Salome's colour deepened at this impertinence.
"I know what I should do if I had money," she said; "I give to my poor people all that I can. No one can say I spend much on myself. I buy no clothes that are not absolutely necessary."
"Most certainly you do not. But you need not think that I am going to spend all my money on myself. I mean to help the poor; but I like to be my own almoner. I don't believe in those societies. I think they are too hard on the poor, with their red-tapeism and over-strict regulations," said Juliet, who was rather fond of giving opinions on matters of which she knew nothing.
"Red-tapeism! Really, Juliet, what will you say next?" Salome exclaimed.
But Juliet had no wish to enter into a discussion. She now rose from her cosy chair by the fire, and announced her intention of going out. It was a bitterly cold day, as Juliet felt as she ran upstairs to get ready. In a few minutes she came down comfortably wrapped in her thick, fur-trimmed coat.
As she passed out of the house, she found a pitiable group on the doorstep. A ragged, draggled, wretched-looking woman stood there holding a miserable little baby in her arms. Another tiny child, wasted and rickety, was clutching at her gown, partly supported on its feet by a ragged, hatless girl about eight years old, who looked up at Juliet with what she thought were the saddest eyes she had ever seen.
The woman, in a cringing, whining manner, explained that she had come to ask Miss Grant for a coal ticket.
"Are you very poor?" asked Juliet, feeling as she uttered the question how unnecessary it was.
"Poor, my dear lady! I assure you I've not broken my fast since yesterday. Just look at my gown; look at my boots. They'll tell you whether I'm poor. And as for the children, they're fairly starved, poor dears!"
Juliet glanced at the children, and their blue, pinched faces seemed to confirm the mother's words. The girl's heart was touched. She drew out her purse and opened it. She hesitated but for a moment as she turned over its contents, then held forth to the woman's astonished gaze a glittering gold piece.
"Take this," she said hurriedly; "there, don't say anything, but just take it. You must spend it wisely, you know," she added, as she saw the delighted gleam in the woman's eyes. "Buy food for yourself and the children—food and warm clothes."
"Yes, yes, to be sure, I'll spend it for the children, and God in heaven bless you for it, my dear young lady! They shall know what it is to have a good meal for once, poor dears!"
Juliet glanced again at the children. The eldest child looked startled, but no happier. Her eyes were, if possible, more sorrowful than before. Juliet thought that she could not understand what the money was to do for them. However, she would soon know, and Juliet hurried on her way, pursued by the woman's voluble thanks, and with the happy consciousness of having done a charitable deed.
Juliet had some shopping to do. In the street where the best shops of the suburb were, she encountered Flossie Chalcombe, who generally preferred to walk where there were shops, the windows of which she could scan.
"Oh, Juliet!" she exclaimed delightedly. "What an age it is since I saw you! Why do you never come our way now? I began to think you wanted to drop my acquaintance since you have become so rich."
"What nonsense, Flossie! Who told you, pray, that I had become rich?"
"Never you mind. It's true, is it not?"
"I am not rich exactly; but it is true that I have inherited my uncle's property, and shall have a comfortable income of my own for the future," said Juliet, not without a sense of increased dignity.
"Oh, you lucky girl! How I envy you! If you knew how I have to beg and pray to get any money out of father. Things are horrid at home now, Juliet. Algernon and father have quarrelled, and Algie has gone off in a tiff. It was all about money, of course. Algie is so extravagant, and father will not pay his bills."
"Then where is your brother now?" asked Juliet.
"I do not know. I have not seen him for weeks. I suppose he is somewhere in London."
"But he was at home when you addressed that letter to me for him," said Juliet.
"I address a letter to you for him!" said Flossie, opening her eyes widely. "I never did such a thing. Do you mean to say that Algernon writes to you?"
"He wrote once; but I have told him he must never do so again," said Juliet, colouring deeply. "It was certainly your writing which I saw on the envelope, Flossie."
"It was not, for I knew nothing about it. Algie must have imitated my hand; he can copy any kind of writing. How artful of him!"
At this moment, Juliet caught sight of the tall, substantial form of Mrs. Hayes approaching at a little distance. Wishing to avoid a meeting with this lady, she now bade Flossie good-bye, and entered the shop by which they had been standing.
CHAPTER XIII
MORE MISTAKES THAN ONE
"MR. AINGER wishes to see you, please, miss."
Salome looked up from her sewing, startled by Ann's words.
"Mr. Ainger!" she repeated. "Did he ask for Mrs. Tracy?"
"No, miss, he asked for you."
"Have you shown him into the drawing-room, Ann?"
"Certainly, miss," replied the maid, in the tone of one who resents an unnecessary question.
Salome's colour, always high in tone, had risen considerably. She laid down her work and rose quickly, with a look in her eyes that betrayed nervous excitement. She was alone. Her mother had gone out with Juliet to do some shopping. It was too early in the day for ordinary calls, and Mr. Ainger was not in the habit of paying such. He had never come to the house before and asked especially for her. Of course it meant nothing, but—
Salome glanced at the mirror above the mantelshelf to see if her person were perfectly neat—a needless precaution. Not a hair was out of place on the flat, smooth, shiny surface of her head. Her utterly plain gown was neatness itself. But the eyes that met hers in the glass had an excited gleam. They looked as if they thought something was going to happen.
Mr. Ainger was standing in the centre of the drawing-room. He was a tall man, with large hands and feet, and a very big nose. He had the expression of one who loved investigation.
"Good-morning, Miss Grant," he said, in loud, full tones, shaking hands with her as though he were anxious to get through that inevitable but unimportant preliminary with as much despatch as possible. Salome's heart ceased to flutter, and her spirits sank.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Ainger?" she said, indicating a chair.
"Oh, thanks." He hesitated for a moment, then dropped into a chair which was not the one she had meant him to take, but one a great deal too low for a man of his stature, in which he sat huddled up with his big nose almost touching his knees. His attitude was so grotesque, that had Juliet been there she would have found it difficult to keep her countenance; but a sense of humour was not amongst the gifts Nature had bestowed upon Salome Grant, and she found no difficulty in maintaining the meek, humble, reverential demeanour which she felt became her in the presence of one whom she regarded as a spiritual guide.
"I want to know if you can clear up a matter which is puzzling me," he said. "I have just come from your district, and I am sorry to say I bring news that will distress you. That woman Malins, who took the pledge only last Thursday, is drinking again."
"Ah," said Salome, sorrowfully shaking her head, "I never thought that she would keep it."
"No? Well, indeed, there seems little hope, humanly speaking, for those who are so enthralled by the passion for drink. But the strangest thing about it is—I am sure I shall surprise you when I say it—that the people in the house where she lives seem to think that it is your fault."
"My fault!" repeated Salome, in amazement. "My fault that Mrs. Malins has taken to drink again! How can that be?"
"I knew I should astonish you," said the curate. "But the fact is, they tell a most curious story to the effect that she came here to ask you for a coal ticket, and that you did not give her a ticket, but gave her instead a whole gold sovereign—yes, those were the words, 'a whole gold sovereign—to buy coal with.'"
