summit and gaze down on the waves beating so far below would have severely tried weak nerves; but Juliet had a steady head, and enjoyed the novel sensation of being perched on the crag. Both seaward and landward a glorious prospect offered itself to their view.
"Oh, I like this!" cried Juliet gleefully, as she struggled with the breeze which threatened to carry away her hat. "What a lovely view! And what a glorious wind! If only I had wings and could soar away on it! Oh, how happy I am!"
"That's right," he said heartily; "it's good to be happy."
"Is it?" she replied, looking at him mischievously. "I should rather have expected you to say it was good to be miserable. Salome thinks so, I know."
"Who is Salome?" he asked.
"Oh, my sister," she said, without deeming it necessary to explain further. Then she added impetuously, "If I am happy, I owe it to you. I was not happy till uncle came."
"No?" he said, amused at the childlike way in which she gave him her confidence. "How was that?"
"Oh, my sisters were always trying to make me do what I did not want to do. They meant me to be a governess, and I hated the idea. But now uncle has come, there is no thought of that. He lets me have my own way in everything, and I do just as I like."
"Is that, then, your idea of happiness—to have one's own way?"
"Yes," said Juliet, giving her head a little nod, "that is my idea, and a very good idea it is too."
"I do not agree with you. You are under a delusion. What you are grasping after as happiness is not happiness, but only its empty shadow."
"Then I am content with the shadow," said Juliet. "I have tried having my own way, and I like it very much."
And her violet eyes flashed mischievous defiance at him.
"It will not satisfy you long," he said. "Nothing betrays and disappoints like self-will. There is no peace for us till we learn that God's way and not ours is the best, and learn to seek that rather than the gratification of our own desires."
"God's way!" So he wanted to talk religion to her. She had forgotten that he was a clergyman.
"But I am not sure that I care about peace," she said perversely; "to me the word has rather an insipid sound. I am afraid I enjoy strife and excitement. I dread nothing more than stagnation."
He smiled at her, much as he might have smiled at a wayward child. Then he pointed to the distant stretch of ocean shimmering in the sun's level rays.
"Look," he said, "at the sunlit sea, at that bank of cloud flushed with softest crimson, and the yellow glow where the sun is just sinking to the horizon. What an air of calm and hush there is! Does it not all breathe peace? Yet there is no stagnation there."
She did not answer him, but gazed in silence at the western sky, till slowly the colours faded and sea and clouds grew grey. Then she turned and began to scramble quickly down the rocks. She did not speak again till she was by her mother's side.
Though Juliet resented Mr. Mainprice's attempt to "talk religion" to her, his words had gone home. She could not forget them.
That night, after her uncle had gone away, she lingered alone in the little garden attached to the house in which she and her mother were lodging. It was growing dusk. Already stars were appearing in the clear sky above her head. A light breeze rustled the trees. Behind her lay the vast, mysterious moor. In front, far down beneath the trees, out of sight, but making its presence known by the low, distant moaning of its waves, was the sea.
All about her God's great, wonderful world. What a poor, insignificant atom she seemed in comparison! Did it matter so very much how she lived?
"Yes," the voice of her better self made answer, "it did matter. It must be better to take God's way, even if it seemed steep and hard, for it would lead upward."
And her own self-chosen, pleasure-seeking way, where would that lead? Juliet had a distinct sense of being called at this hour to make a choice. She could clearly see the two ways opening before her, one easy and pleasant and winding, the other straight and steep. A struggle went on within her. The yearning for goodness she had felt before awoke again. Oh, to have an inner life as pure and serene and beautiful as the summer, night! Oh, to know that all was right with her life, to feel that a Power outside herself, a Power as loving as it was mighty, was leading, guiding, controlling all!
Juliet's better self had almost gained the day, when there came to her the thought of Salome. Could she become such a one as Salome, so harsh and censorious, wearing such plain, ill-fitting clothes, denying herself all amusement, walking in so straight and narrow a way?
No, anything but that. And self-will asserted itself anew. She could not try to alter herself. She must follow her own way, whatever it might lead to. So self-will gained the day, and Juliet hurried into the house, determinedly closing her mind against serious thought.
Salome, with all her blindness and self-deception, was yet sincere in her endeavour to do her duty and lead a Christian life. How she would have grieved, could she have known that her austerity had driven Juliet at this critical moment of her life from the loving Saviour, whose image she, who called herself His disciple, had so utterly failed to reflect!
CHAPTER IX
GRATIFIED DESIRES
"WHAT shall we do this afternoon, uncle?"
"Whatever you please, my dear. I am at your service entirely."
Juliet's eyes brightened. She leaned nearer to her uncle as he sat in his easy-chair, and laid her hand with a pretty caressing movement on his shoulder. Such spontaneous expressions of affection, which she gave with the grace and freedom of a child, were delightful to him. His niece was spending the day with him at the comfortable chambers in Bloomsbury in which he had established himself when he returned to town in the autumn. He lived there very quietly, spending much of his time amongst the books in the British Museum; but it was an understood thing between them that when Juliet came to see him he must devote himself to her entertainment, and he thoroughly enjoyed the hours he spent with her in sight-seeing and other forms of diversion.
"Oh, uncle, there is such a lovely concert at the Crystal Palace this afternoon. Adelina Patti is to sing. Oh, I should so like to hear her!"
"Have you never heard her sing?"
"Never. I have never heard anyone. I never go anywhere," said Juliet plaintively. "Hannah and Salome always think it wrong to take any pleasure and I cannot go to places by myself."
"Poor child! You are hardly used," said her uncle, with a merry twinkle in his eyes; "but now let me hear more about this concert. How would it do if I were to take you?"
"Oh, uncle! Will you really? How lovely! There is nothing I should like so much. Oh, it is good of you. And afterwards the fountains will be illuminated, and there will be splendid fireworks. Oh, I shall enjoy it!"
"But, my dear, if we stayed to see the fireworks, you would not get home till very late, and your mother would be alarmed," said her uncle.
"Oh, of course, I must send her a telegram," was Juliet's prompt reply. "And there is a little room, half-way up the stairs, which Mrs. Carroll lets sometimes. She showed it to me the last time I was here. The best plan would be for me to sleep there to-night. You would not care to take me home so late."
Assuredly he would not. But was there ever such a little puss for getting her own way? How quick she was to foresee and provide against every objection that might be made to that which she proposed!
So to the Crystal Palace they went that afternoon. The popular resort of Londoners was a novel place to Juliet, and it was many years since Mr. Tracy had visited it. They were able to see a good deal of its beauties ere it was time to take their places for the concert. Mr. Tracy did not mind paying a handsome price for the tickets, and they could not have had a better position than they secured.
It was an excellent concert. The prima donna sang beautifully, and, to Mr. Tracy's delight, she sang simple old English ditties, which he had known and loved from his boyhood. He listened entranced to her exquisite rendering of these, and was scarcely less rapturously delighted than was Juliet.
