Her own way

Mrs. Hayes shook her head in a way which said that she knew better than he. His last suggestion, however, struck her as good, seeing that it was evident that the compartments of the train were rapidly filling. She did not speak again till they were settled, with their belongings, in one of the carriages, and she had counted the packages and assured herself that nothing was missing. Then she remarked solemnly, as she looked round on her husband and daughters, "I always said that that girl would come to no good. It is a mystery to me that Providence should suffer such a one to have so much money."

The interval ere the hour came at which the boat started for Calais seemed long and tedious to both Juliet and Algernon. She was far from suspecting how terribly to him the time seemed to lag. She had no knowledge that could give her the least idea of the nature of the dread that oppressed him, and caused him to shrink from every eye that looked at him with penetration in its glance, and to long for the darkness that might shield him from detection. She did not notice the nervous starts he gave from time to time at the sound of a voice or a step. Her own inner consciousness was too painfully absorbing for her to be very observant of him. She was not aware of any diminution of the lover-like devotion Algernon was wont to display towards her, though he felt he was playing his part badly, and lapsing into fits of absentmindedness which ill became the situation.

Once Juliet broke down, and declared that she could not go on with it. She would return home by the next train and confess all to her mother. He had difficulty in soothing her agitation and bending her will again to his, but he persuaded her that it was too late to go back. The irrevocable step was taken.

"To-morrow you shall write to your mother," he said. "She will forgive us when she knows there is nothing else to be done."

And she suffered him to lead her on to the deck of the steamer.

It was a lovely summer night. The air was still, the sea calm. Stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. Juliet elected to remain on deck. Algernon found a sheltered seat for her, and wrapped her warmly from the night air. Then he talked tenderly to her, trying to depict in glowing colours the future that lay before her. His spirits seemed to rise as the shore of England receded in the distance. But Juliet's depression only deepened. The hues in which he painted his pictures of the coming days seemed to her dead and cold. Only once did she display any eagerness.

"Algernon," she said suddenly, "you will not forget what you promised me? That as soon as we have a home of our own, mother shall share it with us?"

"Certainly, dearest, certainly," he said; "it shall be as you wish." He was ready to promise anything concerning so far-off an event, as long as she remained tranquil, and did not draw the attention of their fellow-passengers to them by any display of excitement.

She said little after that, and it being difficult to maintain a conversation to which she would supply only monosyllables, he too became silent.

Juliet was looking at the stars twinkling brightly overhead. She had always loved to watch the stars; but to-night, it seemed to her that they looked down on her with a reproachful gaze. Did they know all the history of her life up to this moment of self-assertion and flight? Did they look on her as a selfish, hard-hearted, ungrateful child? Ah, and they were looking down on her home too—on her mother, who perhaps at this hour was praying God to bless her wayward child. A sob broke from Juliet at the thought.

"Oh," she murmured, scarcely above a whisper, "I am doing what is very selfish and wrong! Only evil can come of it."

"Nonsense, Juliet," Algernon responded impatiently. "This all comes of your puritanical bringing up. One must act for oneself in this life. For my part, I pity the man or woman who is not selfish. If you do not look after your own interests, it is certain no one else will."

Juliet made no reply, and almost immediately afterwards came the bustle of landing at Calais.

There was a brief delay at Calais, of which most of the travellers availed themselves to get refreshment. Algernon procured a cup of coffee for Juliet, which she drank; but he could not persuade her to eat anything. In a short time, they were in the train speeding along towards Paris.

There were many persons travelling, and the compartment was very full. Most of the passengers grumbled at the discomfort, as they tried to compose themselves to sleep. But to Juliet, it did not seem to matter that her position was not a restful one. She felt not the least inclination to sleep.

Algernon presently fell into an uneasy slumber; but Juliet could not close her eyes. She noted closely, without being aware that she did so, every detail of the dress and demeanour of her fellow-passengers—the little Swiss governess whose broad, beaming countenance plainly proclaimed that she was going home for her holidays; the selfish man, probably deeming himself a gentleman, who had taken the corner seat, whilst his weary wife sat without any support for her head; the two young Englishwomen, looking happy and capable, who were evidently going on a tour by themselves—how Juliet envied them!—and others more or less remarkable, who all in some strange way afforded her food for bitter reflection. What a curious, unreal nightmare of a journey that was to Juliet!

It was early morning when they arrived in Paris, so early that the air was raw and chill, and Juliet shook with cold as she roused herself and followed Algernon along the platform. Everything which met her eyes added to the sense of unreality which possessed her mind. Her fellow-passengers, wan and dishevelled from their night's journey, the blue-bloused porters noisily vociferating, the officials in strange uniform, the foreign names and novel arrangements, all affected her with a vague feeling of discomfort.

"We will get your trunk and drive at once to an hotel," said Algernon.

But the trunk was not easily found, and when claimed, it had to be examined. Algernon chafed under the delay. At last the trunk was secured, and a porter carried it to a cab. It was hoisted on to the box; the smaller articles were put within the vehicle; Juliet had taken her seat, Algernon had instructed the driver where to take them, and his foot was on the step, when suddenly a hand was laid on his arm, and the voice of a French official pronounced his name, adding a few words which drove all the colour in an instant from his face.

Juliet could not understand the words. She had already discovered that her knowledge of French, acquired from books, but ill-fitted her to comprehend the language when spoken around her by native tongues. But though the words convoyed no meaning to her, the effect she saw them to produce on Algernon thrilled her with alarm.

And the next moment, another official advanced to Algernon, saying in English—"Monsieur, you are arrested."

Algernon faltered a few words in French, to the effect that there was a mistake.

"Ah, no, monsieur, there is no mistake. We have our orders. See, here is a warrant. This—is it not your name? You will do well to come with us tranquilly. There is no good in making a scene. Monsieur will bid madame adieu and come with us."

Apparently Algernon recognised the wisdom of the advice to make no scene. He turned and spoke to Juliet, his face still utterly colourless.

"Juliet, dearest, there is some tremendous mistake; but I must go with them and explain. You had better drive on to the hotel, and I will join you there immediately."

"Oh, Algernon, I cannot bear to be left alone! Can't you make them see that it is a mistake? Tell them you are an Englishman. Have you not a passport or something you can show them?"

He made no reply, but turned from her sullenly.

But the official who spoke English took compassion on her.

"If there should be a mistake, monsieur will be set at liberty at once. Madame may be sure of that."

"But why, why is he arrested?" demanded Juliet. "What is he supposed to have done?"

"He is wanted—in London," said the man slowly; "we are telegraphed to stop him. It is just a little affair of—of—let me think, what is the word that you say?"

"A little affair of what?" demanded Juliet.

"Ah, I have it—forgerie—a little affair of forgerie. Is it that madame comprehends?"

"Forgery!" Juliet sank back in the cab with a low cry of dismay.

The man closed the door, and the next moment the vehicle was in motion, bearing her, she knew not whither, through the strange city.