"What an amazing statement!" said Salome. "Of course you did not believe it. As if I should give money to Mrs. Malins, to say nothing of the amount, knowing her as I do!"
"It certainly seemed to me most unlike your usual good sense," replied Mr. Ainger. "But they insist on it that she came back from your house with a sovereign in her possession. The woman who lives in the next room declares that she showed it to her, and said that a young lady here had given it to her. Could she have stolen it, do you think?"
"Not here," said Salome, "for she did not come inside the house. I went to the door and spoke to her. I told her she was not entitled to a ticket, and she went away at once. I remember that she smiled broadly at me, and did not seem to mind my refusal. Perhaps she picked up the sovereign in the street."
"Not very likely. I never pick them up; I wish I could," said Mr. Ainger, with a smile. "I asked Mrs. Malins' little girl if she could tell me how her mother got the money, and she said that when they were waiting at your door, a young lady came out and gave it to her, saying she was to spend it on food and clothes. Of course Mrs. Molina could spend it only in one way. She left her children starving whilst she went off to drink, and when she came home intoxicated, and found them crying for food, she beat them cruelly. I think it is a case for the Society for the Protection of Children. But I should like to know the meaning of this story. Could your sister have given her the money, do you think?"
"Decidedly not," exclaimed Salome quickly. "Hannah is the last person to do such an unwise thing." Then like a flash came the thought of Juliet. Could she have done this thing? It was not impossible. There was no accounting for Juliet's freaks.
"You have another sister," said the curate, with some hesitation.
"Ah, yes, Juliet," said Salome. "I was just thinking that it is not impossible that Juliet may have given Mrs. Maims the money. She is capable of doing the maddest things."
"Don't call it madness," said Mr. Ainger, his manner softening. "It is generosity misapplied. There is something beautiful in the impetuosity with which youth rushes to relieve distress as soon as it is aware of it."
"I cannot call it generosity to throw away a sovereign like that," said Salome, with scarce concealed irritation; "I call it an act of pure folly."
"Oh, you must not be too hard on her," he replied. "We, who are so much older, must learn to make allowance for the thoughtlessness of youth."
Mr. Ainger happened to be several years older than Salome Grant. It was not, therefore, entirely agreeable to her feelings that he should thus class her with himself amongst the seniors who must learn to tolerate the foibles of youth, though in other connections, his use of the first person plural would have afforded her the utmost gratification. She had always imagined herself quite young in comparison with him.
"I will ask Juliet about it when she comes in," was all she could now find to say.
And the curate rose to take his departure.
As she was accompanying him to the hall door, Mrs. Tracy and Juliet entered the house. The curate's face brightened as Mrs. Tracy greeted him in her cheerful, kindly way. Juliet, though she privately thought him a very ugly and uninteresting man, had a smile for Mr. Ainger as she shook hands with him. He looked with fascinated eyes at the fresh young face, into which the keen air had brought such a lovely glow, and at the golden locks curling so prettily beneath her little fur cap. Salome saw his look of admiration, and her tones as she addressed her sister were more severe than she intended.
"Did you give a sovereign to Mrs. Malins when she was here the other day, Juliet?"
"Mrs. Malins!" repeated Juliet. "I don't know any Mrs. Malins. Why should I give her a sovereign?"
"She is a woman belonging to my district," said Salome. "A wretched ragged creature, who came to the house with her miserable children."
A confused, guilty look came to Juliet's countenance.
"Oh yes," she said hurriedly, "I must own to that act of imprudence; but what does it matter, Salome?"
"It matters thus much," said Salome. "Mrs. Malins is a woman we are trying to reclaim from drunkenness. By your foolish gift, you have driven her to drink again, for she could not resist the temptation which came with the possession of so much money. If you had confided to me your wish to be generous, I could have told you how to gratify it to better purpose."
"I did not wish to be generous," said Juliet indignantly. "I saw those poor starved looking children, and I wanted to help them. I told her to buy food and clothes for them."
"It was much good to tell her," said Salome. "The children got nothing by it. She left them to starve, and later in her drunkenness beat them because they cried for food."
"But that was not your fault," said the curate, touched by Juliet's troubled look. "No one can blame you for that. Your impulse was most kind, most good. It is only a pity you did not know the woman's character."
His words gave Salome a sharp pang, the nature of which she hardly knew. That she should hear him speak in that warm, approving tone of Juliet's goodness!
But Juliet cared not in the least how Mr. Ainger might regard her action. His approval could yield her no consolation. Vexed and mortified, she turned away; and after a word or two with Mrs. Tracy, the curate quitted the house.
"It is always so, if I try to do any good," said Juliet bitterly to her mother.
They were alone, for Salome had been satisfied without endeavouring to further improve the occasion, and had gone upstairs as soon as Mr. Ainger departed.
"Oh, my dear, you must not let one failure dishearten you," her mother replied.
"It is not one failure," returned Juliet impatiently. "It is always the same. I cannot be good, as I have told you before."
Juliet believed that she was nothing if she were not sincere; but in speaking thus she was shuffling with her conscience, for she knew well that she had never made one resolute, whole-hearted endeavour to set her life right. That which barred her from the path of goodness was her own will. We cannot take our own way and God's way too, and Juliet had deliberately chosen to follow her own way.
Already that way was leading her into slippery and even crooked paths. There was no meeting now with Algernon Chalcombe at a railway station, or where there was risk of their being observed; but Juliet saw him frequently. They met at Signor Lombardi's, with whom Algernon was sufficiently intimate to permit of his "dropping in" upon the signor pretty often. Of course Signor Lombardi perfectly understood the attraction which drew the young man to his rooms. There was a romantic vein in his nature which made him very willing to assist, as long as he incurred no responsibility in the matter, in what he considered to be an affaire de cœur.
Algernon made the most of his opportunities. A clever man of the world, knowing the full value of every art that can fascinate or beguile, it was not hard for him to gain influence over one so simple and ignorant as Juliet. She never doubted that the world was as he painted it, and that a brilliant future was within her reach. No one had ever talked to her as he talked to her. His deep, rich, musical voice thrilled her as she listened to it, and his tender, admiring glances made her heart flutter with delight. How could she doubt that such a voice spoke truth, how distrust the love that looked at her with such soft, warm glances? The flattery with which he fed her was very sweet. She did not think it flattery. She seemed to have found herself in becoming acquainted with him. No one else appraised her at her true worth. She was a queen, and he was her devoted slave. A future of glory was before her, and in the brilliant orbit she hoped to follow, he would be her faithful satellite.
Juliet had never been more self-confident than during the spring and summer which followed her uncle's death. Signor Lombardi no longer found fault with her continually; he had ceased to utter bitter sarcasms or to manifest irritable impatience. He was again exhibiting the charming manners he as a rule reserved for new pupils. The way he looked at her when she was singing convinced Juliet that he found her admirable. He no longer hesitated when Juliet asked his opinion of her voice, but praised it warmly for its clearness, flexibility, timbre. He gave Juliet the songs she liked, and was not so strict with regard to exercises. Juliet did not perceive that he was giving her easier music than at first. Her vanity gave its own pleasing interpretation to every circumstance, and her sanguine spirit drew the happiest auguries from his words.
