"I have no recollection of ever using those words," he replied. "When you came to me, I understood that you wished to sing as an amateur, and as such I gave you lessons. I could not have encouraged you to dream of becoming a public singer, for till this moment I had no idea that you ever contemplated such a career. If you had consulted me, I should have told you it was impossible. Now I will be quite candid with you. You have a fair voice; it is sweet, it is flexible, there are good notes in it; but—it would be lost in a concert hall. It would do very well for drawing-room singing. You can study with that end in view; you might in time perhaps give lessons."
"Thank you," said Juliet sharply. "I have not the least desire to be a teacher."
He shrugged his shoulders again. "And you would need to learn a great deal before you were fit to teach," he said. "You are no musician, my dear Miss Tracy. Your knowledge of the science is very imperfect; you are no timist; you lack accuracy, delicacy, finesse; above all, the indomitable perseverance which alone achieves greatness in art. Oh yes, I know. You think it would be grand to be a prima donna; you crave the admiration, the applause, the renown. You desire to be set up yourself. But love of self is not the love of art, nor can the highest success be won by its inspiration. It is not religion only that demands self-denial. No end worth having can be won without it. And art itself becomes a religion to the true artist. I could tell you passages of my own history that would astonish you."
So far Signor Lombardi had spoken with growing earnestness. But now he suddenly checked himself in his fervency, shrugged his shoulders, made a comical grimace, and said, with a side glance at Juliet—
"Bah! Why should I talk thus? How can a young lady like you, living only to amuse herself, understand the steep, rough steps by which the artist climbs? No, no. It is not your vocation to be an artist. You are a charming young lady; that is your vocation."
Juliet stood as one stunned. Her mortification was so intense that she could not speak. She winced when Signor Lombardi told her that she was a charming young lady, conceiving that he used the words in scorn; but she had no retort to make. All her spirit seemed gone. It was Salome who interposed to end the interview.
"It is a disappointment to you, Juliet," she said, "but you must be grateful to Signor Lombardi for telling you the truth. We need not occupy more of his time."
"Oh, do not hurry away," said the signor, flourishing his fat white hands; "I am sorry my words have been so unpalatable, but I think it is best to speak the truth."
Juliet flashed an indignant glance at him.
"I wish you had spoken it before," she said bitterly.
He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. "I have never spoken otherwise," he said. "Ah, my dear young lady, you are angry with me now; but some day you will be thankful that I saved you from the toilsome life of the artist who is fated to fail. For it is too late for you to dream of making your mark as a singer. Your training should have begun years ago. You are, I believe, twenty years old?"
"I am twenty-one," said Juliet.
"Just so. Well, you must be thankful that Providence has been so kind to you, that you are not dependent for a living on your musical gifts. Fate has doubtless in store for a beautiful young lady like you a far happier lot than that of the majority of singers."
Juliet turned in haste to go. His words seemed to her insulting, his presence, since he had so wounded her self-confidence, insupportable. When she presently found herself walking by Salome's side on the hot pavement, she had no consciousness of bidding him good-day or passing down the long staircase into the street.
Salome looked at her, and held her peace. The girl's miserable, hopeless expression stirred her compassion; but she knew that Juliet could bear no word from her then. So in absolute silence they traversed the long, broad streets.
But when they reached the house, a new and more sorrowful turn was given to their thoughts. A telegram had arrived in their absence; its brief, blunt message bid them both return home at once. Mrs. Tracy's illness had assumed a most serious aspect, and it was feared she could not live.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FRUIT OF SELF-WILL
VERY early the next morning, so early that the familiar roads and houses looked strangely unlike themselves, Salome and Juliet drove up to the gate of The Poplars. It was an hour by which, even on a week-day, few persons have quitted their beds, and this was Sunday, though both Juliet and Salome were oblivious of the fact. Every blind visible at the front of the house was closely drawn.
Juliet, shivering, as she looked out of the cab, from the combined effects of excitement and the chill of the early morn, did not pause to reflect that she had never before looked at her home from the outside at that hour. The closed windows could suggest to her but one idea, and she turned deadly pale as she gasped out, "Oh, the blinds—the blinds are all down!"
"As they always are at this hour," said Salome, in her matter-of-fact way; "do you suppose we sleep with our blinds up?"
Juliet looked somewhat relieved. They advanced to the door. The knocker was muffled, and produced so slight a sound, that Juliet hardly expected they would gain admittance; but Hannah must have been looking out for them, for after a few minutes she opened the door, attired in a dressing-gown, and wearing the haggard look of one who has been watching all night.
She drew Salome in and kissed her with an air of welcome; but after giving Juliet a brief, cold stare, she turned her shoulder on her and addressed herself to Salome.
"Oh, I am so thankful you have come! I have wanted you very much these last two days."
"How is mother?" asked Salome.
"Very ill. She has not slept at all. Dr. Gardner fears for her brain. Her mind is wandering now. She keeps talking and talking and calling for Juliet."
Hannah paused, and cast a hard, reproachful glance at Juliet.
"I hope you are satisfied, Juliet, with what you have done," she said.
"Oh, don't, Hannah," interposed Salome swiftly; "don't be hard on Juliet! She has suffered enough."
Hannah looked on her young sister's altered face, and felt that her words were cruel. The wavy golden hair escaping from the little travelling-cap framed a face which was utterly colourless save for the blueness of the lips, and which had a wan, pinched look strangely in contrast to its childish contour. Grief will often bring a look of age even to a young face, and the anguish and remorse which had been working in Juliet's mind through the long hours of the night had left their impress. It was not a girl, but a grief-stricken woman, who looked at Hannah with a mute appeal for mercy in her melancholy eyes.
"What does Dr. Gardner say? Tell me," she demanded breathlessly. "He does not think she will die?"
"He is very much afraid," Hannah answered, choosing her words carefully. "He said if you did not come soon, it would be too late; but he thought your coming might save her."
A sob broke from Juliet. She turned in haste to the staircase. She would have gone at once, as she was, into her mother's presence; but Hannah checked her, and went first to acquaint the nurse with her coming.
A few minutes later, Juliet entered the familiar room. The windows were so darkened that she could hardly see her way across it. There was a strong smell of vinegar. Was it her mother's form moving so restlessly on the bed? Was the voice which sounded so hollow and so far-away indeed her mother's? Juliet drew nearer, and words became audible.
"Oh, Juliet! Oh, my child!" wailed the weary voice. "Is she lost—lost? Tell them they must find her. She cannot have wandered so far-away. The jungle is a terrible place. There are tigers there—tigers and snakes—oh, such horrible snakes! And she such a tender little darling. Oh, why did I not take better care of her? Why did I trust her out of my sight? Juliet! Juliet!"
"Speak to her," said the nurse, drawing Juliet close to the bedside, "speak to her; she will know your voice, perhaps."