But the instrumental music which followed had much less attraction for him, and whilst it proceeded his eyes wandered over the audience or marked such details of the finely proportioned building as came within their range. As he gazed about thus, he suddenly became aware that a young man, who with a couple of companions occupied comfortable seats to the right above their heads, was leaning forward with his opera-glass levelled at Juliet, and regarding her with a persistency which quickly excited her uncle's ire. Juliet soon became aware of the gaze fixed on her. She looked up, and her face flushed as she recognised Algernon Chalcombe. When he was aware that she saw him, he dropped his opera-glasses and looked at her, awaiting her recognition. She smiled and bowed; he bowed in return, with such a look of pleasure that Juliet's heart beat high with elation. But her uncle had observed these salutations with little pleasure.
"Do you know that gentleman, Juliet?" he asked.
"Yes," Juliet replied, with lowered eyelids; "I went to school with his sister."
Her uncle made no further inquiry, but he continued to regard the young man with disfavour. It struck him that the handsome dark face had a dissipated appearance, and that he looked too much of a fine gentleman to be the genuine article. Mr. Tracy wondered if it were indeed a diamond which flashed conspicuously on the young man's hand.
Juliet did not again turn her pretty head towards the seat where young Chalcombe sat, but she was aware, without seeming to be so, that his opera-glasses were often directed to the spot where she sat. Her uncle observed it also, and felt enraged with the fellow for his impudence.
When the concert was over, Juliet and her uncle took a walk in the grounds. Juliet spoke with rapture of the concert, and the delight with which she had listened to Adelina Patti.
"Oh, uncle, I would give anything to be a public singer!" she exclaimed.
"Nonsense, my dear child!" he replied. "You do not know what that means."
"I do know," she responded excitedly. "It must be a splendid life. Think what it is to stand before such an audience and know that every eye is on you, everyone admiring you and listening spellbound to your voice. Did you hear that gentleman behind us say, when she had finished singing 'Home, sweet home,' that he should think she would make home sweet?"
"Humph," said her uncle slowly, in the tone of one who will not utter all his mind; "I daresay it seems very fine to you, my dear, but you speak in ignorance. Such women are far from being so happy as you suppose. You see the glamour and glitter, you hear the applause, but you do not know what lies behind—the heartache and jealousy and bitterness."
"Oh, of course there are drawbacks," said Juliet loftily; "but that is the kind of life I should like."
"My dear, I hope that yours will be a far happier lot. I do not like the idea of a public life for a woman. Home is the woman's true sphere."
"Oh, uncle, excuse me, but that is a terribly old-fashioned idea—quite an exploded one, in fact. A woman has as much right to make a career for herself as a man. For my part, I have no wish for a happy lot, if it must be a humdrum and commonplace one. I want to live."
"So you shall, Juliet, but not by acting or singing in public, I trust. You must be patient, and wait till the prince comes who shall reconcile you to a home life."
He turned to Juliet with a smile on his wrinkled, parchment face, and a merry twinkle in his eyes.
But a disdainful frown sat on that young lady's brow, and she responded impatiently, "Really, uncle! Do you think I want to be married? I assure you that is the last thing that enters into my aspirations for the future."
He felt himself snubbed, and was silent. He was beginning to find his young niece somewhat of a puzzle, and even a perplexity. She did not agree with the notions of womanhood which he had held all his days, without ever harbouring a doubt of their truth. The wife whose early death was the most bitter grief of his life, had been a gentle, loving, domesticated woman, who had had no ambition beyond that of performing in the best possible manner those duties of her sex which he believed to be the whole end and aim of womanhood!
At first, he had been highly entertained by Juliet's self-will and audacity. He had observed them with amusement, as we watch the wilfulness of a tiny child or the frolicsomeness of a kitten. They seemed but childish failings which she would lose as she grew older. But to-night, for the first time, he felt misgivings as he thought of Juliet's future. He had already adopted her in his heart as a daughter. He had confided to her mother his intention of leaving Juliet all that he had. Now, however, he reflected that the command of money might be a fatal gift to one so pretty and young and wilful. He remembered with uneasiness the young man whom he had seen watching Juliet so intently. Yes, money might make her the prey of a worthless fortune-seeker. He must weigh the matter well, lest inadvertently, he did harm instead of good to the girl he loved.
Not only was Ralph Tracy his own medical man, he liked to be his own lawyer as well. It vexed him to think that the simple will which he could have drawn up himself would hardly meet the necessities of the case. To secure the property to Juliet, and protect it from unscrupulous hands, it would be necessary to make careful provisions. He hardly knew if he were equal to framing them himself, but ere he called in the aid of a solicitor, he would have a try at it, with the help of sundry large books crammed full of legal information which was often very hard to digest.
Such was Mr. Tracy's resolve, but he did not immediately proceed to carry it out. He found it more agreeable to let the thing slide for a while. It is curious how reluctant most men are to make provision for the event of their decease.
Yet he was really uneasy about Juliet when he retired to rest after their return from the Palace. He was so troubled, indeed, that he could get little rest. He could hardly have slept worse or had more frightful dreams, had he supped intemperately on beef-steak, instead of on the very thin cocoa and dry biscuits which were all he permitted himself.
And Juliet too passed a restless night, but the dreams which visited her broken slumbers were of another order. One gay scene followed another in her visions. There was laughter and singing and applause, and ever she was the gayest of the gay, the most admired of the admired, the cynosure of all eyes. She was singing before the Queen in Buckingham Palace, and the Princess of Wales was advancing to present her with a huge bouquet, when the postman's loud knock resounding through the house woke her to the consciousness that it was only a dream.
When she came downstairs an hour later, her uncle had long finished his frugal meal, and was leisurely studying his newspaper. He laid it aside when she entered, and talked to her as she ate her breakfast. Juliet would talk of nothing but the concert. When she had finished her meal, she sat down at the piano, and began to play snatches of the melodies she had heard. Although she had made little progress under Salome's tuition, Juliet had a fine ear for music. Presently she broke into a good old song, which was a favourite with her mother, "The oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree."
Her uncle listened with pleasure. The familiar words recalled to him vividly the days of his early manhood. When she ceased, he thanked her warmly, and not without emotion.
"That song carries me back over many years," he said. "Ah, you cannot think what it is to be old, and to have the scenes of your youth come back to you like dreams. You have a very nice voice, dear; I like to hear you sing."
"I am glad you like my voice," Juliet said; "but it needs training sadly. I want some good singing lessons. I am trying to save money to pay for them."
"You need not save money for that, Juliet. I will pay for the lessons. Why did you not speak to me about it before?"
"How could I, uncle, when you have already done so much for me? You are too good, indeed!"
"Nonsense, child! I only want to see you happy. Of course you shall have lessons, if you wish for them."
"Oh, uncle, you cannot think how happy you make me! You don't know how I have longed for lessons!"