CHAPTER XVII

A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING

MRS. TRACY came downstairs on the morning after Juliet's departure looking white and weary. Hannah and Salome were wont to sit down to breakfast punctually at a quarter before eight. Hannah liked to have ample leisure for her preparations ere she departed for the high school, where she presented herself about nine o'clock, and Salome was always glad to begin her housekeeping duties at as early an hour as possible. While Juliet attended the school, Mrs. Tracy had striven—not always successfully—to appear at the early meal; but since Juliet's schooldays ended, that young lady had positively declined to get up early, and she and her mother had fallen into the habit of breakfasting together some time after the two sisters had left the table.

But on this morning, although her head ached sorely, Mrs. Tracy was possessed by a feeling of restlessness which made it impossible to remain in bed, and, to her daughters' surprise, she came into the breakfast room soon after the first gong had sounded.

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Salome. "Whatever has made you get up so early? I meant to bring you your breakfast presently. Do you think you were wise to do so? You are not looking well."

"I do not feel well," said Mrs. Tracy. "I have had a wretched night, but I felt obliged to get up; I was so weary of lying still and worrying. Has the post come?"

"The postman never arrives till after eight o'clock, and it wants ten minutes to the hour yet," said Hannah. "What can you have found to worry about?"

"Oh, I hardly know! I am very foolish. I suppose it was Juliet's going away that upset me. I had such wretched dreams about her. You remember—you must often have heard me speak of the time we lost Juliet when she was a little child in India. It was through the carelessness of her ayah. The woman must have left her for some time, though she vowed she had only turned her back for a moment. Anyhow, the child strayed from her, and wandered out of the compound into the jungle. I shall never forget how I felt when they told me she was lost.

"I knew the jungle was full of wild beasts, and I thought I should never see my child again; I pictured her sweet little body all mangled and bleeding. I thought I should have lost my senses. It seemed to me an eternity that I endured that suspense, but within an hour, she was found chasing butterflies on the edge of a swamp, and they brought her to me smiling and unscathed. Well, do you know, I lived through that again in my dream. I thought Juliet was my little one still, and she was lost and in deadly peril; but there was no happy ending. They came and told me that she had been carried off by a tiger, and I should never see her again. I was in an agony. I woke screaming and bathed in perspiration. You cannot think what a horrid dream it was, it seemed so real."

"It must have been a horrid dream indeed," said Salome, her voice a trifle unsteady, for the simple, pathetic way in which her mother had told the dream had touched her, although she was not of an emotional nature.

But Hannah only said, "What did you take for supper, mother, to give you such a nightmare? Depend upon it, indigestion was the cause of that trouble."

"My dear, you know that I never eat suppers. I do not believe that indigestion had anything to do with it. The dream came, I suppose, because I was anxious about Juliet; even now, I cannot get rid of the impression it left on my mind. I shall feel easier when I have heard from her."

"Really, mother, do you imagine that your dream is prophetic?" said Hannah, with a laugh. "Since there are no tigers at large in England, you need hardly distress yourself with the idea that Juliet has been carried off by one."

Mrs. Tracy tried to join in the laugh, but there were tears in her eyes. The arrival of the postman was a welcome relief.

"Here you are, mother," said Hannah, as she distributed the letters; "the tiger has not carried Juliet away yet; or, at least, she was able to write a postcard before he despatched her."

Mrs. Tracy took the card eagerly.

"Folkestone Station," she read aloud—

   "Have arrived here safely, and all so far well. Will write in a day or two.—

"Your—

"JULIET."

"Fancy her staying to scribble that at the station!" she said. "It was good of the child. She knew I should want to hear as soon as possible."

"Here is a letter for Juliet," said Salome. "If you can tell me the address, mother, I will re-direct it, and get Hannah to post it as she goes to school."

"17, Ferndale Road, The Lees, Folkestone," said Mrs. Tracy, who could always be depended upon for accurate information where Juliet was concerned. "You had better put the Felgates' name."

"Of course I shall do that," said Salome.

"I daresay I shall write to Juliet by and by," said Mrs. Tracy; "but it is well that letter should be sent on at once."

"Do you intend to write to Juliet every day during her absence?" asked Hannah, with a suggestion of sarcasm in her voice.

"I cannot say at this moment what I intend to do," replied Mrs. Tracy, rather nettled; "but I see no reason why I should not write to her every day if I choose."

Mrs. Tracy's mood did not brighten as the day wore on. A heavy, unaccountable burden of depression lay on her heart. She missed Juliet terribly. The house seemed dreary and unhomelike without her bright young presence. It afforded Mrs. Tracy some comfort to sit down and write a long letter to her darling child, though the mental effort it involved intensified her headache, and obliged her shortly afterwards to retire to her bedroom.

"It is time mother and Juliet were parted, if this is the effect Juliet's going away has on mother," remarked Hannah to her sister. "It is a pity she allows herself to be so governed by her feelings. How would she bear it, if Juliet had gone away for good?"

"I do not know, I am sure," Salome replied; "I tremble sometimes when I see how mother idolises Juliet. If any harm should come to her, I believe it would break mother's heart."

Mrs. Tracy scarcely showed herself better able to rule her emotions on the following day. She did indeed make spasmodic attempts to appear cheerful, but these only served to show how very far her frame of mind was removed from cheerfulness. It was a disappointment to her that no letter came from Juliet, though she readily found excuses for "the child."

"There would be so much to see and to do the first day, she would naturally have no time to write," she said "Besides, if she writes in a day or two, there will be so much more to tell."

Nevertheless she watched for the coming of every post throughout the day, in the hope that it would bring her a letter. She regretted that she had no acquaintance with Folkestone. It would be so much nicer, she thought, if she could picture to herself the scenes on which Juliet's eyes would rest. Mrs. Tracy was going with Hannah and Salome to the Isle of Wight as soon as the high school term ended, but she did not care greatly about the prospect. She hoped Juliet would join them there after leaving Folkestone, but could not be sure of it, since that young lady had refused to be tied by any plan.

"Won't you come out for a walk, mother?" Salome asked her in the afternoon. "It is not nearly so warm to-day. The air would do you good."

But Mrs. Tracy languidly declined. She felt unequal to any exertion. And there was a postal delivery at four o'clock, which might bring a letter from Folkestone.

"Then I will go to my district," said Salome; "I want to see all the people this week, since I shall be away from them for some time to come. Perhaps on the way I shall call at the rectory, and see if the Hayeses have returned. They were expected home on Tuesday."

"Very well, dear," said Mrs. Tracy, as she leaned back in her chair with closed eyes. She was very weary, and her head ached; but worse than languor or physical ache was that heavy sense of depression, which almost amounted to a presentiment of impending trouble. She found it impossible to sew or to read. She could only keep still, and endure.

The afternoon passed slowly on. Presently she lost herself in a doze, from which she was roused by the postman's knock. In a moment, she was up and hastening into the hall to fetch the letter.

It was addressed to herself, and the postmark was Folkestone. She saw that instantly, but saw too that the writing was not Juliet's. Something had happened, then. The presentiment of evil seemed already confirmed, as with trembling hands she tore open the envelope. In utter bewilderment, she read the following words:

   "DEAR MRS. TRACY,—We are in a state of mystification here because two letters have arrived addressed to our care for 'Miss Tracy.' At first we could not understand it at all, for we never thought of Juliet till mother fancied she recognised your handwriting on the second letter that came. What does it mean? Has Juliet changed her mind, and is she coming to us after all?