But her eager, excited frame of mind was not happiness. Juliet could not but feel conscience-stricken when on her return from her singing lesson, she had to explain that she had been "detained" at Signor Lombardi's. The simplicity with which her mother received the statement, her utter lack of suspicion, heightened Juliet's sense of shame. But the feeling was not strong enough to resist the fascination which Algernon exercised upon her. She would sometimes resolve that she would break off her acquaintance with him; but it was a resolution more easily formed than fulfilled.
The sense of wrong-doing, the lack of harmony within herself, resulted in discord without. Her irritability and petulance made her more of a "trouble the house" than ever. Her sisters declared that Juliet's ways were past endurance, and spoiled their home life. Their mother, whilst trying hard to excuse her darling, felt the justice of their complaints. Mrs. Tracy shed many a tear over her spoiled child's naughtiness, but eventually succeeded in persuading herself that Juliet "meant well," and would "come right" in the end.
Judging her life from the outside, it certainly seemed that Juliet should have been good and happy, for she had much to make her so. She had a rare power of attracting others to herself, and her society was much sought at this time. Invitations to garden-parties, picnics, and more formal social gatherings became more and more numerous. She grew increasingly impatient of The Poplars as a residence. The rooms were so small that it was impossible for her to receive her friends as she would like. One change after another was proposed and discussed; but nothing was decided upon, Mrs. Tracy still finding it difficult to make up her mind.
Wherever she went, Juliet's beauty, her taste in dress, her charming, bright manner attracted universal attention to her. She loved to have it so. The satisfaction of her vanity was complete for the moment, when, as sometimes happened, she chanced to hear her hostess say words such as these to some guest about to depart, "Oh, don't go yet. Juliet Tracy is going to sing, and you should hear her. She has such a lovely voice. One does not often hear such singing by an amateur. It is a real treat, I assure you."
The sensation caused by her singing in private circles, and the flattering comments it elicited, were to Juliet a delightful foretaste of what awaited her in the future. But to few persons did she breathe a word of the hope of which she daily dreamed. For all her apparent frankness and openness, there was a vein of reticence in Juliet's character. She did not wish it to be known that she wanted to become a public singer. She would like to surprise her friends, to reveal herself to them as well as to the unknown public as a new and dazzling star on the musical firmament.
With her days thus gaily occupied, the summer passed swiftly on. The London season came to its end. Signor Lombardi departed for the Continent. He did not contemplate returning to give lessons in London. He had been appointed to a musical post in Milan which he had long coveted. Juliet was in despair at the departure of her master. He too seemed to regret the parting. He urged her to come and study in Milan, representing in glowing terms the advantages that city offered for a musical education.
"Could I get the training of an opera singer there?" Juliet inquired.
"You could be trained for anything," the signor answered, with a slight curious twitch of the mouth. "You would have the finest facilities for cultivating your voice."
Juliet went home fired with a determination to go to Milan in the following autumn, if she could persuade her mother to accompany her. But Mrs. Tracy was averse to a plan which she foresaw would lead to Juliet's making her début as an operatic singer. She raised objections and suggested alternatives till Juliet's patience was exhausted, and she declared that, rather than not go, she would go alone.
But Mrs. Tracy was not much afraid that she would make good her words. Experience had taught her that Juliet did not invariably accomplish all that she vowed to do. Juliet was in many things very much of a child yet. She had never taken a long journey alone. The unknown, whilst it fascinated her, was yet not without its terrors. Tenderly taken care of all her days, she could not imagine what it would be to depend entirely upon herself, far from the mother who had always made life smooth for her. Her heart sank and her courage failed whenever she tried to picture herself living a lonely, unprotected life as an art student abroad.
"If only I knew what to do! If only I had someone to help me!" she would say to herself.
She said it one day to Algernon Chalcombe, when Flossie had beguiled her into a meeting with her which proved to be a meeting with her brother also. They met in one of the parks, and Flossie soon strolled off with the dogs to a pond, leaving Algernon free to talk as he would to Juliet. Algernon Chalcombe naturally made the most of the opportunity. Juliet was told that if she needed a helper, he was at her command. There was nothing he desired so much as to serve her, if she would give him the right. He could help her to the end she desired, and he would; but she must trust herself wholly to him. He loved her better than anyone else in the world. No one could love her as he did. Could she not love him a little in return?
And gradually Juliet allowed herself to be persuaded where she was already more than half won.
She whispered that she thought she could. She let him take her hand and hold it in his. She even said that perhaps some day, though not for a great while yet, she would be his wife. At least, she was sure that she would never wish to marry anyone else.
CHAPTER XIV
TEMPTATION
"I AM going shopping this afternoon," said Juliet. "I have heard of the prettiest cotton dresses, and so cheap that it is really economy to buy them."
Like other young ladies given to extravagant expenditure, Juliet liked to maintain that she studied economy in her purchases.
"I admire your practice of economy," said Salome. "You go to the other side of London to buy a thing a few pence cheaper than you would get it here, and never take into consideration the money you spend in travelling to and fro."
"I do take it into consideration," protested Juliet, "and I am sure that I shall save my railway fare three or four times over by buying there. You need not think I am so foolish as to go all that way to buy a yard or two of ribbon. I shall make several purchases when I am there."
"Of that I have no doubt," said Salome, with a smile that provoked Juliet. "You will buy half a dozen things you do not want because they happen to be cheap, and delude yourself with the idea that that is economy."
"Oh, I hope Juliet will not buy things that she does not want," said Mrs. Tracy cheerfully, "If you would not mind waiting till to-morrow, I believe I could go with you, darling. Perhaps I might see some curtains there that would do for the drawing-room."
Juliet shook her head impatiently.
"Oh, mother, I must go to-day," she said; "I do so want to get something to wear that is not mourning."
For Juliet had not yet entirely cast off the black she had donned as mourning for her uncle. The soft greys, the dainty admixtures of black and white which she was now wearing, became her charmingly; but Juliet was wearying of these. Her mother looked at her as she spoke, and wondered a little that Juliet should be so impatient to leave off her mourning for the uncle who had been so good to her, and to whom she owed so much. Were young girls, with all their freshness and bloom, apt to be a trifle hard-hearted? But Mrs. Tracy dismissed the thought as it arose. It was not to be expected that a girl should grieve long for an elderly man. What more natural than that she should crave fresh and pretty clothes? Ralph Tracy would not have wished her to wear black for him at all.
Juliet went away to get ready to go out. Shopping she must go, whether her mother approved or not, and nothing did she less desire than that anyone should accompany her on this particular expedition, since she expected to meet Algernon in the course of her journey.
A worried, almost a careworn look, came to Juliet's young face as soon as she was alone. The burden of the secret pledge she had given weighed heavily upon her heart. Was it a pledge? She had not meant it to be; she had not actually promised to be his wife; but she knew that Algernon regarded her as betrothed to him. She hated the secrecy on which he insisted as a cruel necessity of their case. What was to come of it all? She would ask herself with a thrill of terror. If only her mother knew, she would sigh at one moment, and the next she would shiver with dread at the thought that her mother might possibly one day discover her duplicity.