Juliet's voice was so choked by sobs that for a few moments she could not command it; but with a desperate effort she controlled herself, and bending close to her mother, she said—
"Mother, I am here. I have come back to you. Look up and see. It is I, your Juliet."
The talking suddenly ceased. Mrs. Tracy opened her eyes.
"Speak again," whispered the nurse.
"Mother, darling mother; do you not understand? Look at me, speak to me—your Juliet."
At this moment, the nurse slid back a curtain and turned the venetian blind. The sunlight entering fell on Juliet's golden head as she knelt beside her mother. A look of sudden recognition came into the patient's eyes.
"Oh, Juliet!" she murmured, in accents of joy, "Juliet! My darling!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Juliet, breaking down utterly and crying aloud. "I have been so wicked, so wicked! I do not deserve your forgiveness. But oh, say you will get well now! Oh, promise me you will get well now!"
"Of course, darling," murmured the faint, far-away voice. "But don't cry, Juliet; I cannot bear to hear you cry."
The nurse attempted to draw the weeping girl from the bedside, but her mother's weak fingers had fastened upon hers. "Don't leave me, Juliet," she gasped out. "Stay with me, now you have come."
"Yes, yes," murmured Juliet, and she clasped the dear hand closer and pressed her lips to it, struggling to keep back her sobs.
A look of content stole over Mrs. Tracy's face. Her eyelids drooped. The nurse darkened the window again, and in a few moments the patient was peacefully sleeping with her hand clasped in Juliet's.
Juliet knelt there, fearing to move, lest she should break her mother's slumber, till her limbs grew stiff and her constrained position became agonising. Then the nurse gently drew her mother's hand away, and Juliet saw that the sleep was too profound to be disturbed by so slight a movement. The repose which exhausted body and excited brain so sorely needed had come at last. There was now good hope of recovery.
And Mrs. Tracy did recover. As Dr. Gardner had foreseen, the return of Juliet, the sight of her face, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, were the best medicine her mother could have. The improvement which set in with her coming was steadily maintained.
Yet Mrs. Tracy's recovery was slow, and several weeks passed ere she could quit her bedroom. During that period, Juliet scarcely left her side. Again and again, her mother would urge her to go out; but Juliet was content to take the fresh air in the little garden at the back of the house, and seldom went beyond the gate. She felt that she could never do enough to show her love to the mother who had received her again so lovingly, and not only forgiven her gross ingratitude, but put it utterly from her, as a thing to be consigned to everlasting oblivion.
Juliet could not so dismiss it. The more she was made to feel her mother's love, the more she hated herself for what she had done. In her bitter repentance and self-loathing, she would have felt it a relief if her mother had upbraided her, or in any way caused her to suffer for her wrong-doing.
"You ought to hate me, mother," she would say sometimes.
"Oh no, dear," her mother would respond, with a smile; "you were so deluded, you did not know what you were doing."
"Deluded? I was mad!" Juliet would reply.
And madness indeed it now seemed, the insatiable vanity which demanded worldwide admiration and renown, her proud belief in her own power, her confidence that she could bend others to her will, her wilful determination to win her own way at any cost. She had been as the victim of an insane delusion, like such as imagine themselves kings or queens when they are but ordinary mortals, or who persuade themselves they are the possessors of thousands of pounds, when they have not as many pence. But Juliet knew that though she had been thus mad, it was a madness for which she was responsible. For she had known all the while what she was doing.
Each step had been deliberately taken in defiance of the protests of her better self. Regardless of every consideration which should have restrained her, she had striven to make of her life what she would, and, like all who so seek to save their lives, she had suffered loss. How great and bitter the loss her wrong-doing involved, Juliet had yet to learn.
She knew little of the outer world during the days which she passed in devoted attention to the invalid. The nurse had been dismissed shortly after the patient was pronounced out of danger, and Juliet now performed her duties, with some occasional help from Salome. Hannah had gone to take the change at the seaside which her mother's illness had delayed, and which it was desirable she should enjoy ere returning to her duties at the high school. The days passed quietly and uneventfully. Juliet seldom found time and inclination to look at a newspaper. She did not know that Algernon Chalcombe had been tried at the county assizes, found guilty, and sentenced to twelve months' imprisonment. She was not curious concerning his fate. She hated to think of him now, and would have been thankful if she could have banished his name and memory for ever from her mind.
Salome was aware of the fact, but she shrank from mentioning it to Juliet. Salome was trying hard to be patient with Juliet, and to make every allowance for her; but there were times when she was disposed to resent bitterly the folly of which Juliet had been guilty. It was certainly making life hard for Salome. She visited her district as assiduously as ever, neglected no religious duty, and attended every service of the church; but these engagements were made bitter to her now by her perception of a coolness in Mrs. Hayes' bearing towards her, since Juliet's elopement became the talk of the neighbourhood. She imagined, too, that Mr. Ainger must think less well of her in consequence, and the thought made her painfully nervous and self-conscious whenever she encountered the curate. A sense of injustice rankled in her mind, for surely no one had a right to blame her for what Juliet had done. She, most certainly, had never failed to administer reproof when occasion demanded it.
When Hannah returned home in September, and resumed her duties at the high school, she too found fresh cause to resent the way in which Juliet had disgraced them. She treated her young sister with marked coldness. Juliet did not so much mind that, but she felt painfully that she had brought a heavy shadow on the home life. Her mother came downstairs again and took her accustomed place, but she looked sadly aged and worn by all she had suffered. The old brightness had gone from her glance, and even her smiles seemed sad. Juliet could hardly look on her without a throb of keenest self-reproach.
As her mother no longer needed her constant attention, Juliet, thankful though she was to see her so much better, became conscious of a sore weight of depression, such as she had never known before. She hardly knew how to occupy herself. The days dragged heavily. Her life seemed to have lost all interest.
"Why do you not practise your singing, dear?" her mother suggested to her one day, as Juliet lounged about, unable to settle to anything.
A hot flush suddenly dyed Juliet's face.
"Don't name my singing to me again, mother, if you love me!" she said, with concentrated bitterness in her voice. "That delusion is shattered for ever."
"But, dear, you have really a very nice voice," Mrs. Tracy began, in her gentle, soothing way. A glance at Juliet arrested the words.
The girl was leaning against the window-shutter, and the light falling full on her face showed it to be pale and thin, the delicate brows contracted as if with pain, and her expression so sorrowful as to be almost that of despair.
"Oh, my dear child, do not look like that!" cried her mother in distress. "You must not let yourself brood upon the past. Try to forget what is so painful."
"As if one could forget," said Juliet bitterly, and the tears, which had been slowly gathering in her eyes, suddenly began to fall. But she quickly wiped them away, and stood motionless as before.
"Why do you not go out?" asked her mother. "It is such a lovely day. You never take a walk now, except those little turns with me, which are not exercise enough for you."