"Then you shall certainly have your heart's desire, though that does not invariably bring happiness. All, that reminds me of a sermon I once heard Mr. Mainprice preach about the heart's desire. It was very good. I wish you could have heard it."
"Don't wish that," said Juliet; "I do not like Mr. Mainprice, and I probably should not have liked his sermon."
"Not like Mr. Mainprice!" exclaimed her uncle, in astonishment. "You surprise me, Juliet. Why, he is one of the best men I know. Indeed, I do not know another young man like him—so good and earnest and strong in every way."
"He may be all that," said Juliet; "but I do not like good young men."
Yet it was not true that she disliked Mr. Mainprice, as in her perversity she chose to declare. Her real feeling for him was far removed from dislike, but she disliked to recall certain words she had heard him utter; she wished to avoid thinking of the man whose rare personality had so impressed her that the very thought of him had the force of a condemnation.
Her uncle looked at her in amazement for a moment; then he leaned back in his chair smiling, as one smiles at the quaint sayings of a child.
"You say that because you know so little about them, Juliet," he remarked.
"I know enough," she returned. "In books they always die young, and it is the best thing they can do."
"It would be a sad thing for the world if that were always the fate of the good young men," said her uncle, smiling. "You are talking nonsense, you foolish child, and you know it. Nothing is of so much importance as a man's character. What he does, or what he has, are trifles in comparison. I see that more and more clearly as I grow older. What is a man worth to God? That is the supreme test of his life's value."
But her uncle's thoughts had taken a turn Juliet had no wish to pursue. She hastened to bring them back to the subject which so greatly interested her.
"How soon can I have lessons, uncle?" she asked.
"As soon as it can be arranged," he replied. "Where can we find a good singing master for you?"
"Signor Lombardi is the best," said Juliet promptly.
"That is a good deal to say for the man," observed her uncle; "how do you know that he is the best?"
"I have been told so by people who understand all about music," said Juliet, colouring. "Of course there must be many good masters in London; but Signor Lombardi is the one of whom I should like to learn."
It was Algernon Chalcombe who had advised her to secure, if possible, lessons from Signor Lombardi, of whom he had spoken as a first-class teacher, and one who had assisted to train and introduce to the world various musical stars, Algernon himself being one of the number.
"Very well," said Mr. Tracy good-naturedly; "Signor Lombardi it shall be. But remember this, Juliet," he added more gravely, "I will not for a moment countenance the idea of your becoming a public singer. You must study to develop your talent for your own pleasure, and the pleasure of others with whom you are thrown in your home and in society. Anything beyond that is out of the question for you."
"Very well, uncle; I understand," said Juliet demurely, but her little foot as it tapped the ground would have betrayed her impatience to a keen observer. She felt that it would be unseemly to argue the question now, when her uncle was behaving so generously to her. She could only acquiesce; but if Mr. Tracy imagined Juliet's acquiescence to mean that she had renounced her cherished desire, he was making a great mistake.
That very afternoon, a visit was paid to Signor Lombardi at his rooms in Argyle Place. Fortunately he was "at home," and at liberty to see them for "three minutes only," as he was careful to explain.
The signor was a big, flabby-looking Italian, with fine dark eyes and very courtly manners. At first, it appeared that his time was so completely filled up that it was quite impossible he could take another pupil. But when he had tested Juliet's voice his manner became more expansive, and it then seemed just possible that he might be able to find half an hour for her in his busy week. He went so far as to admit that Juliet's voice was good, though so untrained that he was unable to say how it would develop.
Mr. Tracy hastened to explain that his niece was to study merely as an amateur. The signor bowed gravely, and said that this was a pity, since such a voice had great possibilities. He was then persuaded to name his terms, which were so high as rather to stagger Mr. Tracy.
But Juliet's pleading eyes were not to be resisted. He could not go back from his word. So the fees were paid, and Juliet's name was enrolled as one of Signor Lombardi's pupils. Juliet went away convinced that the signor had thought her voice a remarkable one, that he had been no less struck with her personal appearance, and that he thought it an immense pity that her uncle's old-fashioned prejudices should prevent her from winning the renown she would be certain to achieve if she made her début as a public singer.
When Juliet, on reaching home that evening, told gleefully the story of her uncle's latest act of kindness to her, Hannah looked across the tea-table at Salome with eyes which plainly said, "I told you so."
CHAPTER X
A PERILOUS PATH
JULIET had now her own way to an extent of which a little while before she could hardly have dreamed as possible.
She should have been very happy, one might think. But human happiness does not consist of anything external, and it will not come even with the realisation of all one's desires. And Juliet would have said that she was far indeed from such an attainment. No acquisition satisfied her. She was ever reaching after something beyond. Her uncle's indulgence had the effect of making her more of a spoilt child than ever. Restless, petulant, and perverse, she was constantly working herself into a fever over something or other. She continually destroyed the peace of the household by her irritability and impatience.
Sometimes her mother would be reduced to tears by her conduct. When Juliet saw her thus grieved, she would be filled with contrition, even to self-loathing. She would overwhelm her mother with tender caresses and loving words. She would make many promises of amendment, and as long as the remorseful feeling lasted she would be quite gentle and docile in her ways. But, alas! The softened mood was never of long continuance. The old spirit would soon assert itself, and the wilful determination, to take her own way at any cost, rule her actions again.
At first the singing lessons were a pure delight to her.
Signor Lombardi's words seemed full of encouragement and even of flattering prophecy. But after a while, he began to criticise and correct with some sharpness. One day, he exhibited the utmost impatience because she did not play properly the accompaniment of her song.
"I did not undertake to teach you the A B C of music," he remarked, in scathing tones.
Juliet came home in despair, and cried bitterly as she told her mother about it. Mrs. Tracy persuaded her to ask Salome to help her in mastering the difficult accompaniment. Juliet's pride hated the idea of asking such help of Salome, but her dread of receiving a second rebuke from her master was even stronger than her pride. She humbled herself, and made the request of her sister.
Salome consented, but with a bad grace. She tried to improve the opportunity by showing Juliet how much she had missed by not continuing to study music with her. There is nothing more aggravating than some people's "I told you so. I knew you would regret it when it was too late."
Juliet could ill brook such comments, and the music lesson ended in a storm of recriminations which did not conduce to the harmony of the household.
Mrs. Tracy had accompanied Juliet when she went to take her first lesson of Signor Lombardi. On the following week, too, she went with her; but when the day for the third lesson came one of her severe headaches made it impossible for Mrs. Tracy to go out. She was at no time strong enough to bear much of the excitement and fatigue going about in London. She hoped that one of Juliet's sisters would be willing to accompany her. Salome at once declared that it would be impossible for her to go, since she was expected at a Dorcas meeting that afternoon, and Hannah looked annoyed at the suggestion, and said it would be very inconvenient for her to go, though she did not refuse to do so.
But when Juliet heard the question raised, she at once settled the matter in her own way. "I want neither Hannah nor Salome," she said. "I will go alone. There is no reason in the world why I should not. Other girls went about in London alone. It was a foolish and exploded notion that girls needed always to have a duenna. I have no patience with it. I hope I know how to take care of myself. I hate to be treated as a child."