When Juliet ran into the dining-room to give her mother the kiss, without bestowing which she never left her for any length of time, the result of uneasy thought was visible in the way her delicate brows were contracted. Her mother looked at her anxiously, wondering why it was that she now so often detected this expression of worry on Juliet's face. Must the girl lose the bright, open, childlike expression which had been one of her greatest charms? But as she watched her, Juliet's look changed to one of excitement and surprise. She was standing by the window, and she had caught sight of a familiar form passing the gate.
"Oh, mother!" she exclaimed. "I do believe that was Mr. Mainprice who went by! It was wonderfully like him. Whoever he is, he has gone to Mr. Ainger's," she reported, as she stretched herself on tiptoe to get a better view of the individual in question. "I really think it is Mr. Mainprice."
"Very likely," said Salome quietly; "a Mr. Mainprice is coming to conduct special services at St. Jude's next week. I wondered if he could be the one you knew. I think Mr. Hayes called him the Rev. Arthur Mainprice."
"Then it is the same," said Juliet, "and that is why he is here."
"Oh, I am very glad of that," said Mrs. Tracy brightly. "I liked him when we met him at Lynton. And you seemed to take to him, Juliet. You will like to hear him preach."
But Juliet's face had fallen. Thoughts had been awakened within her that had a bitter flavour.
"I do not know about that," she said, as she turned to go. "It does not follow because you like a man to talk to, that you will like to hear him preach."
She went hurriedly from the house, and walked at her quickest pace towards the station. She was presently aware of firm, quick steps coming behind her. Fast as she walked, they walked faster, till they slackened at her side.
"I thought I could not be mistaken," said the pleasant voice of Mr. Mainprice. "How do you do, Miss Tracy? I caught sight of you as you came from that house, and I have been hurrying since to overtake you."
"I am very well, thank you, Mr. Mainprice," said Juliet. "So you are in London again. We last met at Lynton, if you remember."
"I am not likely to forget it," he replied. "It will soon be a year since we met. How much has happened since!"
"Yes," said Juliet, looking down.
He observed her more closely, and it struck him that she had changed considerably during the interval. She had lost none of her beauty; she was if possible prettier than before, but somewhat of her childlike charm had gone. The lines of her face had hardened; she looked older and more determined, and, he fancied, less happy than when he had seen her at Lynton.
"I was very grieved to hear of your uncle's death," he said gently. "I little thought when I said good-bye to him at Lynton that I should see him no more. He was the best of friends, one of the kindest, most unselfish men I ever met with. He was very happy after his return to England. The meeting with you and your mother made such a difference to his life. You must be glad to think how much you added to his happiness during those last months."
"You mean that he added to my happiness," said Juliet. "I did nothing to make him happy. He never thought of himself, and I did not either. I am afraid," she added, suddenly moved to confession, "I am a very selfish person."
"We all find ourselves that, I think," he replied. "We hardly begin to be otherwise till we have recognised that fact."
She made no reply.
"You were rejoicing in the freedom to take your own way when I saw you last," he said, regarding her with close observation. "You were bent on having your own way in everything, and believed that so you would find happiness. Is that still your aim, or have you come to take a larger and nobler view of life?"
Juliet lifted her head and looked at him with defiant eyes. "You find me no wiser, Mr. Mainprice. I still like my own way better than anything else, and I mean to have it too!"
She paused as she spoke, for they had reached the station, and held out her hand to him.
He looked at her in silence for a moment, and as she met his earnest glance a great wave of colour suffused her face, for it seemed to her as if those grave, deep eyes could read the very secrets of her heart, and knew all that she was ashamed to avow, even the purpose of her going forth that afternoon, the consciousness of which now made her tingle with shame. Her eyes dropped beneath his.
"Then I am sorry for you," he said gently. "I need not ask if you find your own way yield you happiness."
She made no reply, but turned from him quickly. There was a choking sensation in her throat, and her eyelids smarted from the hot tears she with difficulty restrained. But she fancied it was only anger that moved her thus strangely.
"What right has he to speak to me so?" she asked herself in wrath. "What business is it of his whether I am happy or not? And to say he was sorry for me! Sorry for me!"
The words rankled in her mind, and could not be forgotten. Her anger towards Mr. Mainprice increased, as she felt that he had spoiled her afternoon. She made but few purchases after all. Somehow she could not interest herself in the pretty things exhibited to her. She felt as if she had suddenly grown old, and life were altogether stale and devoid of satisfaction. Was it possible that anyone had good reason to be sorry for her?
She reached the spot where she had promised to meet Algernon Chalcombe rather before the time appointed, and he was not there. This increased her mental irritation. She was ashamed of the understanding which kept her there, scanning the shop windows till she was sick of them, and looking furtively from right to left, in dread of meeting the gaze of an acquaintance, though there seemed little cause to fear that, since she had no friends residing in this quarter of London.
He came in sight only a few seconds after the time named, but to Juliet's impatience it seemed that he was very late. She saw him ere he perceived her. He was walking languidly along with his eyes on the ground. As usual, he was attired in faultless style, and his air was that of an habitué of clubland. He was undeniably a handsome man, but his countenance would not have inspired everyone with confidence. His eyes had the weary, strained look, and his complexion the wan, unhealthy hue which tells of nights passed in feverish excitement.
But Juliet's experience could not teach her the meaning of his looks. She failed to observe how anxious and harassed was his expression as he came towards her. She was only impatient that he did not look more eagerly for her, but moved along with the air of one whose inner life was far more absorbing than the outer.
Had she known them, Algernon Chalcombe's circumstances might well have excused his self-absorption. His endeavour to lead a life of pleasure and luxury without the disagreeable necessity of working for the means of maintaining it, was landing him in serious difficulties. He had, indeed, a way of gaining money which is the exact opposite to work; but of all sources of revenue, this is the most precarious, since it depends on the caprice of the goddess men name Luck. Of late, that goddess had turned the cold shoulder upon Algernon Chalcombe, whence resulted the embarrassments which made him, whenever alone, revolve wearily in his mind every possible and impossible scheme for obtaining money.
But now he is raising his eyes, and as they meet Juliet's, the shadow flees from his face. There can be no doubt that he loves her, when he looks at her like that.
In a few minutes, they were walking amidst the trees in Kensington Gardens. He guided her to the most secluded spot he could find, and they sat down beneath the shade of a tall beech. No one was near them. An opening in the glade revealed a glimpse of gleaming water, and the voices of children playing on the brink of the pond came to them softened by distance.
"What have you been doing since I saw you, darling?" asked Algernon, gazing at her fondly. "Lots of shopping, I suppose. Buying pretty frocks, eh? I fear you are getting to be a very extravagant young lady."