"I hate to go out alone when I have nothing to do," said Juliet. "If you would care for a drive to-day, I should be pleased to go with you."
"Not to-day, thank you, dear. I think it is rather too cold for driving. And I cannot allow you to be always spending money on drives for me."
"Mother, don't talk like that, please. What have I to do with my money now except spend it on you?"
"You are very good, my darling. I know you like to give me pleasure," said Mrs. Tracy. "If you want an object for a walk, I can give you one. I wish you would get me some more of this grey wool at Spalding's. You cannot match it at any other shop, and I shall soon be at a standstill for want of it."
Juliet did not like to refuse her mother's request, but it was with reluctance that she went to prepare for the walk. She had not walked alone in the vicinity of her home since her return from the Continent.
It was a lovely though keen September day. The crisp, autumnal feeling in the air made walking delightful. In spite of sorrowful thought, Juliet was agreeably sensible of the freshness and clearness of the atmosphere, as she walked briskly along the high road, where many of the trees were already brilliant with the golden and russet hues of autumn, and dead leaves thickly strewed the garden paths.
Juliet's way took her past the high school. Miss Tucker came out of the door as Juliet approached, but suddenly she turned and hurriedly re-entered the building. Her eyes had met Juliet's for a moment ere she turned. An uneasy sensation smote like a chill to Juliet's heart. Could it be that Miss Tucker had turned so quickly in order to avoid her? Though she had been such an unsatisfactory scholar, she had always regarded the head mistress with warm esteem, and she had believed that Miss Tucker liked her. Had she heard all, and did she condemn her late scholar so severely that she could not even vouchsafe her a greeting? Juliet's face burned with shame at the thought. Her heart sank very low. She walked slowly on, lost in painful thought, made her purchase without giving much heed to it, and turned homewards.
As she re-passed the high school, the girls were coming out. Juliet had carefully taken the opposite side of the way, but Dolly Hayes, a bright little girl of nine, who had enjoyed many a romp with Juliet, saw her and came running to her across the road. But almost immediately an elder sister followed, and as Dolly reached Juliet's side, she caught her by the skirt behind, and drew her back, in spite of her struggles and indignant protests. Juliet stood watching with amusement, thinking it only a bit of rough play, till she heard the elder one say—
"Come away, Dolly. You are not to go to Juliet Tracy. Don't you remember mother said we were not to speak to her if we saw her in the street?"
"I don't care. I shall speak to her. I love Juliet," protested the angry child.
But Juliet had heard enough. There was no misunderstanding this. She felt as if she had received a sudden stab. Her very strength seemed to go from her. In an instant she was weak, wounded, helpless. She bent her head and hurried home, scarce able to see her way for the blinding tears which would keep rising in her eyes.
At a corner, not a stone's throw from The Poplars, she ran against Mrs. Hayes, who was walking with Mr. Mainprice. Juliet lifted her eyes and met Mrs. Hayes' pitiless stare. That lady gave her a hard, scornful, deliberate glance, sufficient to show that she recognised her perfectly, but did not intend to salute her, and walked on.
Juliet dimly saw that Mr. Mainprice lifted his hat. She heard him utter her name. She believed afterwards that he had stopped and held out his hand, but she was too confused at the moment to observe anything distinctly. Conscious only of bitterest humiliation, her one instinctive impulse was to escape and hide herself from those cruel eyes.
She entered the house as noiselessly as possible, hoping that her mother would not hear her come in, and hurried up to her own room. There she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, and sobbed as though her heart would break. For she knew all now. There had been that in Mrs. Hayes' glance which had made everything clear to her comprehension. She knew how people were regarding her. She saw the impression which her conduct, revealed only in its bare details, must have made upon their minds. She understood how fatally she had marred her future. In her wilful folly, she had tarnished the good name which is a girl's most priceless possession. And what could life be worth without it?
CHAPTER XXII
A RAY OF HOPE
PRESENTLY Juliet made an attempt to check her passionate sobs. She remembered how distressed her mother would be if she saw her thus giving way, and for her mother's sake, she tried to rally strength and courage. She rose from her knees, slowly removed her walking dress, bathed her face with elaborate care, and did her utmost to remove every trace of agitation. She succeeded in regaining a calm demeanour; but the burden which pressed so heavily on her heart was not lightened, and she looked forward to the future with despair. How could she go on living, when she knew that everyone, save the dear mother who had always been too fond and indulgent towards her, condemned and despised her? The ban of shame she had brought upon herself seemed more than she could bear.
When she went downstairs, the table in the dining-room was laid for their early dinner, and Salome stood at the window watching for Hannah. Mrs. Tracy, busy with her knitting, sat in her easy-chair by the fire.
"See, mother," said Juliet, speaking with forced brightness, "I have matched your wool exactly, and it did not cost so much as you thought."
Mrs. Tracy looked at her keenly as she spoke. Despite her airy manner, there was a sound in Juliet's voice which told her mother she had been weeping, and her pink eyelids further confirmed the fact. A sharp pang emote the mother's heart. Instinctively she divined, in some degree, what had happened. But she asked no questions.
Hannah came in looking harassed, and her glance hardened as it rested on Juliet. It was not a cheerful meal which they took together. The talk was disjointed and constrained. Juliet hardly knew how to eat a morsel, though for her mother's sake, she tried bravely.
When they had finished, but whilst they still sat at the table, Hannah suddenly said, addressing no one in particular, "I have resigned my post at the high school. I shall not teach there after Christmas."
"You do not mean that?" exclaimed her mother, in amazement. "This is surely a very hasty resolve."
"Nothing was farther from my thoughts a few months ago, certainly," said Hannah, with deliberation. "But I am not responsible for the circumstances which have led to it."
She glanced at Juliet as she spoke.
"My satisfaction in teaching at the high school has been destroyed for me," she continued. "I cannot forget what has happened, cannot lose my sense that the thought of it is in the minds of others. I feel, if I do not hear, what is being said."
An uncomfortable silence followed. Juliet's head was bent. She was quivering with pain and indignation. Her mother dared not look at her. Hannah went on in her cold, firm tones—
"Miss Tucker understands my feeling, and she approves of what I have done, although she is very sorry. She advises me to apply for the headmistress-ship of a school at Leeds. It is not exactly a high school, but worked on the same lines. I hope, with her recommendation, I may obtain it."
"You need not go away, Hannah," exclaimed Juliet, starting up impetuously. "I will go away. It is better I should. I never ought to have come home. I am only a disgrace to you all now."
"If you go, I go also," exclaimed Mrs. Tracy excitedly. "You shall not leave me again, Juliet."
"That can easily be managed," said Hannah coolly. "Should I get this school, there will be an opening for Salome too; for there are boarders, and I shall need her to take charge of the housekeeping. So you and Juliet could live together where you please. That would be quite to her mind, I imagine."