   "I suppose she has already left home, since you are sending letters here for her. Indeed it must be so, for our maid, Eliza, who went on Tuesday to spend the afternoon at Dover, astonished us on her return by declaring that she had seen Juliet walking there. So I am hoping every hour that Juliet will either arrive, or send us a line from wherever she is. It will be delightful if she is able to join us. Meanwhile we will take care of the letters.—Believe me, yours affectionately,—

"DORA FELGATE."

The letter dropped from Mrs. Tracy's nerveless fingers. Every vestige of colour had left her face, and her breath came in quick pants. The room seemed to be moving round with her; there was a sound like the sea in her ears as, with benumbed brain, she strove to take in the meaning of this strange, inexplicable letter.

She was dimly conscious of a step crossing the hall, and knew that Salome entered the room and stood beside her.

"Oh, mother!" cried Salome, as she saw her mother's face. "What has happened? Why do you look like that?"

"Read that letter," said her mother faintly, "and tell me what it means. I—I cannot make it out somehow."

Salome hastily read the letter. Its contents did not surprise her as they had surprised her mother. But she did not speak directly she had grasped its meaning. She shrank from dealing the blow that yet could not be averted, and vainly sought for words that might soften it.

"Why do you not speak?" cried her mother. "Oh, Salome, tell me—where is Juliet?"

"Mother dear," said Salome, speaking with the utmost gentleness, "I fear Juliet has done what is very, very wrong. Mrs. Hayes has just told me that she met her at Dover with a man whom she believes was Flossie Chalcombe's brother. I am afraid, I am very much afraid, that they have run away together."

"Salome!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, her tone sharp with indignation. "How can you say it of your sister? Juliet would never do such a thing. Mrs. Hayes ought to be ashamed of herself for suggesting it. It is wrong—it is wicked of her! But she never understood Juliet."

"Alas, mother!" said Salome, too sorrowful to resent her mother's anger. "It does not depend on Mrs. Hayes' word alone. This letter says that the Felgates' servant saw her at Dover. And it is but too plain that Juliet deceived us when she professed to be going to the Felgates'."

Mrs. Tracy uttered a cry of despair, and sank back fainting.

CHAPTER XVIII

ALONE IN PARIS

JULIET shrank back in the cab, overwhelmed with horror at the position in which she found herself. That she should be left to take care of herself in a foreign city, with the life and manners of which she had absolutely no acquaintance, seemed an appalling experience to the girl who had been tenderly cared for all her days. It was just this having to fend for herself that she had most dreaded in looking forward to studying music abroad, and which had led her to accept so readily the loving protection which Algernon Chalcombe offered her.

And now he was taken from her, arrested for forgery! The word impressed Juliet with a sore sense of disgrace, and awoke in her heavy misgivings, though she tried hard to persuade herself that it must be a mistake, and Algernon would soon be set at liberty. But meanwhile she had to act for herself, and though she tried hard to rally her courage, terror of the unknown filled her mind, and made her dread the moment when the cab should reach the hotel.

She sat up and looked out at the thoroughfares through which she was passing. The tall houses with their outside shutters closed against the morning sun; the restaurants just opened, with sleepy-looking waiters arranging little tables and chairs beneath an awning on the pavement; the fruit vendors setting out their fresh merchandise, ticketed with prices which seemed to Juliet, unused to reckoning by centimes, preposterously high; the large open spaces, the lines of trees, the fountains, the flowers—she looked on all with dull eyes, seeing in them only what was foreign and unfriendly. Could this be Paris, the gayest city in the world, which she had always longed to see? And could it be herself, Juliet Tracy, who was travelling through it alone, oppressed by a sense of loneliness and fear which amounted almost to despair?

The hotel to which Algernon Chalcombe had directed the cabman to drive was but a third-rate house, though with a reputation for good cookery and good wine, which caused it to be frequented by artists of various kinds, and by such persons generally as had more wit than cash. It was the last hotel at which a young English lady might be expected to present herself alone. It stood amid old and narrow streets, and its porte-cochère was in one of the narrowest; but it had a tolerably spacious courtyard of its own on to which the public rooms opened.

When Juliet drove into it on this Wednesday morning, there was already some stir about the place, other travellers having arrived by early trains. Several persons were standing at the entrance, and Juliet felt the wonder and curiosity of their gaze as she alighted in nervous haste from the vehicle. She had been searching her memory as she drove along for such French phrases as were likely to prove useful now, and she thought herself tolerably prepared for the ordeal before her.

But when she encountered curious stares, and heard the bewildering foreign accents, her wits deserted her, and she could but stammer something of which chambre was the only intelligible word. This was enough, however, for the obsequious waiter who came to meet her. He at once took possession of her travelling bag and wraps, and invited her to follow him into the hotel. There he speedily summoned from the bureau "Madame," who counted amongst her accomplishments that of speaking English.

Juliet found herself confronted by a stout but active woman of middle age, clad in a frowsy dressing-gown, with her hair undressed, and the appearance of one who has but just risen from her bed. Her déshabillé condition, however, afforded madame not the slightest embarrassment. She greeted the newly-arrived guest in the most dignified and affable way, at the same time observing her with a keen scrutiny which heightened the colour in Juliet's cheeks.

"Mademoiselle is English. I speak English—it is not much. Mademoiselle travels alone? They are so courageous, the English misses."

"I am not alone," Juliet began confusedly, "at least, I mean—there was a gentleman with me—but he was unexpectedly detained—and I had to come on alone. He will be here soon, I hope."

A curious expression came to the woman's face as she listened. She smiled a peculiar, meaning smile, which made Juliet suddenly mindful of the strange circumstances under which she had come to Paris, and of the fact that this was to have been her wedding day. Her colour deepened, her head drooped; she felt overwhelmed with shame and confusion.

The woman eyed her more curiously. She shrewdly conjectured that something was wrong; but it was no business of hers. She was not wont to trouble herself concerning the characters or histories of those who came to her hotel. But one consideration had weight with her—the question of whether or not such strangers could pay. Her scrutiny of Juliet's appearance inclined her to believe that she had money, and she smiled on her more affably than before.

"Mademoiselle will wish a large room—one of de best?"

"I do not mind," said Juliet indifferently; "any one will do."

Madame smiled again. It was but too plain that this young English miss was not accustomed to engaging rooms for herself. She was having an adventure—madame liked adventures. They afforded matter for gossip, and were apt to bring money to her pocket.

"Mademoiselle perhaps will not mind if the room is rather high up?" she said.

"Oh no," said Juliet wearily. She only longed to gain a place of shelter, far from the curious eyes that continued to watch her closely as she talked with madame.

"Good," said madame, taking a key from the board on which it hung; "I have de very thing to please mademoiselle."