"That is what everyone says," returned Juliet, pouting her pretty lips; "but I am not extravagant, though it is nice to be able to spend what I like. Do you know all my business affairs are settled at last? Mr. Gray has been more expeditious than we had hoped. I have my own account at the bank now. You can't think how proud I felt yesterday when I wrote my first cheque."
"I can well believe it," said Algernon, his eyes gleaming as he spoke.
This was an experience with which he could fully sympathise.
"I only wish I had an uncle to leave me money. I am desperately hard up just now. That father of mine has treated me abominably."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Juliet. "If—if only—" she hesitated. It was not easy to offer him money.
"Never mind about me," said Algernon; "I shall pull along somehow. It is time now to consider your future seriously, Juliet. Too much time has been lost already. We must begin to act, now that you have the means at your command. We cannot go on longer as we have been going."
"No, oh no; I feel as you do about that," said Juliet, with a little shiver of excitement. "I am impatient to begin, if only you will tell me what to do. I shall feel so much happier when I know that I am working steadily for the end I have in view."
Her thoughts recurred to Mr. Mainprice as she spoke. When he heard of her as a singer of worldwide renown, adored, courted, and rolling in wealth, he would not be able to say that he was sorry for her.
"You had better study abroad," said Algernon; "I should advise your going to the Conservatoire at Paris."
"Signor Lombardi spoke highly of the instruction at Milan," said Juliet timidly. "I wanted mother to go with me there, but she would not think of it."
"You could not go alone," he said decisively.
"No?" she repeated. "Why not?"
"Why not?" he repeated. "Do you need to ask?" Then bending nearer to her and speaking in low, tender tones, he said, "I will tell you, darling, why it would not do. It is because you are a young and lovely girl, and need someone to protect you. If you went to and fro as a friendless woman student, and mingled in the mixed circles of the artistic world, you might be subjected to indignities—to insults; I shudder when I think to what you might be exposed. No, you must not go alone. I cannot consent to that."
Juliet's eyes were downcast; her face was glowing. The prospect his words presented to her filled her with alarm. She shrank from the thought of being treated with indignity, of being jostled amongst vulgar, ill-bred people, who would accord her no deference.
"What can I do, then?" she asked, rather hopelessly. "Can I not be trained in England?"
He did not reply for a moment.
"I heard someone say the other day," continued Juliet, "that it was now possible to get as good a musical education in England as anywhere on the Continent."
Algernon shrugged his shoulders.
"You can be trained here, of course. There are plenty of singers who have never been out of England, but—I thought you meant to aim high."
"I do aim high," said Juliet, with a little toss of the head; "you know that I aim at the top. I could not bear to be anything but a first-rate singer."
"Then you must go abroad," said Algernon. "The London winter is not good for you. A season or two in Italy would mellow your voice and bring it to perfection, to say nothing of the training you would get there."
"Yes, yes," said Juliet eagerly; "but how can I arrange it?"
"There is but one way in which we can arrange it," he said slowly.
"And that is?"
"You must go as my wife, darling," he said, turning his eyes on her and speaking in low, impressive tones. "You must go with me as your husband by your side to protect you. There is no other way."
"Algernon!" Juliet looked at him with startled eyes, and recoiled a little from him. "What can you mean? How could I marry you now? Oh, that cannot happen for a long, long time. Mother would never give her consent."
"I know that, dearest. Neither she nor your sisters would ever give their consent, either to your marrying me or to your being trained as an opera singer. If you are in earnest, you must make up your mind to act independently of them."
"Algernon, you would not ask me to marry you without mother's consent? Oh, I could never do that!"
"I must confess, Juliet, that I see no other way to the attainment of your wishes. If you truly love me, you will not shrink from trusting your future to me; but if I have deceived myself, if you do not really love me—then, of course—in that case—"
He paused abruptly, as if the conclusion of his sentence were too painful to utter. If the look of distress his countenance wore were not genuine, it was well simulated.
"Oh, don't speak so!" Juliet implored him. "You know that I care for you more than anyone else, only—"
"And, of course, if you are in earnest in wishing to cultivate your beautiful voice to the best purpose," he continued, not hesitating to interrupt her, "you will not allow yourself to be hindered by the prejudices of your family. It seems a thousand pities that so rare a gift should not be cultivated to the highest advantage. I am certain that a brilliant career lies before you, if you will enter on it. Nothing would make me happier than to serve you. I would watch over you and guard you from all harm. I would be content to take a secondary place, to stand behind you for ever, if only I could see you win your laurels as a queen of song. But I can only help you in one way. It would never do to suffer the least shadow to fall on your fair fame. Darling, cannot you trust yourself to me?"
Juliet trembled as she heard his words. She looked into his eyes, and their passionate eagerness seemed to promise her even more than his words of love, protection, and utter devotion. The picture he drew of the future presented to her a dazzling temptation; but her heart failed her as she contemplated the step he asked her to take.
"Oh, do not tempt me!" she cried. "I could not do it. I am sure it would be wrong. It would grieve mother so. I believe it would break her heart."
"Not at all. Hearts do not break so easily. She would be angry at first, no doubt, but she would soon relent and forgive us. You are so ignorant of the world, my sweet, unsophisticated little Juliet, or you would know that such marriages are of frequent occurrence. To elope is the only thing to be done when parents are obstinate. That soon brings them round; their stony hearts melt, and everyone is happy ever after."
"If I could think it would be so in our case," said Juliet; "but I cannot believe it."
"You may, dearest, you may."
And insidiously, he strove to remove every misgiving, and to present his temptation in forms more and more alluring, till he had made evil appear as good, and well-nigh persuaded Juliet that that from which she at first had shrunk as a suggestion of wickedness, was in fact a positive duty.
CHAPTER XV
JULIET LEAVES HOME
THE special services conducted by the Rev. Arthur Mainprice at St. Jude's Church excited considerable interest, and were largely attended. Juliet's mother and sisters went to several of them, and did their best to persuade her to accompany them. But in vain they spoke with enthusiasm of the preacher's eloquence, and repeated many of his earnest, pointed words. Juliet would not betray the least interest in him or his sayings. She had no wish to listen to the preaching of a man who had presumed to say that he was sorry for her.
If the words he spoke in private were so ill-chosen, his pulpit utterances might be still more objectionable. Moreover, Juliet was quick to perceive that her elders were anxious that she should attend the services, thinking that they would "do her good," and this perception was sufficient to drive her into an obstinate determination that to not one of the services would she go.
But, notwithstanding her apparent indifference, Juliet took a keen interest in what was going on. No words which the others let fall concerning Mr. Mainprice escaped her ears. She was quick to see that one evening Salome came back from church with eyelids suspiciously red, and she was aware of a change in her sister during the days that followed. It provoked her that Salome should present an invulnerable front to the darts of her sarcasm, and that her stinging words should meet with no like retort. She could not quarrel alone, and she felt vexed with Salome for declining to play her wonted part. It hurt her sorely when Salome one day took considerable pains in order to render her a service. She did not want Salome to begin to evince tokens of kindliness. She wanted her to continue to be disagreeable, and everything in the house to be as unpleasant as possible, that it might be easier to do that which she was secretly planning.