"Let it be so, then," exclaimed Mrs. Tracy vehemently. "I, for one, shall be very happy. But, Hannah, I must say I think you are acting wrongly. You ought to stand by your sister, now she is under such a cloud, and help to bring things right. If you give up your post and go away, people will think the case worse than it is. They will imagine there is indeed cause for shame—"
"So there is, mother," broke in Juliet, "cause enough for shame. I am a girl who has lost her character, and for such there is no help!"
"Don't speak like that, Juliet. You will break my heart!" cried her mother, with tears. "It is not so bad as that; but if your own sister turns against you, people will think—anything."
"I do not turn against Juliet," said Hannah; "but since she has made my position here unendurable, I am surely at liberty to seek one elsewhere. I hope she has learned wisdom. She ought to know that she cannot escape the consequences of her wrong-doing."
"Of course she knows that," said Salome; "but I do think you are hard upon Juliet, Hannah. You forget that she is very sorry for what she has done."
"People generally are sorry when they have brought trouble on themselves," said Hannah coldly. "I am sorry if my words offend you; but for me black is black and white, white; and I can only regard Juliet's conduct in one way."
She rose as she spoke and went slowly from the room, holding herself very erect.
Salome had laid her hand with a timid, caressing touch on Juliet's shoulder; but the girl shook it off impatiently. She could not endure even kindness now. She looked at her mother, whose tears were falling fast and she hated herself.
"It is a pity I ever was born," she said bitterly; "I am naught but a cause of trouble!"
And she too quitted the room. Thus the miserable scene ended.
The agitation it had caused her was more than Mrs. Tracy's enfeebled frame could sustain without suffering. A severe nervous headache confined her to her room all the following day. In the afternoon, she felt inclined to sleep, and Juliet left her to herself.
Hannah and Salome had gone out together, and Juliet was sitting alone in the dining-room, when she heard a rap at the front door, and presently discovered to her dismay that Ann was conducting a visitor to the drawing-room. Who could it be? She was not left long in doubt. Ann speedily appeared with a card, on which Juliet read with astonishment the name of Mr. Mainprice.
"Did you not tell him mother could see no one?" demanded Juliet.
"I did, miss; but he asked if you were at home, and said he would like to speak to you."
"Oh!" Juliet's face grew crimson.
Ann looked at her with the utmost curiosity, and slowly quitted the room.
Juliet stood motionless. Why did he come and ask to see her? He must know that she would shrink from seeing him. For he knew all about it. From Salome, from his sister, from Mrs. Hayes, he had heard the worst that could be told of her. She would not see him. She would send Ann to him with an excuse.
But though she said this to herself, Juliet made no movement to summon Ann. She stood irresolute, with strangely mingled emotions contending within her. Pride urged her to avoid this man, whom she could not face without shame; but within her stricken heart another voice made itself heard, the voice of sorrow and penitence craving the presence of someone who should understand, who could sympathise, whose words might have help and healing for her bitter wound. More than once during the past days, the strong yet gentle face of Arthur Mainprice had risen before her mental vision, and she had felt that he was one who might help her, if she could ever find courage to pour into his ear the burden of her heart. But it had seemed to her that the fitting opportunity for doing so would never come.
And now it had come! Mr. Mainprice was awaiting her in the next room. Should she go to him and tell him all? Had she the courage for it?
It was but for a few seconds that she hesitated, though it seemed to her longer. There had not been time for Mr. Mainprice to grow impatient when she opened the drawing-room door and advanced to him, looking so changed from the bright, saucy, self-confident girl who had inspired him with interest at Lynton, that his heart gave a deep throb of pity as he looked at her, and there was more fervour of sympathy than he knew in his warm hand-clasp and the glance of his frank, kindly eyes.
To Juliet, who had prepared herself for a cool reception, the pure friendliness of his greeting was as a sudden burst of warm sunshine on a frosty day. It took her so by surprise that she forgot herself, and stood looking at him for a few moments without speaking, but with such a pathetic, appealing look in her childlike eyes as he never forgot. They caused him a sensation so acute as to threaten his self-control, and to save it, he began to speak hastily and with some nervousness.
"I have called," he began—"Mrs. Hayes asked me to bring your sister this book. It is just a list of the different charities available for the poor in London. She wants to look up something in it, I believe."
"Oh yes," said Juliet, taking the book and looking at it vaguely; "Salome is always wanting to know about these things. Thank you. I will give it to her. But won't you sit down?"
He took a chair, for he had no wish to go away immediately. Juliet seated herself opposite to him. She sat gazing at her hands folded together on her lap, and for some moments neither spoke. He had time to observe her more closely, and to mark the look of age which, despite its youthful contour and her childlike, appealing glance, had crept into her face.
Then he said, "I am sorry to hear that your mother is suffering to-day. It is nothing serious, I trust?"
"Only a bad headache. She was excited and troubled yesterday, and this is the consequence. She can bear so little now. It will be long ere she recovers from the effects of her illness."
There was a pause, and then Juliet added in a low, distinct voice, "You know what made her ill?"
He did not profess to misunderstand her.
"It was her anxiety for you," he said.
"It was because I was so wicked and ungrateful," said Juliet.
He was silent.
"Mr. Mainprice," said Juliet, speaking tremulously, "you once warned me against following my own way. You said it would not bring me happiness. You were right. I have taken my own way, and it has brought me the most hopeless misery. You said you were sorry for me. Well, you may be sorry for me now, for my life is quite blighted."
Her words ended in a sob.
"Not hopeless, not blighted," he said quickly. "Nothing blights a life but sin."
"But it is sin," she protested. "I never used to think myself a sinner, but I know that I am one now. And the worst of it is, I have not marred my own life only; I have hurt my mother and my sisters too."
"Yes, yes; I understand just how you feel," he said, and the grave, kind tones seemed to promise help. "Mind, I do not say that you have not sinned. I would rather counsel you to cherish that sense of sin. For it is the hardness of heart that cannot discern between good and evil, which sins without suffering and does evil without pain, that is the hopeless state. We may even be thankful for the wrong-doing that leads to the broken heart and the contrite spirit."
"I cannot be thankful for my wrong-doing," said Juliet; "it has spoiled my life, it will spoil the lives of others. Sometimes I think that I would not mind if it were only I who suffered, for I deserve it. There are hours when I feel so to hate myself that I long for punishment."
"Then cannot you accept the sad results of your sin as a punishment sent to you by your loving Father?"
"I could, I could," sobbed Juliet, "if it would make me better! But when people look on me so hardly, when I know they are saying unkind things of me, it makes me feel bad. I may hate myself, certainly, but I hate them too. I am ready to go on being wicked."
"But who would be so unkind to you?" he asked. "Surely you exaggerate the unkindness."
Juliet shook her head sorrowfully.