So saying, she led the way up a flight of stone stairs, and Juliet followed, the porter laden with her belongings bringing up the rear. One flight after another they mounted; it seemed as if presently they must arrive at the roof, when madame paused, inserted her key in the lock of a door, and opened it.

"See, see, mademoiselle," she said, inviting Juliet to enter, "it is a good room—a beautiful room."

The room was of tolerable size, but low. The polished floor was bare save for a strip of carpet here and there. There was a round table in the centre covered with a showy cloth. A couch covered with crimson velvet stood at one side against the wall; there was an easy-chair and four plainer ones upholstered to match. A gilt clock, which would not go, and some imposing-looking vases were on the mantelshelf, above which was a large pier-glass in a gilt frame. The bed, elaborately draped, stood in a recess. The washstand with its tiny ewer and basin was hidden away in a closet which opened from the room. Viewed with madame's eyes, the room was everything that a lady could desire.

She was surprised that it was not accepted with more enthusiasm; but Juliet only said wearily that it would do, and gazed about her with dull eyes, conscious only that the atmosphere was oppressively close and musty, and that the room somehow lacked comfort.

"Mademoiselle will wish something to eat after her journey," said madame, who had already by examining Juliet's luggage ascertained that she came from London. "If she will say what, it shall be served to her here."

At first, Juliet refused everything; but after some persuasion, she said timidly that she would like a cup of tea.

"Adolphe shall bring it directly," madame said, and hurried away to make it herself.

As soon as she had gone, Juliet rushed to the window and made desperate attempts to open it. She did not understand its foreign construction, and for some time strove in vain; but at last she succeeded in forcing it open, and leaned out to breathe the fresh air. Then she saw to her surprise that her window commanded nothing save a view of roofs. One roof shelved away from its very sill, then there was a narrow space beyond which rose another roof, and another and another. To right and left they spread, rising and falling in varying heights, with tall chimneys appearing here and there.

At one side the beautiful old belfry of a church was visible, and this was the sole object on which the eye could rest with pleasure. Juliet drew in her head with a heavy sigh. Somehow the sight of all those strange roofs, sheltering a life of which she knew nothing, brought home to her a bitter sense of her own lonely, forsaken, dreary position. She moved restlessly about the room, struggling to suppress the emotion which threatened to overwhelm her.

It seemed an age ere Adolphe, the waiter who had received her on her arrival, made his appearance carrying the tea in triumph. He had all the accessories on the tray. There was a metal teapot, a huge jug of hot water, and one almost as large tilled with milk; but the tea proved lukewarm and undrinkable. The making of tea was not to be included amongst the hotel's triumphs of cookery. Juliet drank a little of the milk, and then, unable to bear up longer against fatigue and misery, threw herself on the bed and sobbed and cried till sleep came to her relief and wrapped her in blissful oblivion.

She slept for many hours, and when she awoke it was past midday. She sat up and gazed about her with dazed eyes, not knowing for a few moments where she was. The crimson velvet chairs, the showy adornments of the foreign room, quickly brought everything to her recollection, and she uttered a low groan of despair. What was she to do? How could she stay on here alone? Would Algernon ever come to her rescue?

She sprang from the bed, impatient of the thoughts that tormented her. She unlocked her trunk and began to take out some of her things. She examined the resources of her room, carefully arranged her belongings, and finally proceeded to make her toilette in the most leisurely way, wishing to occupy as much time as possible. She brushed out her long shining hair and put it up with fastidious care, deriving even in her misery some satisfaction from the effect she produced. She exchanged her travelling gown for one of a soft grey material which became her admirably. The sense of freshness and coolness she thus attained was reviving; but oh, was ever a day so long us this?

The clock in the old church belfry she could see from her window was only now striking three! What could she do with herself? Apparently her room was situated above the kitchen, and high as was her window, the smell of cooking reached her nostrils, making her aware that she was very hungry. But she had not the courage to go down and ask for food. She shrank from encountering curious eyes again, or from meeting more of those meaning, smiling glances from madame, which even now stung her as she recalled them.

She remembered that she had some biscuits in her travelling bag, and she ate these with what remained of the milk that had been brought to her. She had a novel, too, in her bag, and she tried to pass the time in reading that, but found it impossible to fix her attention upon it. No one came near her, though she heard plenty of life and stir in the house. Steps resounded on the stairs and along the passages, and voices vehemently raised reached her ears from time to time. Once or twice she heard the sound of an arrival, which she hoped might be that of Algernon. But the steps she heard advancing always ceased ere they reached her door. Presently, as her reflections grew more serious, she found herself, in spite of her loneliness and fear, hoping that he would not come.

How slowly the hours passed! She watched the face of the clock in the belfry, and the hands scarcely seemed to move. But they did creep steadily on. Four o'clock struck, and then five, then six. At each hour, Juliet's thoughts turned homewards, and she pictured what her mother and sisters would be doing, and imagined the words her mother might be uttering concerning herself. Ah, she would be thinking that she was with the Felgates at Folkestone. She would never dream of her in such a position as this. And Juliet began to realise, as she had not before done, the enormity of the deceit of which she had been guilty.

The six strokes had not long resounded from the belfry when there came a tap at Juliet's door. She started up, half scared by the sound, and opened the door. Adolphe stood there. With some difficulty, Juliet understood his errand; he came to announce that dinner was served, and to ask if mademoiselle would not descend for it.

Juliet had for some time been conscious of the increased savouriness of the fumes which rose from the kitchen. She was feeling faint and sick for want of food; so, with a sense of gratitude, she accepted the man's invitation and followed him quickly down the stairs.

He led the way to the salle à manger on the ground-floor. With dismay, Juliet saw as she entered that it was full of people. She felt that her entrance created a sensation, as she advanced up the long room to the seat the waiter drew out for her.

Madame, her appearance so changed since the early morning that Juliet scarcely recognised her, was busy ladling out soup at a side-table, but turned to bid her "good-evening" smilingly as she passed.

Juliet sat down hurriedly, and for a while did not lift her eyes from her soup, which proved excellent. When at last she was compelled to raise her eyes, she perceived that opposite to her sat a long line of men, each with his serviette tightly tucked into his collar and depending over his chest, and each with his eyes fixed on her. At any other time the sight of so many men feeding like bibbed infants must have excited Juliet's sense of the ludicrous; but now she felt no inclination to laugh, only a great longing to escape from those curious eyes.

On her own side of the table near the top were four young women, who talked and laughed loudly, and whose remarks were not always in the best taste. Their accent told Juliet that they were Americans, and she gathered from their talk that they were art students belonging to one of the studios in Paris. She soon became aware that she was an object of considerable interest to them. Whenever she glanced in their direction, she found their eyes upon her, and the way in which they would nudge each other and suddenly lower their tones convinced her that they were discussing her appearance and probable history.

After that Juliet hardly knew what she ate. Her face and ears burned. She fancied that everyone who looked at her must know that she was a girl who had run away from home. Ah, if only they knew how fervently she longed to be safe in the shelter of her home once more!

It seemed as if the long, tedious meal would never come to an end; but at last it was over, and Juliet made her escape and hurried back to her own room, resolved that she would not again come down to take a meal in public. There she sat till the daylight faded, when she went disconsolately to bed; and thus ended her first day in Paris.