Much as Juliet had resented Mr. Mainprice's words, at times she could almost have owned that they were not uttered without cause. There were moments when she was sorry for herself, when a horror of what lay before her took possession of her mind, and she was ready to cry out to be delivered from her own way. Often at night, when Mrs. Tracy imagined Juliet to be tranquilly sleeping, the girl was shedding tears and stifling sobs, which threatened to disturb her mother. But with the morning light, glowing visions of the future would visit her again, and self-will urge her forward along the path she had chosen.
"Mother," asked Hannah one day, "have you and Juliet come to any decision with regard to our removing from this house? Here is another quarter more than half gone. It is really time something was definitely settled."
"Nothing is decided, dear, and I do not know what to say about it. Juliet appears to have lost her interest in the matter of late. She does not seem to care whether we go or stay."
"That is like Juliet. A little while ago she was so impatient to move into a larger house that she thought we could make every arrangement and get out of this in six weeks' time. I never knew such a creature of moods and tenses as she is."
"She is just at an age when girls often do not know their own minds," said Mrs. Tracy. "I was the same before I married. For my part, I am quite content to remain here, as long as she is willing to do so." And she cast a loving glance round the familiar room.
Her secret hope was that Juliet might ere long win a home of her own. Not that there seemed any likelihood of the girl's marrying at present, but Mrs. Tracy was one of those fond, sanguine mothers who easily persuade themselves of the probability of the happiness they desire for their offspring. Nothing seemed to her more unlikely than that Juliet should remain unsought in marriage. It could not be unreasonable to count upon the arrival of a suitor in every way eligible. Thus Juliet was not the only one who dreamed of a happy future for herself. The visions wrought by her mother's imagination of the life of this darling child might be painted in more commonplace hues, but they were none the less entrancing to the dreamer.
"Has Juliet yet made up her mind with regard to her summer holiday?" asked Hannah. "I have heard her make half a hundred different suggestions, but I have no idea which she finds the most alluring."
"I don't think she knows herself," replied Mrs. Tracy. "A little while ago she was wild to go to Norway. Then she proposed that we should go to Switzerland and the Italian lakes, and thence to Milan for a few weeks, that she might have some lessons of Signor Lombardi. But I do not feel equal to so much knocking about, and I think it better she should not go to Milan, so I discouraged it. You know that the Felgates have asked her to join them at Folkestone, and go across to Boulogne for a week or two; but she declares they would bore her dreadfully, and that if she went on to the Continent, she would want to go farther than Boulogne."
"She is a difficult person to please," said Hannah. "A princess could not be more fastidious. I thought she liked Dora Felgate."
"So she does. I do not think she has actually declined the invitation. I must ask her to decide soon, for our plans are dependent on hers."
"Most people are leaving town now," said Hannah. "And the sooner Juliet gets away the better, for I met Flossie Chalcombe yesterday, accompanied by a young man whom, by the likeness between them, I judged to be her brother. Mrs. Hayes said some time ago that she believed he had left the neighbourhood, but he is evidently here again?"
"Oh, my dear, I do not think you need fear that Juliet would have anything to say to him," replied Mrs. Tracy hurriedly. "She is wiser now, and feels her responsibilities more. Her talking to him at the railway station was just a piece of girlish folly."
"I am glad to hear she is wiser," said Hannah drily.
It was growing dusk as they talked. They were sitting by the open window of the drawing-room, which looked into the tiny strip of garden at the back of the house. Salome was moving to and fro there, watering the flower-borders, which she kept in beautiful order.
Suddenly the house door was heard to open, and the next minute Juliet entered the room carrying her tennis-racket. They knew that she had been playing tennis with friends in the neighbourhood. It had long ceased to be light enough to play, but it was not surprising that she should linger for a chat when the game was over. Mrs. Tracy was far from guessing that Juliet had but now come from a stolen interview with Algernon Chalcombe.
"Sitting in the dark?" said Juliet, as she threw herself wearily into a chair. "Well, you are wise, for it is deliciously cool here. What a warm evening it has been!"
"I have not found it at all too warm," said Mrs. Tracy.
"Ah, you have not been playing tennis."
"Did you have a good game, dear?" asked her mother.
"Yes," said Juliet indifferently.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Salome had finished her gardening, and was carefully putting away everything she had used.
"Mother," said Juliet suddenly, "I mean to join the Felgates at Folkestone. I shall go to them on Tuesday."
"My dear," exclaimed Mrs. Tracy in surprise, "have you really made up your mind to that?"
"Yes," said Juliet in a quick, decided manner, "I have made up my mind. I shall write to Dora to-morrow."
"If your mind has not changed by then," said Hannah. "I should not wonder if you have another impulse to-morrow morning."
"No, I have made my decision, and I shall abide by it," said Juliet, with a curious little quaver in her tones.
Her mother turned towards her as she heard it, but it was impossible to perceive more of Juliet's countenance than the dim outline.
"Are you sure, dear, that you will like going to Folkestone as well as anything else?" asked Mrs. Tracy. "You have not decided too hastily, I hope?"
"Oh no, I shall like it well enough," said Juliet. "The Felgate girls are always good company, and the going to Boulogne will be fun. Perhaps Mr. Felgate may be persuaded to take us to Paris for a few days. Dora said something about it."
"Ah, you would enjoy that," said her mother. "Let me see. You expect to be with them for three weeks, do you not? Will that be change enough for you, or will you like to go somewhere else afterwards?"
"Oh, that will be enough," said Juliet hastily; "at any rate, that is all I can decide on now."
"Very well, dear; only you know it is often necessary to plan a little in advance. It may be impossible to get such rooms as you would like, if you put off securing them."
"I will take the chance of that," said Juliet. "I hate to be tied down to things."
"If Juliet goes to Folkestone, there is no reason why you and I and Salome should not go to the Isle of Wight, as we talked of doing," said Hannah, addressing her mother.
"No, perhaps not. We will see," said Mrs. Tracy, with a sigh, conscious that she cared little about going anywhere if Juliet did not accompany her.
At this moment, Salome entered the room. It was never Salome's way to sit idle in the twilight, and she at once kindled a lamp which stood on a side-table where the air from the open window would not blow on it.
"Oh, Salome," exclaimed Juliet fretfully, as she turned her head aside from the light, "why need you have done that? It was so much nicer without that glare."
Salome without a word placed a shade over the offending lamp, and seating herself near it, opened her work-bag. Then she said quietly—
"Mr. Mainprice is to preach at our church on Sunday."
The racket Juliet was still holding suddenly fell on the floor with a bang. Mrs. Tracy uttered a nervous cry; but, recovering herself, she said—
"Oh, I am glad to hear that! Does he only take one Sunday?"
"I suppose so," replied Salome; "I believe Mr. Hayes will be back for the Sunday after. It is more than a fortnight since they started for Normandy, and they only meant to be away three weeks."
No one spoke again for some moments. Juliet was lying back in her chair dreamily watching a large moth which had fluttered in at the window and was circling round and round the lamp in ever-narrowing gyrations. Suddenly she started up with a cry—
"Oh, save it, Salome, save it! It is such a beauty! Don't let it burn itself!"