To her mother, it seemed that many girls might be better trusted to go about alone than Juliet. Not that she doubted her daughter's discretion. But the girl was so pretty and striking-looking, she was certain to attract attention wherever she went, and might possibly be subjected to impertinence. But it was vain to argue the question with Juliet. She was bent on doing as she liked, and from that day she went alone to take her singing lessons.
On the second occasion of her going alone, she met Algernon Chalcombe on the platform of the station at which she took the train for the suburb in which she lived. It was impossible to avoid greeting him, had she been disposed to do so. His face was radiant with pleasure as she shook hands with him.
"This is a happy chance for me, Miss Tracy. What a lucky thing that I missed the earlier train! Let me relieve you of this."
And he took from her the portfolio of music she was carrying. The next minute, as the train came up, he opened the door of an empty compartment, and when she had entered, stepped in also.
"You have been taking your singing lesson, I see. Do you always return by this train?"
"When I can catch it," said Juliet. "Sometimes I am detained, and arrive just in time to see it gliding out of the station."
"A most aggravating experience. It was mine a quarter of an hour ago. I felt savage at the moment; but now I am awfully glad that I missed that train. It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Tracy."
Juliet's face flushed. It was pleasant to hear him say it, pleasant, though somewhat embarrassing, to meet the look that was in his dark eyes. He was certainly a very handsome man. The fashionable and faultless style of his dress had its influence on Juliet's impressionable mind. He was a "perfect gentleman," she told herself again.
And Algernon Chalcombe was observing her with new pleasure. He had been charmed with her prettiness when he had seen in her only a "little schoolgirl." It had been amusing to flirt with her without any serious intention. But now she was no longer a schoolgirl. She was a very charming young lady, beautifully dressed, and currying herself with an air which made people as they passed her involuntarily turn to look at her a second time.
Moreover, if his sister were right in her conjectures, Juliet Tracy was an heiress, a fact which had considerable importance for Algernon Chalcombe, whose life was spent in a constant endeavour to win money without the trouble of working for it. He now yielded himself with pleasure to the fascination which Juliet exerted over him, and determined that he in his turn would fascinate her. It did not appear difficult to do this. That there would be serious practical difficulties in the way of his wooing, he was well aware, but he had little doubt of ultimate success, since he was not wont to be troubled with delicate scruples in the prosecution of his purposes.
"How does the singing progress?" he asked. "Do you like your master?"
"Yes," Juliet answered, with some hesitation, "I think he is a good teacher, but so severe. Sometimes I despair of ever pleasing him."
"Oh, you must not despair," said Algernon; "his severity is just the highest compliment he can pay you. He is severe with you because he sees that you are worth taking great pains with. If you had only mediocre talent, he would be far less particular with you."
"That explanation is highly gratifying to my vanity," said Juliet, with a laugh. "I wish I could lay the flattering unction to my soul."
"You may indeed, for it is true," he replied. "I happen to know, for Signor Lombardi was speaking to me of you only the other day. You know that he and I are old friends."
It was impossible for Juliet to help looking at him with eager, questioning eyes, though she was too proud to put a direct question.
"I asked him how you were getting on," said Algernon, responding to her look, "and he said you were doing well."
"Did he?" exclaimed Juliet, in tones of delighted surprise. "Now, why could he not have told me that?"
Algernon shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not his way, I suppose. But it is a fact that he thinks very highly of you. He says you have a beautiful voice, so clear and flexible. He thinks you might do anything with such a voice."
"Does he?" cried Juliet rapturously. "Oh, if only I could!"
"You must," he said. "With such a voice it will be a shame if you are not one of these days the prima donna."
"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Juliet, with sparkling eyes. "What a lovely idea!"
Then suddenly, the light went out of her eyes. "It is impossible," she said, dropping her voice. "They would never let me. Uncle has the greatest objection to a public career for me. And mother is almost as bad."
"But surely you will not always be bound by their prejudices?" he said. "Your life is your own. They have no right to spoil it for you. Nothing can be impossible to one of your spirit and determination."
Juliet's eyes glowed again.
"Perhaps not," she said softly. "Certainly I manage to get my own way, as a rule."
"Of course. You ought always to have your own way. And you will, too. I have not a doubt of it."
"Decidedly I shall try for it," said Juliet, with a little laugh. "I shall not lightly give up my wish, you may be sure."
Juliet came into the house that evening wearing so bright a look that her mother felt sure she must have had a very pleasant lesson.
But when Juliet was questioned about it, she could not say that her master had given her much encouragement. "And yet I do feel encouraged somehow," she added, with a sunny smile.
It was delightful to hug to herself the secret assurance that Signor Lombardi thought she might "do anything" with her voice. The vagueness of the prophecy did not detract from its value. It rather enhanced it, by giving wider scope to the imagination.
But when on the following week, she again presented herself for a lesson, there was nothing in the signor's manner to suggest that he so highly esteemed her musical gift. He found little to praise and much to condemn in her performance, and it was with a sigh suggestive of weary relief that he finally dismissed her.
Juliet would have felt out of heart but for her remembrance of what Algernon Chalcombe had told her. To her surprise, she again encountered that young man at the railway station. It now appeared that he had an engagement which brought him into town on this day every week, and would involve his travelling home by the same train as Juliet.
Juliet hardly knew whether she were glad or sorry. She was nervous lest anyone of her acquaintance should see her as she sat talking with Algernon Chalcombe. She experienced many a throb of uneasiness, as she thought how her mother would feel if she saw them thus together. Yet Algernon made his company so agreeable to her, that she could not regret having met him. He talked to her again of her voice, and was able to recall various other laudatory remarks Signor Lombardi had made concerning it when talking to him in confidence. And Juliet's vanity drank eagerly of the cup of nectar thus presented to it.
After this, Algernon Chalcombe never failed to meet Juliet on her return from Kensington. Juliet's conscience was uneasy under what seemed so much like a clandestine arrangement. She had never concealed anything from her mother before, and she had burning sense of compunction and shame, when her mother, in her gentle, loving way, questioned her as her journey to and from the West End.
Yet she had no difficulty in defending her conduct to herself: She could not help meeting him. Her mother had never told her not to speak to him. She knew that she had seen Flossie's brother on the day she went to their house. She could not help greeting him, if she saw him. It was impossible to be rude to people.
And since he was travelling by the same train, what harm could there be in their sitting together of exchanging a few words as they went along? Of course, the prudish minds of Hannah and Salome would be shocked; but she did not care what they thought.
But, though she professed to herself not to care, it is certain that Juliet was in the habit of looking anxiously for her sisters' forms on each suburban platform at which the train stopped, and that she experienced relief at not seeing them.