The following day brought her the same problem how to pass its hours. Strange to say, much as Juliet regretted the step she had taken, she never thought of turning back. It did not occur to her that she ought to write to her mother and confess all, or go home in penitence and seek the forgiveness she so ill deserved. No; it seemed to her that she had taken a step from which there could be no going back. If her mother did not already know, she soon must know what she had done, and she would hate the child who had shown herself so ungrateful. And such a feeling of shame came over Juliet, when she realised the position in which she had placed herself, that she could only desire to flee far from everyone who had known her in the past.

As Juliet sat drearily gazing on the sunlit roofs, madame arrived to pay her a visit.

"Mademoiselle should amuse herself now she is in Paris," she suggested; "she will find herself dull if she sits here all alone. She should go out and see the shops—the shops are beautiful. And the Louvre is not far-off, where there are pictures and statues. Mademoiselle should see the Louvre. And if mademoiselle has no French money, I can arrange that for her."

"No, I have no French money," said Juliet, opening her purse.

She gave madame some sovereigns, which she readily agreed to change, and did, reserving for herself, however, a liberal discount. Then, urged to it by madame, Juliet with a heavy heart set out to make acquaintance with the city of Paris.

How lonely she felt as she trod the broad, sunny streets, filled with gay, talkative people who seemed to have little to do save enjoy themselves, and who bestowed on her an amount of attention that was positively alarming, no words can tell. Here were the vaunted shops of Paris, with their windows filled with novelties that at one time would have enchanted her; but she glanced at them with listless eyes. What could she care now about the freshest millinery, the latest robes, the most rare and costly lingerie, or the latest eccentricities in trinkets? She felt no desire to make a purchase.

Could dainty gloves or costly trifles yield any pleasure to a girl who had been false to every dictate of duty, broken the closest bond of love, and deliberately forsaken all that made life worth living? Juliet shrank from every eye that rested on her as she went along. She felt as if all who looked on her must read the story of her wilfulness and ingratitude.

Once, as she stood by a shop window, only half conscious of the objects on which her eyes rested, she caught the words, "La belle Anglaise," and was aware that a gentleman who stood near was directing to her the attention of the lady who was his companion. Startled by finding herself thus observed, Juliet moved quickly away, and turned the corner into another street which appeared less frequented.

She wandered aimlessly on till the appearance of a house on the opposite side of the way arrested her attention, and she stood still to look at it. It was a large, substantially built house, with neatly curtained windows. But what struck Juliet as remarkable was that inscribed on its front were the words in English—"Asked of God," followed by a date many years back, and below them the words—"Given of God," with a date a few years later. The meaning was clear. The house stood there a memorial of answered prayer, and was probably the home of English workers.

As she stood and gazed at it, some association of ideas brought to Juliet's mind the thought of Mr. Mainprice, and of the summer night at Lynton, when under the influence of his words she had seemed to see the two ways opening before her, her own way and God's way, and had deliberately chosen to follow her own. To what had that way led her? The tears rose in her eyes as her heart gave to that question its bitter answer.

The next moment, Juliet felt someone touch her arm, and turning saw a lady beside her. The girl looked at her in wonder. She was undoubtedly English, for her style of dress—the little close-fitting bonnet and plain serge gown—resembled that of Salome. It was a good, strong, gentle face which the bonnet framed, and it had a look which somehow seemed familiar to Juliet, though she did not think she had seen the lady before.

"Pardon me," said the lady, in the kindliest manner, "I think you are English, and perhaps a stranger in Paris?"

"Yes," said Juliet involuntarily.

"Would you not like to come in and see our home? Then we could have a little talk together, and if I could be of any service to you I should be so happy."

For a moment, Juliet hesitated. The gentle, persuasive speech of her countrywoman won upon her. She felt a great longing to accept the sympathy thus proffered, but quickly she recollected the circumstances under which she had come to Paris, and shrank with alarm from the thought of being questioned concerning these.

"No, thank you. I must be going on. I must not stay, indeed," she said hastily.

"Perhaps we could arrange a meeting for some other time," suggested the lady. "Would you mind telling me your name, and where you are staying?"

For a moment Juliet was too confused to reply. A deep, painful flush suffused her face. But pride came to, her aid, and lifting her head, she said haughtily,—

"Excuse me, I cannot see that there is any occasion," and walked quickly on.

The lady stood still for a moment, looking after the girl with troubled eyes. Then she followed her, keeping at such a distance as enabled her to see whither Juliet went. She noticed that presently the girl appeared to be in some doubt as to her road, and paused once or twice to ask her way of a passer-by. Finally she passed up a narrow street, having first received some directions from a man who stood at the corner selling matches. The lady knew the man, and went forward to speak to him.

"Good-day, Varnier," she said to him in French. "That was a young English lady who spoke to you just now. What place did she want?"

"The Hotel Rome," he replied.

"Ah," said the lady thoughtfully. And turning, she slowly retraced her steps.

CHAPTER XIX

SALOME FINDS A WELCOME

THE following day was oppressively hot, and Juliet felt no inclination to go abroad. Her room, being immediately below the roof, grew like an oven as the heat of the day increased; her head throbbed, the odours which rose from the kitchen sickened her, but she chose to remain in her room rather than encounter again the curious gaze of strangers. Adolphe waited upon her at mealtimes, and showed himself prompt and eager in serving her; but her appetite failed in the stifling atmosphere, and the dishes he set out with such care were left almost untasted.

How the leaden hours passed Juliet hardly knew. She could not read, she could hardly think connectedly. A kind of stupor possessed her as she lay back in the crimson velvet chair; but every now and then sharp, clear visions of the past would cross her mind, stinging her into bitter consciousness of her sin and folly. Sometimes the face of the lady who had looked at her so kindly and spoken so gently would come back to her, and she would ask herself where she had seen her before, or of whom it could be that the stranger reminded her.

Juliet was resting with her eyes closed when a loud, plaintive "mew" made her start, and looking up she saw a cat standing at her open window regarding her with beseeching eyes. It was a tabby, very prettily marked, but thin and miserable-looking, which forlornly wandering across the roofs had lighted on Juliet's open window.

"Puss, puss, puss!" she called gently, fearing to frighten it.

The cat looked at her doubtfully, mistrusting perhaps the foreign accents.

"Mignon, mignon!" Juliet tried next, in her most ingratiating manner.

The cat uttered another imploring mew.

Juliet turned to the luncheon-tray which still stood on her table, hastily put together on a plate the most appetising scraps she could find, and placed the plate on the floor just below the window. The cat hesitated only for a moment; then apparently convinced of Juliet's kind intentions, she leaped from the window to the floor and began hungrily to devour the feast.

When she had licked the plate quite clean, she proceeded to wash herself daintily. Then she sat still and looked at Juliet with such friendly eyes that the girl ventured to draw near and gently stroke pussy's head. Madame la Chatte graciously permitted the caress, and even condescended to purr.