Salome looked round in bewilderment, not seeing to what Juliet's words referred. When she understood, it was too late. Drawn by the attraction of its radiance, the moth swept too near to the centre of fierce heat, and the next moment with singed wings it lay writhing on the table in mortal anguish, to which Salome mercifully put a speedy end. Juliet had come to her sister's side, and she now took up the dead creature and gazed with troubled eyes at the lovely spotted wings which the flame had marred.
"What a pity!" she said. "It was such a beauty. Oh, you poor silly thing, why did you go so near?"
Then, as much to her surprise as to that of the others, a sob escaped her. She turned and hurried from the room.
"Whatever can have come to Juliet that she should weep over a dead moth?" exclaimed Hannah. "Something must have happened to put her out."
"She is overdone," said Mrs. Tracy. "I noticed when she came in that she seemed excessively tired. It is quite time she went away, for she needs a change. Juliet is not strong, although she appears to have so much life and spirit. She is highly strung and excitable, and such temperaments have ever more energy than strength. I only hope the change to Folkestone will be the right thing for her."
"You need not fear," said Hannah; "the air on that coast is splendid. It is sure to revive her, if she needs bracing."
Salome said nothing. She believed that the cause of the emotion Juliet had manifested lay deeper than her mother supposed. It had struck her before to-day that Juliet was not happy. She reproached herself for not understanding her young sister better. Now when it was too late, she regretted bitterly the wide breach she had suffered ever to yawn deeper and deeper between herself and Juliet, and which made it impossible for her at this juncture to approach Juliet with sympathy and counsel, when perhaps she needed both.
Juliet wrote to Dora Felgate the next morning, and busied herself with preparations for her departure on the following Tuesday. She found a good deal to do, and appeared to be in a state of bustle and excitement from morning till evening of each day which intervened, except on Sunday, when she complained of a headache, and did not go to church. A casual observer would have said that she was in high spirits at the prospect before her. Hannah quite thought so.
But Juliet's excitable, flighty manner could not deceive her mother. She saw that Juliet was not herself; but she hoped that the trouble was dependent on the condition of her nerves, and would soon be driven away by the strong sea breezes.
One afternoon Juliet, who had been out shopping, returned to the house accompanied by a small boy staggering beneath the weight of a huge flower-pot containing a fine palm.
"Will this do for you, Salome?" she said, as she brought it into the room where her sister was seated and placed it on the floor beside her. "You said the other day that you wished you had a tall palm for the drawing-room. Is this tall enough?"
"Oh, what a lovely one!" exclaimed Salome. "Do? I should think it would! But you should not have bought it, Juliet. It was a pity to spend your money so."
"I spend my money as I please," said Juliet. "Since you admire the palm, perhaps you will be good enough to accept it from me, and to take care of it for my sake?"
"Oh, Juliet How kind of you! It is the very thing I wanted," said Salome, who yet could not help feeling some regret that Juliet should have bought the palm just now, when it would have to be left almost immediately to the mercies of a caretaker.
"You need not thank me," said Juliet, in some confusion; "I expect I only bought it to please myself, as I do most things. Perhaps," she was constrained to add, "I shall one day do something so bad that you will hate the very sight of that palm, and wish I had not given it to you."
"Oh no, I hope not. I am not afraid of that indeed," said Salome. "I think—I hope, Juliet—that you and I are going to get on better in the future. Will you try, if I do?"
And turning, she threw her arm about Juliet's slight form, and bending forward kissed her on the forehead.
Juliet shrank from the kiss as if it stung her. She went hastily from the room, and Salome remained alone, her lips quivering and tears rising to her eyes. She could not but feel bitterly how Juliet had repulsed her. But was it not her own fault that their lives had grown so far apart, their greetings so cold and formal, that an unlooked-for caress from her should thus startle and apparently annoy Juliet?
Hannah was seated at her solid reading in her own room, when Juliet looked in to say, "Hannah, would you like to take my 'handy-volume' Thackerays to the seaside with you? I heard you say you meant to read Thackeray during the holidays."
"Oh, thank you, Juliet; I should be much obliged to you, if you are not afraid of the books getting hurt," said Hannah, surprised by this thoughtfulness on Juliet's part.
"Oh, I want you to keep the books, Hannah. I shall write your name in them. You must keep them as a parting keepsake from me."
"Nonsense, Juliet; I shall do nothing of the kind. Really, to hear you, one would think you were never coming back. The idea of your giving me those books that you like so much."
"I bought the books myself; it is hard if I cannot do what I like with them," said Juliet, affecting to pout. And when she brought her sister the books on the following day, Hannah saw that her name was indeed written in them. She was half touched, half provoked by what she considered a new manifestation of Juliet's eccentricity. She certainly was a very odd girl; but not wholly bad, perhaps, after all.
On the night previous to her departure, Mrs. Tracy advised Juliet to go early to bed, and the girl, unusually docile, obeyed. But, though she went upstairs, she did not lie down till she heard her mother's step upon the stairs. How could she sleep when everything that met her gaze in the old familiar room said to her that it was the last time—the last time probably that she would share that room with her mother, the last time that things would be as they had been?
Juliet was lying motionless, only the top of her head visible above the bedclothes, when her mother entered the room, and Mrs. Tracy moved about noiselessly on tiptoe, lest she should disturb her. But presently Juliet lifted her head and said, "You need not creep about like that, mother; I'm awake."
"Oh, I am sorry, darling," said Mrs. Tracy, coming quickly to her side; "I hoped you were in a nice sleep."
"You need not be sorry about it, mother. You are always being sorry about me, and I wish you would not," exclaimed Juliet, the emotion pent up within her finding vent in irritable speech. "I wish you would learn not to care a bit about me."
"I shall not soon learn that, I think, dear."
"If you knew me as I really am, you would hate me. You cannot think how I hate myself," said Juliet, suddenly beginning to sob. "Oh, mother, if I grieved you very much, if you thought me very wrong, could you still love me?"
"Of course, darling. I should be a poor mother if I could not. But why talk in this morbid way? Nothing so dreadful is going to happen."
"Oh, I don't know; it pleases me to talk so. Mother, if people talked against me, if Hannah and Salome said bitter things of me, would you still try to think the best of me, to believe that I had meant well, although—although—"
Juliet paused, choked by sobs.
"Really, my dear Juliet, it frightens me to see you so upset," said her mother. "If anything is troubling you, tell me, my dear child, that I may help you."
"Oh, nothing is troubling me," exclaimed Juliet wildly making a great effort to master her emotion. "I am very happy, I mean to be very happy. Only I do wish, mother, that you were going with me to-morrow. Mother, promise me that, whatever happens, you always live with me. We must have a home together in the future, you and I. Do promise me that, ever naughty I may be, you will not refuse to live with me."
"You absurd child!" said Mrs. Tracy, beginning to laugh. "As if I should refuse such a thing. Of course, I shall live with you as long as you want me."