One day her conscience so troubled her, that she purposely lingered on her way to the station, that she might miss the train by which Algernon Chalcombe was in the habit of travelling. But when she came on to the platform, ten minutes after the train had started, Algernon still stood there. He came up to her with the air of one who is sure of his welcome.
"How did you manage to miss your train?" he asked.
"How did you?" she retorted.
"Oh, I—" he laughed. "You do not suppose it was the train I minded missing?"
Juliet's colour deepened. Her eyes sank beneath his meaning glance.
"Do you not know what the hope of seeing you is to me?" he whispered. "Surely you must understand that it is the one event of the week to me, and I cannot bear to miss it."
Juliet could not reply. She had felt vexed that he had waited for her, and she wanted to tell him that he must not do so again. But she could not say that or anything now.
She turned aside to hide her blushes, and encountered the hard gaze of Mrs. Hayes, who, accompanied by her husband, was stepping out of the train which had just come into the station. Juliet shrank back so dismayed that she had not the presence of mind to attempt any salutation in response to that hard stare. She hoped that Mrs. Hayes had not seen Algernon Chalcombe speaking to her; but something in that lady's manner seemed to demonstrate that she had perceived that Juliet had a companion.
Juliet took her place in the train, and Algernon seated himself beside her. She hardly knew what he was saying as the train rattled along. She was too thrilled and excited to listen. There was something intoxicating for her in the idea that this clever, handsome man was in love with her, and depended on her for his happiness. It was delightful to feel that she had such power. The very thought of love made her breath come more quickly, and her pulses throb. How could she doubt that her heart responded to the sentiment she had inspired?
Juliet parted from Algernon Chalcombe hurriedly at the station where they alighted. She would not let him walk with her in the neighbourhood of her home.
She hastened home with her mind in a whirl of excitement. She was wildly elated. She believed herself to be very happy. Her thoughts went forward into the future, but they took no definite form. She did not dream of marrying Algernon Chalcombe. She had already decided that domestic life was far too humdrum for her taste.
Her visions of the future did not include dreams of home happiness. No, she could only picture herself a renowned prima donna, adored by the public, which would delight to scatter bouquets, laurel wreaths, and costly gifts in rich profusion at her feet. But it was pleasant to imagine amidst the crowd of admirers, who had not yet revealed themselves, this one devoted lover, himself a favourite of the music halls, who would be closely bound to her by the spell of her personal magic, who would count himself happy to serve her, and be ready to obey her every behest, whilst content to live upon such crumbs of kindness as she might choose to throw to him. It was not a role which would have suited Algernon Chalcombe in the least; but what did Juliet know of his true character?
It is easy to smile at the folly of an ambitious girl's wild imaginings; but is there not something pathetic too in such ignorant, blind forecasting of the future? Poor childish Juliet, giddy and elated, was treading the very verge of a precipice without the least notion of the chasm which yawned below. And those who might have saved her from it were unconscious of her peril, and, all unwittingly, were urging her nearer and nearer to the fatal brink.
CHAPTER XI
HIS LAST MESSAGE
IT was a cold, gloomy day towards the end of the year. Juliet, in the worst of her many possible humours, was lounging in an easy-chair by the fire, a yellow-backed novel in her hand. Her eyes looked dull and heavy; there was a flush on her cheeks that was not caused by the heat of the fire, and when she spoke her voice was very hoarse. She was suffering from a severe cold on her chest, which, much to her annoyance, had prevented her from taking her singing lesson as usual on the previous day.
Her mother, who sat with her knitting at the opposite side of the fireplace, glanced at her from time to time with an air of concern. She would have been much better in bed; but Juliet had absolutely refused to remain there.
"I do wish you would not look at me so, mother, every time I cough!" exclaimed Juliet, impatiently. "You need not think I am going to die just because I cough a little."
"My dear child, how you talk!" said Mrs. Tracy. "I only long to relieve your cough. Would you drink a little black currant tea if I made you some?"
"Oh, mother, don't worry me; you know how I hate all those decoctions. If only you would leave me alone."
And Juliet lay back wearily in her chair and took up her book again. It did not interest her particularly. Nothing interested her to-day. She was causing her mother a great deal of trouble; but she was far more troublesome to herself, and that not because her head ached, her chest was sore, and she felt ill all over. There was an inner discomfort that was far worse than her physical ailments. In her inaction, thoughts pressed upon her from which she would gladly have escaped. Her novel, exciting though the plot was, could not drive them away. Her own life-story was more absorbing to her at this time than any romance that human imagination could conceive. She found herself forced to review certain of her past actions, and to ponder their probable consequences.
Conscience had somewhat to say concerning these, and its remonstrances irritated her, though she would not own them to be well-founded. Then would come thoughts that were at once sweet and fear-inspiring' and visions of the future which sent the blood coursing more rapidly through her veins, and heightened the fever with which her whole frame was throbbing.
Her mother, watching her as she tossed from side to side of the big chair and breathed many a deep-drawn sigh, half divined that the restlessness was mental as well as physical. For several weeks, she had felt instinctively that her child was keeping something from her. It gave the mother's heart intense pain to think that Juliet was withdrawing her confidence, bus she would not attempt to force it. She waited, hoping and believing that Juliet would soon of her own accord confide to her whatever it was that troubled her.
"There are your sisters," said Mrs. Tracy, as the sound of the house door being opened by a latch-key reached her ears.
Juliet muttered something unintelligible. She had reasons of her own for not welcoming the return of Hannah and Salome, who had been taking afternoon tea with Mrs. Hayes at the rectory.
The next minute they entered the room; Salome rigidly neat in her deaconess-like dress, and Hannah well but soberly dressed, and looking very big, strong, and imposing in her warm mantle and velvet bonnet.
"Well, dears," said Mrs. Tracy, in her cheerful tones, "have you had a nice time?"
"I cannot say that it has been particularly pleasant," replied Hannah, in her distinct, deliberate utterance. "We are later than we thought we should be; but Mrs. Hayes asked us to stay a little while after the others had left. She had something to say to us."
It seemed to Juliet that Hannah looked at her as she spoke with peculiar significance in her glance. The immediate effect of the glance was to drive the girl into irritable speech.
"Why can't you shut the door after you when you come into a room, Salome?" she demanded. "There is a most frightful draught coming to me."
"You should have stayed in bed, if you feel every current of air so," said Hannah. "The room is already a great deal too warm to be healthy. Ah, I thought so," she added, as she consulted a small thermometer hanging against the wall, "seventy degrees! That is a great deal too high."
"I don't care whether it is seventy or eighty," muttered Juliet, "I mean to be warm. Oh, mother, don't fidget with that screen!" she exclaimed impatiently, as Mrs. Tracy tried to adjust the screen behind her chair so as to shelter her more effectually. "I do wish you would let me have a little peace."
"You are very ungrateful, Juliet," said Salome, as Mrs. Tracy moved quickly back to her place with a look of pain on her face; "mother has been doing nothing all day but wait upon you, and that is how you speak to her!"