Juliet, delighted to have gained such a companion, fondled her rapturously; but when she lifted her into her lap, puss resented the familiarity, struggled to get free, and as soon as she was at liberty, walked to the crimson velvet couch, leapt on to it, and ensconced herself comfortably in its most remote corner. No matter. Juliet followed, seated herself by the cat's side, and continued to stroke her soft head. It was wonderful how much less lonely she felt, now that this feline wanderer had cast herself on her hospitality.

A little later madame, fresh from her toilette, with her hair crisply curled and coiled, and her corset tightly laced, came to pay her daily visit. She smiled as she saw the cat, and watched the interest which Juliet displayed in her. It struck her that the girl was very young and childlike, far too young to be staying without a guardian in Paris. She was devoured with curiosity concerning her, and began to question Juliet eagerly.

"Monsieur does not come, it seems," she said, "and mademoiselle has not heard from him. Is it not so? Is it that he knows where mademoiselle may be found? Mademoiselle will perhaps like to write to him? Shall I bring mademoiselle the ink and the paper and the pen?"

Juliet curtly declined the offer. Madame found her curiosity baffled at every turn. Her questions and insinuations alike failed to extract information.

"See here," said madame at last, laying on the table a newspaper she had brought in her hand, "mademoiselle can perhaps amuse herself with this. You see it is an English journal of yesterday. An Englishman who slept here last night left it behind him."

Juliet thanked her, and when madame had gone, she took up the paper, and glanced over its columns with indifferent eyes. Suddenly she saw words which startled her, and leaning forward eagerly read the following paragraph:

"SERIOUS CHARGE AGAINST ALGERNON CHALCOMBE.

   "Algernon Chalcombe, the well-known music hall singer, was yesterday arrested in Paris on a charge of forgery. It appears that on Monday, he cashed in London a cheque for £200 which purported to be signed by Joseph Barham, manager of the Cold Harbour Music Hall. The signature was, however, a forgery, and was discovered to be such late on the following day. The matter being at once put in the hands of the police, they speedily discovered that Chalcombe had left London for the Continent. They at once telegraphed to the French police, with the result that Chalcombe was arrested on his arrival in Paris. There is a report that his affairs are desperately involved in consequence of gambling transactions. It is of course possible, and we sincerely hope it may be the case, that Mr. Chalcombe can establish his innocence of the crime of which he is accused. When arrested in Paris, he was accompanied by a young lady with whom he had travelled from Dover."

Juliet's head swam as she read the newspaper report. Algernon Chalcombe a gambler and a forger! Was it to such a one that she had been ready to entrust her future? Was it for the sake of such a man that she had left her home and the mother who loved her so tenderly? No, not for his sake. She could not so deceive herself. It was for her own sake, for the sake of the future he had painted to her in such brilliant hues. He himself had counted for little with her. Amongst the many strangely mingled sensations Juliet experienced at this moment, came a conviction that she had never truly loved this man, whom she had dared to think of marrying.

Had she loved him, she would not have at once concluded that he was guilty of the crime of which he was accused. But she felt instinctively that the worst was true. With preternatural quickness, her mind gathered evidence from the past that seemed to confirm its truth.

Had not Algernon often spoken to her of his being "desperately hard up"? Had he not said jokingly, yet with an appearance of grim earnest beneath his joke, that he was ready to do anything to obtain money? Did she not know how cleverly he had once imitated his sister's handwriting, and how she had spoken of his skill in this respect? Had she not been struck with the gleam in his eyes when she had handed him the money with which he was to purchase their marriage licence? She doubted now if the money had been so spent. She knew the name of Joseph Barham. He was the manager of the large music hall at which Algernon most often sang. She remembered hearing Algernon say that Mr. Barham was about to go to America. She believed he was to sail on the day before they left London. Had Algernon then trusted to his absence to prevent the discovery of the fraud, and had his artfully laid plan somehow miscarried?

She remembered how freely she had told Algernon every particular with respect to her own property, and a new misgiving assailed her. Had he wooed her for the sake of her money? Would he have been faithful to the promise he had given, when he had her in his power? Would he have been content to play the secondary part she had assigned him in her life?

Poor Juliet! She was beginning to perceive that she had been like the poor silly fly whom the artful spider entangles in his glistening web, or like the foolish moth she had seen fall with singed wings on the drawing-room table on that evening which now seemed so long, long ago.

The pressure of mental pain brought a sense of physical discomfort that made her go to the window, and lean far out, to catch all the air she could. As she gazed over the dreary roofs, she felt as if she had suddenly grown quite old. The happy, careless, childish self of the past was for ever gone. She knew now what life really was, with its pitfalls and perils, at which she had often heard her elders darkly hint; but she had bought her experience at a high price.

Presently she took up the newspaper, and read again that brief paragraph. The sentence concerning herself struck her painfully, filling her with a terrible sense of shame. How could she bear it, if it ever became known that she was the young lady who had accompanied Chalcombe on his flight? She would feel for ever branded with ignominy, if she met the glance of eyes which said that they knew. Ah, she could never risk it. She could never go home now. She had placed an impassable barrier between herself and the old home, which she loved now as she had never loved it before. And what was to become of her in the future she could not tell.

With the thought came such a painful yearning for her mother's gentle presence, and for the love which had never failed her in any trouble yet,—though which of the slight vexations of her past could be truly called a trouble?—That Juliet could control herself no longer, and threw herself on the couch in a passion of weeping, which lasted till she was too exhausted to weep more.

The next morning, Juliet felt too ill to rise. She lay in her bed with her head throbbing wildly, and with sick, dizzy sensations overpowering her, whenever she attempted to raise herself from her pillow. She so seldom had a day's illness, that these symptoms were sufficient to alarm her, and she felt more miserable and forsaken than before. She thought that perhaps she was going to die, and tried to persuade herself that this was the best thing that could happen to her. But life was strong in her young frame, and she shrunk with horror from the thought of death.

She lay there feeling utterly comfortless, and filled with a vague wonder at the misery which had overwhelmed her. Could it be herself, Juliet Tracy, in whose good fortune she had always so firmly believed, to whom such sorrow and loneliness had come? Did she, who had dreamed of such a brilliant future, lie here in the dreary, close, foreign room beneath the baked roof? How she loathed the crimson velvet chairs, the gilding, the glare of everything about her! Oh, to feel a breeze, or quaff a draught of iced water!

Her only comfort was derived from the presence of the cat, who came purring to her bedside, and seemed, Juliet fancied, to know that she was ill. But possibly puss was moved by feelings not entirely disinterested, since she presently jumped on to the bed and settled herself cosily at Juliet's feet.

Madame was disturbed to find the young English lady lying in bed, so white, and with such a sorrowful look on her young face. The adventure was not proceeding as she had expected. There was no excitement about it, and it puzzled her. She asked Juliet about her friends, and suggested that she should write to them, Juliet receiving the suggestion in stony silence. Then she proposed that Juliet should see an English doctor, residing in Paris, who came every day to the hotel for his dinner. This proposal Juliet decidedly negatived. She was not ill; it was only a headache; she did not want a doctor. She had a quick sense of the surprise an English medical man would feel at finding her there alone, and dreaded the questions he might be expected to ask.