"But He, the Divine Brother, the Saviour of sinners, will help you to overcome, in spite of every hindrance which the coldness of others may raise. Surely you see now, as you never did before, the meaning of the Divine Sacrifice offered for sin! You feel the need of it in your own life?"
"Yes, yes," murmured Juliet; "and oh, I will try to be different. But tell me what I must do. I cannot leave mother; she would be miserable if I went away from her. Yet if I stay with her—she is so indulgent to me—I fear I shall fall into the old self-willed ways again."
"You must arm yourself against that which you fear. Do you know Dante's 'Purgatorio'?"
Juliet smiled faintly.
"I have read scarcely any books except novels," she said.
"No?" he said, with a smile. "Then you have a wide and rich field before you, and I advise you to begin to explore it without delay. But what I was going to say about the 'Purgatorio' is this: Dante represents the souls in purgatory as loving and courting the pain which is to purge them from their sin. There is an intimate connection between their sin and its punishment. Many of the sinners are depicted as enjoying that which their penitent will now eagerly desires—the exact opposite of their sin. Thus the proud willingly go bowed to the earth; gluttons delight in the pangs of hunger, and the slothful urge themselves onward in perpetual haste. Do you catch the idea? Can you apply it to yourself?"
"Ah, I see!" exclaimed Juliet, with kindling eyes. "You mean that I should now choose the opposite of that which I chose before—my own way."
"Just so," he said. "You have tasted the bitterness and sorrow which come of making self the centre of one's life. Now strive to get out of yourself. Make it your aim to mortify self. Desire to do the will of another rather than your own. Above all, seek to do the will of God."
Juliet had ceased to shed tears. Her face though sad was calm. She was silent for some moments after he had spoken, then she turned her eyes upon him with a look of perfect, childlike self-surrender, and said, "I will. I will try to do what you say; but you will help me? I shall see you sometimes, and you will help me?"
"Alas! I am afraid I cannot help you much," he said, with a troubled look, "nor shall I be able to see you. You knew, did you not, that I was only here for a short time? The Bishop of Durham has just appointed me to a living in the North of England, and I go there almost immediately."
Juliet's countenance fell. She sat looking at her hands in silence. It may be pardoned her that at that moment she could perceive the fact only as it affected herself. It never occurred to her to utter words of polite congratulation or goodwill.
"You will have better help than mine," he said, after a pause. "I shall think of you and pray for you. And I know that it will be well with you. You will gain the victory over yourself. Your life will yet be the better, your character the stronger and purer, for this painful experience."
"I will try," said Juliet again.
There was another brief pause of silence, and then he rose and held out his hand.
"You will help me; you do help me," said Juliet suddenly, in her ardent, impetuous way as they clasped hands; "this talk with you has helped me. I shall remember all that you have said. And it will always help me to remember that you think kindly—that you do not despair of me."
With these, her last words, ringing in his ears, he went away. Yet he was sad as he thought of her. Her young, fair face, as he had seen it clouded with sorrow and shame, haunted his memory. He had a keen perception of how hard she had made her life, and of the trials that must beset her in the future from friction within her own home circle, from the coldness of so-called friends, and from the hard, censorious judgment of the world. He was a man of large and tender heart, and he yearned to save her from these troubles. But it might not be. She must bear her own burden, a burden surely none the lighter that it was the fruit of her own self-will.
Yet, as he thought of her thus sadly, the gloom of Juliet's inner life was broken by the first ray of light and hope which had entered it since she awoke to the horror of her wrong-doing and its results. The knowledge that this good and noble man, whom she had always secretly revered, had such hope for her, such belief in her future, made it possible for her self-despising, self-despairing soul to look heavenward, and with new faith and hope struggle upward from the slough into which it had fallen.
CHAPTER XXIII
A TALENT UNWRAPPED
IN a quiet little watering-place on the breezy coast of Lancashire there stood, some years ago, a pretty gabled cottage which had long lacked a tenant. It stood in a good-sized garden, well stocked with shrubs; it could boast a small stable and outhouse, and a charming little conservatory opened out of the drawing-room. It was indeed a "desirable residence," as the advertisements proclaimed it; but, owing probably to the extreme quietude of its situation, and the lack of society in the little place, save for its brief invasion by strangers during the months of July and August, the house had remained unlet from one year to another.
Quite a sensation was created at St. Anne's when it was known that the gabled cottage had found a tenant. A widow lady was coming to reside there with her daughter. In due time, they arrived and took possession of their new home. Such information as could be gleaned concerning them rapidly circulated amongst the inhabitants of the little place. The lady's name was Tracy; she came from London. The daughter who lived with her was young and very pretty; but Mrs. Tracy had also two elder daughters, the children of a former marriage, who kept a school at Leeds. The cottage was simply but tastefully furnished. Its occupants did not seem to mind the dulness of the situation, though it was strange that a bright young girl should be content with the quiet life she must lead at St. Anne's.
As time passed on, the most eager of the gossips did not find much to add to these early discovered facts. They became familiar with the appearance of Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, as they saw them driving about the country in a little basket-chaise drawn by a smart young pony, Juliet handling the reins very skilfully, and with much pleasure in the novel diversion. The girl's bright hair, vivid complexion, and violet eyes, the taste with which she dressed, the spirit and energy which marked even her slightest actions, called forth much admiring comment.
The clergyman's wife, Mrs. Staines, who early called on the new-comers, proclaimed her "a sweet girl," and spoke of Mrs. Tracy as the "dearest little woman imaginable." The doctor's wife, who also called, was less discreet, and opined that there must be some extraordinary reason why such people buried themselves alive in a dull little hole like St. Anne's. It was all very well to say that it was on account of Mrs. Tracy's health, but there were numbers of places ten thousand times livelier than St. Anne's, equally sheltered and favoured with sunshine and sea air.
Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, however, far from complaining of dulness, showed no wish to avail themselves of such society as the little town could offer. They received every overture courteously and pleasantly, but made no attempt to advance to terms of intimacy with any of their new acquaintances. Thus it came to pass, that when they had lived a year at St. Anne's, their neighbours knew little more about them than they did when they arrived.
One mild April afternoon, Mrs. Tracy was sitting alone in the pretty drawing-room of the gabled cottage. Juliet had gone by rail to a large and flourishing watering-place a few miles distant, which boasted a good circulating library, to which she was a subscriber. She had become a great reader, and was developing quite a critical taste for the "solid" literature which she had formerly spurned.
Mrs. Tracy had not long been alone. A visitor had just left her, the object of whose visit was now causing Mrs. Tracy serious reflection, and leading her mentally to review the tranquil, unvarying course of the last year's life. Not so long ago she would have thought it impossible that Juliet could be content with so quiet and uneventful a life; but the girl seemed calmly happy, as she read and studied and took long walks and drives. Only the mother felt sure that a time must come when she would yearn for a fuller life.
"Let us go to a place as unlike London as possible," Juliet had said, when they began to discuss their plans for the future; and certainly St. Anne's seemed to fulfil this condition.