Juliet hated herself for her impatient utterance as soon as it had passed her lips. But her sense that it was deserved did not make her less disposed to resent Salome's injudicious speech.
"It was your fault that mother rose to move the screen," she retorted, "for you left the door open. We were comfortable enough till you came in."
"Oh, hush, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, dreading a scene.
The heavy double knock of the postman resounding through the hall afforded a welcome diversion. Salome went out quickly, to find what he had brought. She came back into the room with two letters in her hand. One she gave to her mother; the other, after scrutinising the address with a deliberation that aroused Juliet's ire, though for once she deemed it wise to restrain, she handed to Juliet.
The girl's colour deepened as she looked at it. It was but too evident that the air of indifference with which she thrust it into her pocket and turned again to her novel was assumed.
The sisters looked at each other.
"What book are you reading, Juliet?" asked Hannah, bending forward to read the title on its back. "Oh, how can you waste your time reading such rubbish?"
"It is not rubbish," said Juliet stoutly, "it is a splendid tale."
"Utter trash, if not worse," said Hannah. "I hate to see such a book in our house."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Juliet warmly. "There is no harm in the book."
"I am afraid there can be little good," said Hannah. "What a pity you do not read something more elevating! I wish I could persuade you to join our society."
Hannah was the secretary of a "Society for the promotion of solid reading."
"I thank you," said Juliet drily; "I have not the least desire to do so. This kind of reading is quite solid enough for me. I find uncle's theory with respect to a light diet excellent when applied to the mind."
At this moment, Mrs. Tracy looked up from the letter she was reading to exclaim, "Oh, Juliet! Your poor uncle! He is very ill. Mrs. Carroll has written to tell me so."
"Mother!" And the next moment Juliet was by her mother's side, and eagerly trying to read the letter.
It was the letter of a person to whom the inditing of an epistle was a rare and difficult undertaking, and it told its story with much circumlocution and apparent irrelevance. Its purport, when at last they succeeded in grasping it, was to this effect. Some days earlier, Mr. Tracy had been caught in a heavy shower, and had taken a severe chill. But he had refused to keep his bed, and had spurned all the remedies which Mrs. Carroll's wisdom could suggest. He grew steadily worse, but would not own that he was ill. Even when he was obliged to keep his bed, he would not allow his landlady to send for a doctor, or to acquaint his friends with his condition. But to-day he was so much worse as to be unconscious, and Mrs. Carroll had taken upon herself the responsibility of summoning a medical man; and now, having with some difficulty discovered Mrs. Tracy's address, she wrote to inform her of his illness.
"What a pity she did not telegraph!" said Hannah. "But these uneducated people always do such absurd things."
"I expect she was afraid of frightening me," said Mrs. Tracy. "It is very alarming, you know, to be summoned by telegram."
"She should have telegraphed to me," exclaimed Juliet excitedly; "I would have gone to uncle at once. I could have persuaded him to have a doctor. What will you do, mother?"
"I shall go to him, of course. I must go at once."
"I will come with you," cried Juliet.
"My dear child, that is out of the question. With such a cold on your chest, I would not have you go out for the world."
"Really, Juliet, you seem to have no common-sense!" exclaimed Hannah.
Juliet flashed an angry glance at her sister, but forbore to urge her proposal.
"I shall accompany you, mother," said Hannah, in her calm, deliberate manner. "It is not fit you should go alone. Already it is dark."
"Oh, thank you, dear," said her mother gratefully. It was good in moments of agitation and uncertainty to lean upon Hannah's strong, practical sense.
They went away to get ready, and Juliet sank on to a chair, coughing with renewed violence. She was really distressed to think that the kind old man whom she had learned to love, whilst laughing at his foibles, should be so ill.
After a little while, Salome slipped out of the room, and went upstairs to exchange a few words with Hannah in private ere she quitted the house.
"Shall you tell mother what Mrs. Hayes told us?" she inquired, with some eagerness.
"Certainly not," replied Hannah; "she has enough to worry her now without that. You, of course, will say nothing to Juliet about it. Mother must hear it first."
"Yes," said Salome; "shall you tell her to-morrow?"
"That will depend upon circumstances," said Hannah sententiously. "We do not know what to-morrow may bring forth."
"Do you know," said Salome, "I believe the letter which came for Juliet just now was from that Chalcombe girl. I saw her writing once in a book she lent Juliet, and I feel sure the writing on that envelope was the same."
"Very likely," said Hannah; "it was clear from the haste with which Juliet pocketed the letter that she did not wish us to know anything about it."
Juliet was coughing when her mother came into the room to say good-bye to her.
"My dear child," she said tenderly, "I cannot bear to hear you cough so."
"You will take care of her, Salome," she added, addressing the daughter who had followed her into the room. "See that she has something hot when she goes to bed."
"If she will let me," said Salome; "Juliet is not generally very ready to take my advice."
"I shall go to bed immediately," said Juliet, her manner plainly showing that she thought an evening in bed preferable to one spent in Salome's company.
"That will be the best thing to do," said her mother quickly. "Good-bye, darling. You must think of your poor uncle, and pray for him. If I find him very ill, I shall probably stay the night, but Hannah will come back to tell you how he is."
So Juliet, subdued and saddened, went to bed, her thoughts following now a sombre and melancholy channel, very different from the thrilling fancies of an hour ago. She even forgot to read the letter which she had thrust so hastily out of sight when she saw that the writing was Flossie Chalcombe's.
Hannah returned home at night without Mrs. Tracy. She brought a gloomy report. Mr. Tracy was suffering from acute pneumonia, and the medical man who had been summoned so late to his bedside could hold out no hope of his recovery. The scant regimen to which for many years he had limited himself, had not built up a constitution which could well resist the attack of such a disease, even if it had not been left utterly unassisted at the commencement of the assault.
Juliet was distressed when she heard the news, and she lay awake for a long while that night thinking of her uncle. She could not bear the feeling of emptiness in the room, which her mother usually shared with her. She hated to sleep there alone, but not for the world would she have asked Hannah or Salome to bear her company; and it never occurred to either of them, though they saw that their young sister was really very poorly, to offer to do so.
For all her apparent courageousness, Juliet was not endowed with iron nerves. Every faintest sound that reached her ears during that night caused her to shake with nervous terror. When at last she fell asleep, she dreamed that her mother was dead, and awoke crying bitterly. The utter stillness in the room seemed to confirm the impression of her dream. Juliet longed for the morning to dawn, but fell asleep again as she watched for it.
When she woke, it was daylight, and a brighter morn than London often knows at this season of the year. The sun was shining: there was frost upon the windowpane. It must be very cold outside, and all the snugger and more inviting in consequence appeared the soft warm bed. Since no one urged her to do so, Juliet decided that she would remain in bed. Perhaps by to-morrow, her horrid cough would be better.
The brightness of the morning inspired her with hope. After all, her uncle might recover. He was not such a very old man. Doctors were often mistaken. Anyhow, she would not give up hope yet. And her thoughts took a cheerful range.