It was well she declined the suggestion. Madame had no idea that the doctor she mentioned was not a type of all English medical practitioners; but assuredly Juliet would have shrunk in horror from the shabby, dissipated-looking, ill-favoured man, had he been presented to her.

Madame was kind in her way. She brought Juliet some lemonade, which was really reviving, and she shook up and arranged her pillows very adroitly. But madame breathed heavily, and her high-heeled shoes resounded on the polished floor. Juliet, who was in a state of nervous suffering to which every sound is agony, was thankful when madame had satisfied her sense of duty and retired to the regions below.

After a while, Juliet felt a little better, and wishing to prove that there was no occasion for a doctor's services, she got up, and, with slow and feeble movements, dressed herself. But when she had done this, she felt so faint and giddy that she was glad to stretch herself on the couch, taking the pillows from her bed to increase its comfort, which was slight, in spite of its gorgeous appearance.

She was lying thus, feeling very wretched, when she heard the sound of steps on the stairs and the voice of Adolphe. He seemed to be conducting someone to a room. Could it be that he was bringing the doctor to her after all?

Juliet, in dismay, started into a sitting posture, her face turned towards the door. The next moment, it was gently opened—the face of Salome looked in upon her.

Yes, it was indeed Salome, in her close-fitting bonnet and long plain cloak, who advanced. For a moment, Juliet could hardly believe her eyes; then she uttered a cry of amazement and delight, and threw herself, sobbing wildly, into her sister's arms.

CHAPTER XX

A DELUSION DESTROYED

"OH, Juliet? How could you do it?" said Salome.

Juliet shrank back speechless. Had Salome spoken sharply, she might have found a reply; but Salome's gentle, sorrowful utterance was as different as possible from her usual mode of administering reproof, and it made Juliet feel how much more grave was this escapade than anything of which she had before been guilty.

"How could you be so cruel to poor mother?" continued Salome. "I should have thought you would have considered her; for I fancied you had some love for her, if for no one else. You have well-nigh broken her heart. I don't know that she will ever recover from the shock."

"Oh, Salome! She is not ill!" exclaimed Juliet, her voice rising almost to a scream.

"She is very ill," said Salome gravely. "We had to call in Dr. Gardner on Thursday night. She just went from one fainting fit into another."

Juliet stood like one stunned, every particle of colour fading from her face. She had to clutch at the table to keep herself from falling.

"Oh, mother!" she cried. "What have I done?" Then, forgetting all the thoughts that had gone before, she added quickly, "I must go to her, Salome. I must go at once."

"I must beg you not to think of that," said Salome, her manner unconsciously growing severe, though her heart had been touched by the sight of Juliet's altered, miserable looks. "Hannah's last words to me were—'Tell Juliet that the only thing she can do for us now is to keep away.' You do not realise, perhaps, how you have disgraced us. There was an article in our local paper yesterday, giving a full account of Algernon Chalcombe's arrest in Paris, and mentioning your name as that of the young lady who had travelled with him. Hannah was terribly upset when she saw it at breakfast time. She declared that she could not go to the high school and face the girls, knowing that they would all be talking about it; but afterwards she compelled herself to go, for she said she had no excuse for shirking her duty, and no one had any right to blame her for your going wrong."

"Oh, don't, Salome, don't! I cannot bear it!" cried Juliet wildly, as she threw herself on the couch and buried her face amongst the pillows.

Salome said nothing, but her expression softened. She looked ready to cry herself, but controlled her feelings, laid aside her cloak, looked around the room, and began instinctively to set things in order.

Presently she came and stood beside the couch, and laid her cool hand on Juliet's burning forehead.

"Juliet dear," she said gently, "I am very sorry for you. Madame told me you were ill, and indeed you look ill, my poor little sister. I don't want to be hard on you. You have done very wrong, but—I think you have your punishment."

A deep sob from Juliet attested the truth of this assertion.

Salome sat down beside her, and it was some time ere she spoke again. When Juliet's sobs grew less frequent, she suggested gently, "Don't you think, Juliet, you would feel better if you told me all about it? I cannot understand how you came to take such a step."

Juliet did not at once respond to this invitation. It was hard; it was inexpressibly bitter to her pride to tell the story of her folly. But gradually Salome, who had become strangely gentle and patient, led her on to confess all—her belief in her own powers, her longing to win a dazzling success as a public singer, the subtle way in which the temptation to take her own way in defiance of her mother's wish had been presented to her, the manner in which she had suffered herself to be led on from one deceit to another, always trying to persuade herself that the end would justify the means, and that her mother would eventually not only forgive her, but be glad that she had acted as she had done.

Salome was deeply moved as she listened. She was filled with burning indignation against the crafty, unprincipled man who had taken advantage of Juliet's foolish vanity and utter ignorance of the world to serve his own ends, and had betrayed her into a course of action which might have ended for her far more disastrously than it had. Moreover, she was startled and moved to self-reproach by this revelation of the utterly hidden life Juliet had been living side by side with her own.

"Oh, Juliet!" she said. "If only I had known! If only you could have confided in me! But it was my fault; I was too hard on you. I was so shut up in myself, that I did not try to understand you. Oh, you cannot think how it hurts me now, to think that if I had been different, this might never have happened."

And to Juliet's amazement, Salome began to sob.

"Oh, don't, Salome!" said Juliet faintly; and then she began to sob too, but uttering broken words between her sobs.

"It wasn't your fault; it was just my own. I knew I was doing wrong, and I didn't care—I meant to take my own way—and I thought other things would come right somehow. But now I have made everybody wretched—and mother! Oh, I can never forgive myself. If mother should die, I can never be happy again!"

Then Salome tried to soothe her; but what could she say to comfort her? They sat and cried together, and the clock in the belfry chimed the hours unheeded.

At last Juliet asked, "How did you know I was here, Salome?"

"It was wonderful how easily I found you," said Salome. "We did not know how to act at first, and mother was so ill on Thursday night that we could not leave her. But on the following day, she kept imploring that one of us would go and fetch you home. She did not seem to realise that we did not know where you were. Then we saw in the paper that Algernon Chalcombe had been arrested in Paris, so we thought you might be there. I said I would go to Paris, but I did not know at all how to manage,—you know we are no travellers,—so I started off to ask Mrs. Hayes, because she had been lately in Paris. Well, it was most providential; I had not gone far when I met Mr. Mainprice."

A hot, painful blush suddenly dyed Juliet's pale face; but her sister did not observe it as she went on speaking.

"He had heard of our trouble, and he spoke to me about you—so kindly. I asked him what I should do, and he said that he had a sister who was a helper in a home for English governesses and working women in Paris, and that he would send me to her. She would know, he said, how best I should set to work to find you. I must get ready to start that evening, and he would see me off, and would telegraph to his sister to meet me on my arrival in Paris. Oh, I cannot tell you how good he was."

Juliet's face was perfectly colourless now, and wore a strange, set look.