The home at The Poplars had been broken up when Hannah obtained the post at Leeds for which she had applied, and Salome accompanied her thither. Mrs. Tracy and Juliet had wandered about for a while. It had been suggested to them that they should go abroad, but the very sound of that word was like a nightmare to Juliet, conjuring up visions of crimson velvet furniture and lavish gilding, sensations of stifling heat and sickening odours, and painful memories of the shame and misery of which these had been the dreary accompaniments.
It was Mrs. Tracy who had thought of St. Anne's. She had known it as a girl, and felt inclined to renew her acquaintance with the quiet, quaint, out-of-the-world place. Moreover, it was sufficiently near to Leeds to make it possible for her elder daughters to visit her once or twice during the year.
When Juliet saw that the idea of St. Anne's had an attraction for her mother, she was bent upon going there. A visit was paid to the little town; the gabled cottage was seen and approved; as promptly as might be all preliminaries were settled, and the quiet, pretty spot became their home.
Mrs. Tracy's face looked brighter and less careworn than it had been wont to look at The Poplars. She was in fair health. The tranquil, regular life suited her sensitive nerves. Yet still she had her cares, and as before they chiefly concerned Juliet. Not that Juliet ever now caused her anxiety by her waywardness. The girl had grown strangely gentle and tractable. She never complained, never admitted that her days were dull, never expressed a wish for a more stimulating life. Only a sigh would now and then escape her unawares, or her mother would surprise on her face a sad and wistful look, or she would betray a restlessness which only long and vigorous exercise in the open air could allay. But the keen eyes of love alone could detect such signs as these. A careless observer might have fancied that the girl liked her life better than her mother liked it for her.
It was a lovely April eve. The hawthorn hedge which begirt the little garden was bursting into tender green. Primroses and hyacinths and a few late daffodils decked the garden beds. Above the gate, an almond tree drooped its dainty pink blossoms. Mrs. Tracy could see this beautiful banner of spring's victory where she sat watching for Juliet to appear. A thrush presently perched on its topmost bough and sang of the promise of the summer. It was one of those days that seem to hold a happy secret, and set one dreaming of some wonder and delight which the coming days will hold. Yet Juliet's face looked pale and tired, and even a little sad, as she passed beneath the blossom-laden boughs.
It brightened, however, as she opened the door, and advancing threw into her mother's lap a little knot of primroses. She looked prettier than ever, as she stood there with her golden hair tossed by the breeze into a disorder which would have shocked Salome's sense of propriety. The girlish face had lost none of its charm, yet it had taken deeper lines, which told of womanly purpose and strength.
"Are they not sweet?" she said. "I saw them shining on the side of a hedge, and felt constrained to climb a gate to get them for you. So you see I have been despoiling my neighbour, and you are a receiver of stolen flowers."
"I don't think anyone about here would call it stealing to gather a few primroses," said Mrs. Tracy, holding the flowers close to her face that she might enjoy their sweet, earthy scent.
"And how have you fared, dear? Have you the books you wanted?"
"Yes, all of them," said Juliet triumphantly: "'Ethics of the Dust,' 'Kingsley's Life,' and 'Froude's Essays.' Now which will you read first?"
"I can better decide that when I have looked at them a little," said Mrs. Tracy diplomatically. "Do you know I have had a visitor this afternoon?"
"Indeed! What a wonder!" exclaimed Juliet. "Pray, who might the visitor be?"
"Oh, no one extraordinary; only Mrs. Staines."
"Mrs. Staines!" repeated Juliet. "It is not very long since she last favoured us with a call. Why did she come again so soon?"
"Well, really she came to see you this afternoon, Juliet," said Mrs. Tracy, with some hesitation. "She—in fact—I am afraid you will hardly be pleased—but the truth is you remember that at church on Thursday evening, Mrs. Staines came in late and took a seat in front of us?"
Juliet gave a nod of assent. A shadow fell on her face, as she foresaw what was coming.
"Well, she heard you sing, and she was struck with your voice. She says it is lovely, so clear and pure. And she asked me if it had not been very carefully trained. Of course I said that you had had good lessons, and were at one time very fond of singing, but of late you had quite given it up."
Juliet had turned her head aside, and Mrs. Tracy could not see her pained expression and heightened colour; but she could guess that her words were unwelcome, and she went on, rather nervously—
"She thought it such a pity you should give up singing, and she begged me to tell you how much she wished you would help them by joining the church choir. She says that it is most difficult to get good cultured singing in a place like this. Such a voice as yours would be an invaluable addition. She thinks it is a talent which you ought to employ in God's service."
"Oh, I know—I know just what she said," exclaimed Juliet impatiently. "I met Mr. Staines as I came from the station, and he said the very same thing to me. Oh dear! If I had known what would come of it, I would not have sung a note on Thursday night. Surely I can sufficiently aid the singing from our pew."
She spoke with strong excitement, as she stood by the mantelpiece, her hands playing with the little ornaments upon it, lifting and replacing them, she the while without consciousness of what she was doing.
"Oh, I don't know about that, my dear," said her mother. "I can't help thinking that you would be of more assistance if you sang with the choir. But do not let it trouble you, Juliet. There is no reason why you should join the choir if you would rather not."
"Was that all that Mrs. Staines said?" asked Juliet.
"Why, no, dear. She was full of talk about the bazaar they propose having, in order to clear off the debt on the new schoolroom. She is very anxious you should help with that, Juliet. She wants you to take a stall with the Misses Brown."
"Oh, I daresay! What next?" demanded Juliet. "I do wish Mr. and Mrs. Staines would leave us alone. And I hate bazaars. Why cannot people give their money freely to defray the debt without wanting antimacassars and pin-cushions in exchange for their guineas and half-crowns?"
"I don't know, I am sure. Somehow a bazaar generally realises more money, and it gives so many people an opportunity of helping. I have promised to supply a stock of knitted goods for babies. If I were you, I would give them your help, Juliet. I think you would come to take an interest in the thing. It would be a change for you. And those Misses Brown seem to be nice girls."
"Nice girls, mother! The younger one must be ten years older than I am."
"She can hardly be thirty yet, dear," replied Mrs. Tracy. "But there are few nice girls of your age here. That is why Mrs. Staines is anxious to secure your services. She said you would be quite an acquisition."
"Very flattering, I am sure," said Juliet, feeling more and more dislike to the idea as it was unfolded to her, "but don't you try to bamboozle me, mother dear."
"My dear child, I would not for the world persuade you into anything that you would not like," protested Mrs. Tracy. "The bazaar will not be held till the end of June or some time in July. They hope Lady Ernestine Whitehouse will consent to open it. And Mrs. Staines expects to have many friends staying in the neighbourhood then who will come to it. It promises to be a lively affair."
"Oh, too lively by half!" groaned Juliet. "Well, I must think about it before I decide."