Suddenly she remembered Flossie's letter, which she had never opened. She sprang from her bed to find it; then nestling again comfortably amidst the pillows, she opened it.
To her surprise, the letter enclosed in the envelope was not from Flossie, but from Algernon. Her cheeks burned as she read it. He wrote to tell her how distressed he was at not meeting her on the previous day, and to implore her to let him know if she were ill. It was a lover's letter, though the feeling it expressed was conveyed rather by delicate insinuation and covert suggestion than in plain words. Juliet's heart beat quickly; she trembled with excitement as she read it. Her vanity was flattered by the homage so subtly offered. There were passages which she read and re-read, putting ever more and more meaning into each vaguely turned suggestive phrase.
She was half frightened at his audacity in writing to her, yet could not wholly dislike it. She should certainly tell him that he must never write to her again. But meanwhile it was sweet to hold this—her first love-letter—in her hand and dwell upon its words. It was pleasant to know that she had such a lover. All the morning the letter lay beneath her pillow, when it was not in her hand. She liked the manly style of the handwriting, so utterly different from Flossie's feeble flourishes. It was not easy to read, indeed; but even that seemed as it should be to Juliet then. She racked her brains to devise a safe hiding-place for this treasure. No eye save hers must ever look on it, yet she could not bear to tear it up. If she ventured to put it in one of her drawers, her mother's hand might some day light upon it; and Juliet shrank with a painful sense of shame from the very thought of such a possibility.
As she was pondering this difficulty, her uncle's sad condition for the time forgotten, Salome entered the room with a telegram in her hand. As she advanced to the bedside, her grave, solemn look told the nature of the news she brought ere she opened her lips.
"Oh, don't tell me!" exclaimed Juliet wildly. "Don't tell me that he is dead!"
"Perhaps you had better read the telegram, then," said Salome grimly.
Juliet glanced at the brown sheet, read the few words it contained, and dashed it from her. Then she threw herself face downwards on the pillow, drawing the coverlid well over her head. So Salome left her; but looking back ere she closed the door, she knew by the heaving of the bedclothes that Juliet was sobbing violently.
Some hours later, Mrs. Tracy came gently into the room, and approached the girl's bedside. Quietly as she entered, Juliet recognised her step, and turned her head. It was a sad, troubled young face that looked up from the pillow. As she met her mother's gaze the tears gathered anew in her eyes.
"You must not grieve, dear," said her mother gently. "His end was very peaceful."
"I must grieve!" cried Juliet bitterly. "I shall always grieve. It is too horrible to think that if—if only we had known before, it might have been prevented. That horrid Mrs. Carroll!"
"Come, come. You must not be too hard on Mrs. Carroll. She acted according to her light. She did not know what to do better."
"To think that he should die," sobbed Juliet, "just as we were beginning to know and love him—we, who never had anyone belonging to us before! And he was always so kind—and—and—to think that I shall never see him again. If only I had known when I was there a fortnight ago, that I should never see him again!"
"Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Tracy, "it is one of the saddest things in life, that we do not know when the last times are. Your uncle was conscious for a moments ere he passed away. He spoke of you. He, said, 'Give my love to Juliet, and tell her to be a good girl.'"
"Oh, mother," cried Juliet, sobbing bitterly as she threw herself into her mother's arms, "that is just what I never can be! Everything is against my being good."
"Nay, nay, dear. Everything is for us, when we seek to do right. All the powers of the spiritual world—God Himself is on our side, and what can withstand God?"
But Juliet shook her head despondingly.
CHAPTER XII
THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WEALTH
DEATH had surprised Ralph Tracy ere he had found time to settle his property upon Juliet for her sole and entire use under conditions which, should she marry, would prevent her husband from having any control over it. Despite his wise foresight and prudent resolves, Juliet came into absolute possession of all he had left, untrammelled by any provisions.
It was no great fortune. Her uncle had never been a wealthy man. He had always been generous to others, though extremely sparing in his personal expenditure. It was only by strict self-denial that he was able to serve others liberally, and lay up a provision for his old age. His rigorous mode of life, simple and unluxurious as that of a hermit, had cost little, and he had saved sufficient money to enable him to return to England and resume the life of an ordinary gentleman, with a purse full enough to supply the wants and gratify the fancies of the charming, capricious girl whom he found and claimed as his niece in London.
By his death, Juliet came into possession of moneys that would yield her an income of rather less than five hundred pounds a year. It was not a great inheritance, certainly; yet think what the command of so much money must mean to a girl brought up as Juliet had been, one of a household where every kind of domestic economy had to be rigidly practised; accustomed till lately to wear simple frocks made for her by her mother of material chosen for its good wearing qualities, and expected to serve two seasons, and who till the coming of her uncle, had never enjoyed a day's pleasure of which the cost had not been carefully calculated beforehand.
"I hope it may prove for Juliet's good," said Salome, with a shake of the head which signified that she held a belief to the contrary.
"I am afraid she is hardly one to make a wise use of so much money," said Hannah solemnly.
Mrs. Tracy had some doubts on this score too, but she was not seriously uneasy about it. She had great faith in Juliet's goodness of heart. Juliet's faults were on the surface; but the goodness her mother believed to be a solid, firm stratum at the basis of her character. She could not but be thankful that this darling child was so well provided for.
"We must try to influence her without seeming to do so," she said cheerfully. "Juliet is really not difficult to guide, if you use a little tact and kindness. She not be driven, but she may be led."
"I am glad to hear you say so," replied Hannah, with bitter significance, "for it seems to me that Juliet is sadly in need of guidance with regard to her choice of associates."
And she proceeded to tell her mother how Mrs. Hayes had seen Juliet at one of the metropolitan stations in the company of "that man Chalcombe who sings at music halls," talking together as if they were on most friendly terms.
Mrs. Tracy was inexpressibly shocked and distressed. Here indeed was true cause for uneasiness. Juliet's acquisition of property would be deplorable, if it led her into the toils of an unprincipled man.
"Does Mrs. Hayes know anything about the man?" she asked.
"She does not know him, of course," said Salome, with emphasis, "but she knows him to be a fast, dissipated sort of character. She said no one could look at him and fail to see that."
"Oh dear," Mrs. Tracy groaned, "what shall I do? Juliet is always so ready to believe the best of people."
"Of some people," put in Salome.
"I must speak to her about it, yet I hardly know what to say. I cannot tell how she will take it. She will not hear a word just now," said Mrs. Tracy, forgetting that a minute before she had asserted that it was easy to lead Juliet. "If only she had a father or a brother to protect her!"
"You must be very firm with her," said Hannah; "you must tell her decidedly that you will not have her meeting that young man, that it is disgraceful, and not to be tolerated."
"And drive her into open opposition to us all," said Mrs. Tracy. "Oh, my dear, that will not do at all. You forget that Juliet will soon be twenty-one, and she has always threatened that she would take her own way when she came of age. And now that she is quite independent—Oh, that would not do at all!"