"Which will be always," said Juliet, laughing too, rather hysterically. With that she kissed her mother several times, and then lay down to sleep.
Mrs. Tracy was somewhat perturbed by Juliet's wild words, and had many troubled thoughts concerning her ere she fell asleep. But in the morning, Juliet appeared her usual self. She busied herself with her packing assisted by her mother, and talked gaily all the time. At luncheon she could eat little, but the rare excitement of a journey was sufficient to account for that. Hannah was to accompany her to the City and see her safely into the train, after which the short run to Folkestone could be attended by no risk that the most anxious mother could have deprecated.
The cab came late, so that the farewells at the last were hurried. There was some bustle in getting the train, but Hannah succeeded in seeing Juliet comfortably settled in a carriage with several other lady passengers.
"The Felgates will meet you, of course?" she said, more for the sake of making a remark than because she felt any doubt on the subject, having already heard every detail of the arrangements discussed by her mother.
"Yes, I shall be met," Juliet replied.
"And you will write at once?"
Juliet nodded and waved her hand, for the train was already in motion. Then she leaned forward to take a last look at Hannah. It was but a blurred vision she caught, for tears had suddenly risen in her eyes and dimmed their sight.
CHAPTER XVI
A FATAL STEP
THERE was indeed someone waiting for Juliet when she arrived at Folkestone station, but it was not Dora Felgate nor anyone belonging to her family, since they had no expectation of seeing Juliet that day.
Algernon Chalcombe was standing on the platform when the train came but she looked at him for some moments without recognising him, so strangely altered was his appearance; for he had shaved away the silky black moustache which his fingers had been for ever lovingly caressing, and the mouth, unscreened, looked large and coarse. His fine dark eyes were hidden behind smoke-coloured spectacles, and his dress was different from anything Juliet had seen him wear before. The loose-fitting tweed suit, and large, soft felt hat, might have been worn by a German artist, and for such Algernon would have been well content to pass.
"Is it you, Algernon?" Juliet exclaimed, with a start, as he addressed her. "I did not know you. How very strange you look! Why are you wearing those frightful glasses?"
"I have a weakness of the eyes, which compels me to protect them from the awful glare of sunlight on this coast," he said, with a smile. "I am sorry you do not find them becoming; but what a joy that you have arrived, my Juliet! I have been so anxious while I waited. I was afraid your courage would fail you at the last. But now you have got safely away from them all, and are here, my brave darling, all will be well."
"I wish I could think so," said Juliet, with a shiver. "Don't let us talk of it, Algernon. You don't know what it cost me to do it."
"You will never regret it," he said.
But Juliet could not feel that. Already she began to see the act she had committed in its true light, and a dread of the Nemesis which attends all wrong-doing was awaking in her heart.
"Now, what is to be done?" he asked. "We decided that it would be better to cross the Channel from Dover. Shall we go on to Dover at once, or would you like to see something of Folkestone first?"
"Oh, do not let us stay here!" exclaimed Juliet. "I dare not walk about in Folkestone. If I should meet the Felgates, what would they think?" And a deep flush of shame dyed her face. "Besides," she added, in desperation, "you decided that we should go on to Dover at once. You said that we should be married as soon as we got there."
"Yes, yes, dearest; but you know it is too late now for us to be married to-day. So I think it will be best for us to go on by to-night's boat to Paris, and have the ceremony performed there to-morrow morning."
"Can it be done as easily there?" asked Juliet. "Oh, as easily as possible. We only have to go before the British consul."
Juliet asked no more about it. She knew positively nothing of the legal preliminaries to marriage. She had indeed previously given Algernon a large sum of money, with which it was understood that he was to purchase a special marriage licence and meet other expenses incidental to the ceremony; but she was content to leave all the details in his hands.
On inquiry, it was found that there was a train for Dover in half an hour. Juliet's trunk was claimed and re-labelled; then she wrote with pencil on a postcard she had brought with her, and posted it to her mother, after which, they paced the platform till the train came up. Juliet was miserable as she waited; at every turn she dreaded to be confronted by the astonished faces of the Felgates. The change in Algernon Chalcombe's appearance filled her with vague uneasiness, though it did not strike her that it was assumed as a disguise.
It was a relief when she found herself in the train and moving out of the station; but in a few minutes, she had to alight again, this time at Dover Pier.
They found the station in a state of bustle and confusion. The boat from Calais had come in rather behind time, and its passengers, eager and flurried, were streaming up from the quay to the station. As she and her companion made their way through the crowd, alike anxious to escape observation, Juliet suddenly encountered the hard, keen gaze of Mrs. Hayes, who was advancing, followed by a porter burdened with numerous small packages.
"Oh, there is Mrs. Hayes!" she exclaimed, in a low tone of dismay.
"Where?" he asked quickly. "Never mind. Come this way, Juliet. Sharp!" And opening the door of a waiting room, he hurried her inside and out by another door into a road at the back of the station. A few minutes' sharp walking took them beyond the stir of the station.
Juliet was greatly agitated. "Oh, Algernon, she saw me! I am certain that she recognised me! And she will tell mother! Oh, what shall I do?"
"What does it matter?" he asked. "She would not recognise me. For aught she knows, we have a perfect right to be together. I might be your cousin."
"Oh, she knows I have no cousins," replied Juliet. "Hannah and Salome have some in Scotland, but I have none."
"Well, then, I might be their cousin," he said lightly, trying to smooth away her annoyance. "Why trouble about what a disagreeable old woman may think or say? We will go to an hotel now and get some tea, and then we can have a row or a drive to while away the time till the boat starts."
"If I had been a little nearer, she would have spoken," said Juliet, unable to dismiss the matter so easily. "And she is going back to London! She will tell them at home how she saw me at Dover!"
"But by that time, we shall be man and wife, and they will be unable to part us," he said.
Juliet's look did not brighten. Somehow, that consummation had ceased to appear to her a very happy prospect.
Algernon Chalcombe was over-confident as to the impossibility of his being recognised by Mrs. Hayes; that lady was greatly excited by the glimpse she caught of Juliet and her companion.
"John," she said eagerly to her husband, when he and her daughters came up, "John, I have just seen Juliet Tracy, accompanied by a man whom I am sure was that fellow Chalcombe. He had altered himself somewhat, but I am certain it was he. I am never mistaken in a face. Now, what can they be doing here alone?"
"My dear, how can I tell?" he asked helplessly.
"They are eloping, John; that is what it is. Juliet is just the girl to do such a thing, and you must go after them and stop her. It is your duty as her clergyman. Quick, John! They went this way, through that door."
"That is all very well, my dear; but I should like to know what chance there is of finding anyone in this crowd," he said testily, as he looked in the opposite direction to that she indicated. There had been much to try his patience in his continental journeyings with his wife and daughters, and it was beginning to feel the strain.
"I tell you they went out of the station. There is no crowd outside. Do go and look after them."
"And meanwhile miss my train! It will start as soon as the luggage is in. How do you know that Juliet is not staying at Dover with her mother and sisters? They talked of going to the seaside. But do come along now, or you will miss your chance of a comfortable place."