She turned and went slowly from the room and upstairs to her pretty bedroom, with windows looking both south and west. The westward one commanded a charming view of the sea. As Juliet looked through it now, she saw the sun sinking in golden glory towards the waves. She went nearer, and stood leaning against the sash as she fixed her eyes on the glowing vision.
She gave it but a divided attention. Her mind was full of troubled thought. She saw that her mother was desirous that she should interest herself in the bazaar, but she had no inclination to do so. She was equally reluctant to become a recognised singer in the little church. She shrank from putting herself forward in any way. She did not want people to notice her. She hated the idea of producing a sensation now as much as she had formerly loved it. She had set herself so strenuously to seek the opposite of her former aim that the very idea of self-exaltation had grown hateful to her, and she could have sincerely uttered the quaint prayer, "From the unhappy desire of becoming great, good Lord, deliver me!"
Yet she could not truly have said that she was satisfied with the life she now led. She had begun to yearn for a wider outlook on life, a closer link of mutual service and sympathy with her day and generation. She had doubts whether it were right to continue the narrow, isolated existence which she had fervently embraced as the best means of mortifying her baser, clamorous self.
She suspected it was cowardice which made her so shrink from society. What did she fear? Must the mistake which had caused her such keen remorse stain and cloud all her future? She could never forget it; but might she not hope that for others it had sunk beneath the waters of oblivion? Was its shadow likely to overwhelm her in a new circle of acquaintance? Need she fear that in this remote place she would meet anyone acquainted with that dark episode of her past? Surely, should she meet with such, they might forgive her now.
If she accepted Mrs. Staines' invitations, she must come out of the shell in which she had sought to hide herself; she must perforce be friendly with these people whom she had been trying to hold at arm's length. What should she do? As she debated the question with herself, a voice from out of the past seemed to sound in her ear—
"Desire to do the will of another rather than your own. Strive to
get out of yourself."
That voice decided the matter. She had been looking at the question entirely from her own point of view. Her fears and doubts and misgivings had all circled around herself. It was certainly not her will to do these things; it was the will of others. Therefore she argued that it was her duty to deny herself, and do that which others asked of her.
Later that evening, Juliet astonished her mother by opening the piano and trying with uncertain, stumbling fingers to play some of her old music. It was the first time she had touched the piano since they came to St. Anne's. She had even said it was useless to have one, since she never meant to touch the instrument again. It was only when her mother suggested that Salome would like to find a piano there when she visited them, that Juliet had consented to their bringing one.
Her mother listened now with surprise and pleasure, scarcely daring to say a word, lest she should do more harm than good. Presently Juliet struck a few chords, and then, with her clear, pure voice vibrating with emotion, sang the well-known lines—
"Let thy gold be cast in the furnace,
Thy red gold precious and bright;
Do not fear the hungry fire,
With its caverns of burning light.
And thy gold shall return more precious,
Free from every spot and stain;
For gold must be tried by fire,
As the heart must be tried by pain."
Juliet sang but the one verse ere she swung herself round on the music-stool, saying to her mother with a melancholy smile—
"Well, mother, what do you say? Have I still a voice?"
"Indeed you have—a beautiful one, dear. It seems to me sweeter than ever."
"I never meant to sing again," said Juliet; "I wanted to forget that I had a voice—to put the thought of it away from me as a temptation, a snare, a cause of evil."
"Was not that rather like the man who hid his talent in a napkin?" asked her mother.
"Perhaps it was," said Juliet, with a faint smile; "I never thought of it somehow as a gift that might be turned to good account; but now—now, mother, I will sing in the choir and sell at the bazaar, and do whatever Mr. and Mrs. Staines want me to do."
"That is right, dear," said her mother heartily; "I am sure you will be happier if you make yourself useful to others."
"Oh, I am happier now than I deserve to be," replied Juliet, "and I dread doing anything to disturb the old order of things. But thus it must be."
Having so decided, Juliet carried out her resolve in no half-hearted fashion. She practised diligently for the church services, and proved even a greater support to the psalmody than the clergyman and his wife had anticipated.
She threw herself with zeal and energy into the plans for the bazaar, and soon became thoroughly interested in them. As a thousand important trifles occupied her attention, and her days grew busier and busier, her spirits grew increasingly bright. Her sunny, mirthful smile, and gay, defiant words reminded her mother of the Juliet of earlier days. Mrs. Tracy rejoiced in the change, and looked forward to the rapidly approaching day of the bazaar almost as gleefully as her child, not foreseeing that, like many another eagerly anticipated day, it would fail to fulfil its promise.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BAZAAR
WHEN at last the day fixed for the bazaar arrived, the weather proved all that the most sanguine could have anticipated. It was brilliant without being over-warm, for a delightful breeze from the sea tempered the sun's heat. The sea was beautifully blue, and broke in crisp, white-crested waves upon the sands. Such a day could not fail to tempt visitors to St. Anne's. Fortune seemed to smile upon the undertaking that had cost so many busy hours and so much anxious preparation.
Despite the brightness of the day, Juliet's spirits were somewhat dashed, when she learned that her mother had awoke that morning with so bad a headache that she feared it would be impossible for her to be present at the opening of the bazaar.
"The room is sure to be very warm and crowded," said Mrs. Tracy, "and you know that I can hardly at any time endure a close room without turning faint. I am very sorry, for I had counted on being there."
"So am I very sorry," said Juliet; "but you must not think of it, if you do not feel well enough. The bazaar will be open again to-morrow, but of course it will not be so nice on the second day. And I wanted you to see Lady Ernestine Whitehouse."
"Never mind, darling, you must tell me all about the opening. And you know I saw the decorations last evening, so I can picture the scene to myself. Now don't loiter about me and get late. Mrs. Staines particularly desired all the stall-holders to be there by twelve o'clock."
Juliet went away to get ready. Her mother had persuaded her to wear white on the occasion, and when a little later, Juliet came fully attired to bid her good-bye, Mrs. Tracy, as she surveyed her critically, was well pleased with the result of her advice. The simple white frock and large white hat became Juliet charmingly. She wore no colour save that bestowed by a lovely cluster of half-opened pink roses which she had fastened in her belt. She looked a lovely vision of youth and happiness. Her mother smiled on her, and hugged to her heart the proud belief that there would not be another girl in the room to compare with her.
"Good-bye, darling," she said. "I hope you will have a happy time, and sell lots of flowers."
As she lay back on her pillow Mrs. Tracy rejoiced to think that Juliet had so far recovered her light-heartedness. The shadow of the past had fallen from her. When Juliet entered the schoolroom, so prettily draped and decked that the scholars could hardly have recognised it for the room in which at this hour they usually sat on hard benches droning out their lessons, Mrs. Staines welcomed her with a kiss.