"It is certainly rather late for mother to begin to be firm with Juliet," said Salome, with an unpleasant curl of the lips.
"The best thing would be to take her out of London for a time, so that she should not see anything of those horrid Chalcombes," said Hannah.
"Certainly it would; but who is to take Juliet away if she does not choose to go?" asked Mrs. Tracy, with despair in her tones. "She would not give up her lessons with Signor Lombardi. And she has announced her intention of attending all the popular concerts this season."
So the family conclave broke up with no result, save increased irritation in the minds of the sisters and a heavy weight of anxiety on the mother's heart.
Juliet was highly elated by the position in which she found herself placed by her uncle's death. Her sorrow at his removal, and the softened, regretful feelings which had moved her when she learned the news, were quickly succeeded by self-gratulation and a new, almost intoxicating sense of her own importance. It was delightful to feel that she was now a woman of property, having at her command the means for carrying out her own ideas, and ordering her life as she would. All sorts of brilliant but vague notions of what she might now do presented themselves to her mind. She hardly knew what she would like to do. One thing only was clear to her mind. It was in her power to have her own way, and have it she would.
With such a resolve stimulating her imagination, she was in no mood to receive meekly a word of remonstrance or reproof, not even from the mother whom she truly loved. She waxed indignant when her mother spoke to her about Algernon Chalcombe.
"It is a pity Mrs. Hayes has nothing better to discuss than my doings!" she exclaimed hotly. "I declare she is a veritable scandalmonger. But I will not have her dictating as to who are to be my acquaintances. I hope I know how to take care of myself."
Mrs. Tracy privately thought that this spoilt child knew very little how to take care of herself, but she dared not say so.
"Mrs. Hayes meant it kindly," she said. "She thought that you could not know the kind of man that he is. She fears that his character—"
"Fears!" broke in Juliet scornfully. "Say rather that she wishes to make him out as black as possible. If you want a fine example of Christian charity, go to Mrs. Hayes. But I shall not allow her to prejudice me against people who, I have no doubt, are far better than she is."
"Oh, Juliet! She does not wish to prejudice you, only to warn you for your good. Oh, my dear, you are so young and impulsive; you never foresee the consequences of your actions. But a young girl cannot be too prudent; she may so easily get herself talked about. You would not like, Juliet, to have people looking askance at you."
A deep blush slowly rose in the girl's face, and mounted even to the roots of her hair. She stood for some moments silent with downcast eyes. Then suddenly lifting her head very high, she said proudly—
"Really, mother, I don't know what I have done, that you should speak to me in such a manner. One would think it was a crime to greet an acquaintance on a London platform."
"Oh, I am sure that you always mean to do what is right," said Mrs. Tracy hurriedly; "only you are rather thoughtless sometimes, you know, dear, that is all. Don't be angry with me."
So the talk on this subject ended with Mrs. Tracy's proffering apologies, and it was the culprit who seemed to extend forgiveness. But in truth, Juliet felt ashamed of herself, as she responded to her mother's loving, pleading look by bonding to kiss her.
As the flush faded from the girl's face it left her unusually pale, and when she spoke again it was to say with a weary sigh—
"Oh, mother, I wish that now I have an income of my own, you and I could go away somewhere and live by ourselves. If only we could have a little home of our own, how nice it would be!"
"And leave poor Hannah and Salome behind?" exclaimed her mother. "Oh, I could never consent to that! Think how Hannah has toiled and denied herself to keep this house together. It would be very unkind to desert her as soon as we found ourselves able to do without her help."
"I suppose it would," said Juliet thoughtfully. "Well, I do not wish to act meanly by Hannah and Salome; but I do long sometimes to get away from them, they irritate me so."
"It will not do to make any changes yet," said Mrs. Tracy, who was naturally averse to change, and always shrank from making a decision on any important matter. "Although you have inherited this money, you will not get it into your possession for some time to come. I did not understand all that Mr. Gray Was saying about letters of administration and the like, but I know that legal processes are always very tedious. Lawyers can never be hurried."
"How tiresome of them!" said Juliet, with a pout.
"But I have no doubt Mr. Gray would advance you a sum of money if you wanted it," said Mrs. Tracy, on a sudden thought. "I have been wondering whether you would like to go abroad for a while. You have never been on the Continent."
"Not now," said Juliet decisively; "not till I have finished my lessons with Signor Lombardi. After that, I might go and study at the Conservatoire in Paris. Or in Milan, perhaps; I know he thinks very highly of the instruction there. I can have the best possible training now."
"Oh, my dear, you will not think of becoming a public singer," said her mother imploringly, "when your uncle had such an objection to the idea, when he hated the thought of the people you would mix with, and all the glare and excitement and publicity?"
"I have not said that I intend to become a public singer," replied Juliet coldly. "There is no reason Why I should not have the training of one."
"Oh, my dear, why should you? Surely it would bring you into contact with a very undesirable kind of people. I can't bear to think of it for you, Juliet."
Mrs. Tracy knew almost nothing of the lives of public musicians and the like, but she had a vague notion that they were generally persons of doubtful morals and irregular Bohemian habits. It was appalling to think of her darling Juliet being thrown into such society.
But Juliet laughed merrily at her mother's words.
"Undesirable kind of people indeed! Were Beethoven and Mendelssohn, or are Patti and Neilson, undesirable persons? You know nothing at all about it, you absurd little mother!"
But Juliet hardly knew more. Though she still dreamed of herself as a future prima donna, she was becoming very careless and irregular in her music practice. On one day she would practise her scales till the nerves of everyone in the house were distracted, and on the next she would not sing at all. It was now the Christmas vacation, so that these lapses did not immediately bring on her the wrath of Signor Lombardi.
With the suspension of her weekly lessons, her opportunities of seeing Algernon Chalcombe had ceased. Juliet did not regret this. She did not want to see him again. Her cheeks would burn with shame whenever she recalled Mrs. Hayes' remarks.
But the turn of Fortune's wheel which had made her an heiress had opened so many new channels for her imagination to work in, that she gave but few thoughts either to Algernon Chalcombe or to his sister. It was delightful to plan how she would spend the income which seemed to her so ample. She was not without a sense of duty in the matter. She felt that it would be wrong to spend it all upon herself; nor had she any wish do so. No, she would provide every possible comfort for her mother, and, as far as they would let her, increase the happiness of Hannah and Salome; she meant too to be charitable towards the poor, and to give liberally to the collections in church. But, whilst cherishing these intentions, she repelled so decidedly certain suggestions made by Salome that it was little wonder her sisters did not give her credit for such good impulses.
"I hope, Juliet, that now you have so much money you will give me a subscription towards our soup kitchen," said Salome one day. "Our blanket club too is sadly in want of funds. And our poor people are suffering terribly this cold weather. The possession of money is a serious responsibility when there is so much destitution about us."
"Is it?" said Juliet. "You must be thankful to be spared that responsibility."