So I started last evening from Cannon Street, and arrived here very early this morning. Early as it was, Miss Mainprice met me. I was dreadfully tired, for I could not sleep in the train, and she would not let me tell her much till I had rested a while. She took me to the home, and I lay down there, and slept for some hours. Then she brought me some luncheon, and while I ate it, we talked. She asked me to describe you to her, and when I did so she exclaimed,—

"Ah, then I have seen her! I spoke to her the other day. I believe she is at the Hotel Rome."

"Ah," exclaimed Juliet, suddenly recalling the lady who had spoken to her in the street, "then that was his sister! To be sure!" The haunting sense of resemblance was explained now.

"Of course, after that, I could not rest till I saw you, and Miss Mainprice brought me here at once. And that reminds me, she said that if I did not at once return, she should conclude all was well, and she would come in the evening, and take us both back to stay at the home. So, if you feel well enough for the move, we had better begin at once to get ready."

"Oh, Salome, I cannot go there," exclaimed Juliet impetuously, "I cannot bear to see her! I will not go to that home, to have people eyeing me askance, and then talking me over amongst themselves."

"Oh, Juliet, you are not going to be wilful now?" cried Salome, in despair. "You are not going to insist on your own way still?"

Juliet was silenced. She felt the reproach which the words conveyed. Truly, her own way had proved bitter enough. And what had she to hope for now? Whichever way she looked, her future seemed to offer her only what was painful. She burst into passionate tears.

Salome felt that she had yielded.

"You had better lie down, Juliet," she said kindly; "you are not good for much yet. I will put your things together. But first I must write, to relieve mother's anxiety. How could I forget that? Stay, it will be better to send a telegram, just to say that you are safe and with me."

Juliet made no further objection. She looked round on the low-ceiled room with its crimson velvet furniture, and felt that it would be good to escape from the dreary prison it had proved. Her head was throbbing so badly now that it was impossible for her to exert herself. She had to lie still, and leave Salome to arrange things as she would.

Quickly and deftly Salome packed up Juliet's belongings. Then she summoned madame, asked for the bill, and settled it. Madame, who was sincerely glad that the beautiful young English lady had been claimed by this severe-looking sister, was complaisance itself. A little later, Miss Mainprice arrived.

Juliet need not have feared that this lady would treat her as a naughty child. Nothing could have been kinder, or less charged with special significance than Miss Mainprice's manner towards her. It was plain that, like her brother, she was distinguished by great kindliness of heart and the most delicate consideration for others. Juliet felt at ease with her at once, and in an astonishingly short time, she had won the girl's confidence and love.

Juliet slept that night as she had not slept since her coming to Paris. The fresher, brighter atmosphere of the home, the sense of love and sympathy enwrapping her, little as she deserved it, made her feel quite another being on the following day. In spite of all that should stir regret and self-reproach, her spirits rose.

But they speedily fell, when she found herself compelled to contemplate the future, and decide as to the next step to be taken. Salome, having found Juliet, was now impatient to return to the suffering mother who, she felt sure, was needing her, and to the home which she imagined must be falling into hopeless confusion without her careful oversight. But what was to be done with Juliet? Salome never dreamed of setting aside Hannah's prohibition; nor did Juliet, much as she yearned to see her mother, and win, if possible, her forgiveness, desire to return home.

"Let her stay here with me," said Miss Mainprice, when Salome mentioned to her the difficulty. "We can board her here for a time, and she can learn to speak French and study her music. Her voice can be as well trained in Paris as anywhere."

"Her voice!" exclaimed Salome aghast. "You surely would not countenance her wild idea of becoming a public singer?"

"Is it such a wild idea?" asked Miss Mainprice, with a smile. "Remember there are public singers and public singers. I would not for a moment encourage Juliet to think of going upon the stage. That seems to me very undesirable for her. But if she is gifted with a beautiful voice, I see no harm in her cultivating it with a view to giving people pleasure by singing in public. Many of our public singers have been good and noble women."

Salome looked surprised, and by no means well pleased at these words.

"Ah, you do not approve," said Miss Mainprice.

"I cannot help thinking that you may do more harm than good by decidedly opposing the bent of Juliet's inclination. I must confess that I have a good deal of sympathy for what I suppose to be her feeling on the subject. I should like to have a little talk with her about it, if I may."

"Certainly you may," said Salome.

But Miss Mainprice never had that talk with Juliet. When Salome went back to the room she was sharing with her sister, she was astonished to find Juliet hastily putting on her things to go out.

"Oh, Salome!" she exclaimed excitedly, "I have just discovered from that newspaper that Signor Lombardi is in Paris. He is staying at the Hotel Louvre, and I am going there to see him. Now, don't try to stop me, for I must see him. I must ask him about my singing. He will advise me what to do. For I have been thinking and thinking, and it seems to me more important than ever that I should cultivate my voice. I—I cannot go back to the old life. I must make a career for myself somehow."

Juliet spoke with the utmost rapidity, as though determined to say all she wanted to say ere Salome could utter a protest.

Salome was startled and dismayed, but the words Miss Mainprice had just uttered had a restraining influence on her, and she did not oppose Juliet's wish as she would otherwise have done.

"If you really mean to call on Signor Lombardi, I had better go with you," was all she said.

Juliet made no objection to this, being, in truth, glad to have the protection of her sister's presence.

Salome quickly made herself ready, and they set out.

Fortunately they found the signor at the hotel, and he received them in his private sitting room. He had grown stouter and flabbier than before, and was more than ever conscious of his own importance. He was evidently astonished to see Juliet, and there was that in his manner of greeting her which caused her to colour deeply, and to feel profoundly thankful that Salome was with her. For she knew instinctively that he had heard of her leaving England with Algernon Chalcombe, and that he was regarding her with a kind of amused contempt. He addressed her in a lighter and more familiar manner than he had been wont to use.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Tracy. So kind of you to come and see me. And what do you think of this fascinating city of Paris? But you have come at the wrong season. You should have been here when the opera house was open, and everything in full swing. And how goes the singing?"

Annoyed and confused by the indefinable change she discerned in him, Juliet felt her self-possession deserting her. She wished she had not come. When he paused and looked at her smilingly for a response, she forcibly conquered her nervousness, and said with dignity, in a cold, high tone, unlike her own—

"Signor Lombardi, I have come to you now because I want you to be so good as to tell me exactly what steps I should take in order to have my voice thoroughly trained for singing in public."

"Your voice—thoroughly trained—for singing in public," he repeated slowly, with an air of amazement. "Do you mean that you aspire to be a public singer?"

"Yes," said Juliet, with some hesitation, "I wish it. I think there is nothing I should like better."

"Then I am sorry to tell you, my dear young lady, that it is impossible."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Juliet, stung by the word. "Why, you have always told me I could do anything with my voice."

"I never said that you might become a public singer," he replied.

"Then I certainly understood you to say so," Juliet said, with pain and indignation in her tone.

He lightly shrugged his shoulders. "Your vanity misled you, my dear young lady. I am used to being misunderstood in that manner. It is wonderful to what illusions human vanity is prone."

Juliet looked as if she could not believe her ears.

"What did you mean, then," she asked slowly, "when you said that I could do anything with my voice?"