"How nice you look!" she said heartily. "I am so glad we decided that you should have the flower stall. In your white array, you look like a flower yourself. See, here are your young assistants, Gwen and Gladys, waiting to receive your orders."
It had been finally arranged that, instead of helping the Misses Brown, Juliet should take charge of the flower stall, which, well placed at the farther end of the room, added greatly to its picturesque appearance. Gwen and Gladys Owen, the doctor's little daughters, were to help her by carrying round "button-holes" for sale.
Juliet was well pleased with the department assigned to her. She loved flowers, and had great skill in arranging them. She meant to make her stall the most charming one in the room, attracting all comers by its beauty and perfume.
"Most of the sellers are here now," said Mrs. Staines, as she peered round the room; "everyone, indeed, except Mrs. Belsham. The train from Lytham must be late. However, her stall is all but ready, and she is bringing some girls with her to help. They are the daughters of a clergyman, so are used to this kind of thing. They were to arrive from London yesterday. It is to be hoped they will not be very tired from their journey."
"Oh, it is not such a very great journey," Juliet said.
She was not interested in what Mrs. Staines was saying. She felt no curiosity respecting the girls from London. She was absorbed in contemplating a stock of plants which had been sent in that morning for her stall, and considering how she could display them to the best advantage. After a brief deliberation, she set to work with eager energy, massing together gorgeous geraniums, snowy lilies, purple petunias, heliotrope, carnations, roses, of hues varying from deepest crimson to palest cream, with fuchsias, sweet-williams, mignonette, and the humbler products of cottage gardens. Her stall was soon aglow with colour, and when she had finished, it presented the appearance of one huge bouquet.
Wholly occupied by her task, Juliet had not observed what was going on at the other stalls. She had walked backward some paces from her stall, and was critically observing its general effect, when suddenly she turned, drawn by the subtle attraction of another's gaze, and found herself meeting the glance of Frances Hayes, who was standing beside Mrs. Belsham's stall at the distance of a few yards.
Juliet was greatly startled at seeing so unexpectedly her former schoolfellow. Her first impulse was to advance and greet her as an old friend. She made a step forward with this intent; but instantly Miss Hayes' glance became stony and contemptuous, ere she deliberately turned on her heel and presented her back to Juliet's gaze. Juliet saw her say something to a girl beside her. This girl turned and looked curiously at Juliet, and Juliet recognised her as a younger daughter of the Hayes family.
Juliet turned hot, and then cold. She went quickly behind her stall, and busied herself in setting in order the less presentable plants, which had been thrust out of sight there. Her hands were steady, her movements deliberate. She was trying to persuade herself that it did not matter, that she did not mind; striving to nerve herself to face the inevitable with indifference; but already she foresaw that the day's engagement was to yield her not pleasure, but pain.
Frances Hayes had lost no time in gaining the ear of her hostess.
"Mrs. Belsham," she said, drawing her aside, "it is that same girl."
"What same girl, my dear?" asked Mrs. Belsham, preoccupied with many small cares.
"That Miss Tracy. Do you not remember that you were speaking of her last night, and I told you of the girl of that name who used to live in our neighbourhood and behaved so disgracefully? Well, this is the very girl!"
"What, the girl who ran away with the music hall singer who afterwards committed forgery, and your mother saw them together at Dover? Oh, you cannot mean that our Miss Tracy is that girl?"
"She is indeed. I am not likely to be mistaken, since I went to school with her, though I assure you I am not proud of that fact. Of course we had nothing to say to her after she behaved in such a manner. Most people cut her, I believe, and her family soon found it desirable to leave London. The sisters took a school at Leeds. Mamma was very sorry for them, for they were quite different from Juliet—as steady as old Time. We thought that Juliet and her mother had settled somewhere not far from them, but I had no idea it was at St. Anne's."
"Well, I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Belsham. "I feel as if I could not believe it. Such a nice lady-like girl as she seems."
"Oh, she knows how to make the best of herself; she was always like that," said Frances vaguely. "And she had money left her by an uncle, so that she could do pretty much as she liked. Mamma thought it a great pity, for it only made her more vain and wilful."
So spake Frances Hayes, who, being undeniably plain, thick-set, and heavy-looking, was well secured by Nature from the temptations which had beguiled poor Juliet.
Mrs. Belsham was sorry to hear such an account of Juliet Tracy, to whom she had taken rather a liking. But the sorrow was not deep enough to lead her to keep silence on the subject. She was an ardent lover of gossip, and she easily persuaded herself that it was her duty to tell Mrs. Staines the startling facts she had learned. The effect of her news on the vicar's wife was so marked that Mrs. Belsham could not resist the temptation to seek further manifestations of the sensation it could create. She imparted the story of Juliet's past to every lady of her acquaintance in the room, taking care, however, to beg each one not to mention it. Nor were Frances Hayes and her sister more reticent, as they made the acquaintance of the young ladies present. Juliet speedily became aware of curious glances cast at her covertly, and perceived various signs of a desire to shun her company evinced by those who a little while before had worked with her as pleasant comrades.
Mrs. Staines, whenever she had occasion to address her, spoke in a constrained and official way; Mrs. Owen looked uneasy when she saw her little girls with Juliet, and kept them by herself as much as possible; the Misses Brown had not leisure even to cast a glance in Juliet's direction, much less to come and admire her stall, as they had promised to do as soon as she had finished arranging it.
As the hour at which the bazaar was to open approached, Juliet felt herself completely isolated by the other workers. No one praised the result of her efforts; no one displayed the least interest in her stall. She stood alone amidst her flowers, for Gwen and Gladys had been sent by their mother to stand near the door with their baskets of "button-holes."
The old spirit of defiance was stirring in Juliet's heart. Her face was almost as white as her frock, but her expression was one of proud and studied indifference. Only once, as she bent over her dainty bouquets, did her lips quiver and tears spring to her eyes. The emotion came with the thought of her mother.
"Oh," she said to herself, "how thankful I am that she could not come! She would have seen; she would have understood at once; and it would have hurt her so much."
Lady Ernestine Whitehouse arrived punctually to the hour. She was the young wife of a much-esteemed local magnate, Sir Richard Whitehouse of Ainsdale Priory, a fine old dwelling and estate some seven miles from St. Anne's. She was also the daughter of an earl, and, despite her low stature and quiet, simple manner, there was an unconscious dignity and impressiveness in her bearing which seemed to demonstrate her high birth. But her goodness of heart and strong, fearless character gave her a truer claim to distinction than rank could bestow.
"Noblesse oblige" might have been her motto, so truly did she obey the precept. Her benevolence, her large-hearted sympathy, her delicate tact, made her beloved by all who came in contact with her. For no good work was her aid besought in vain. She was untiring in her industry and energy, and courageous in battling for the right. Not in the neighbourhood of the Priory alone, but in the wider circle of London society she was known as a brave champion of the weak and oppressed, a dauntless assailant of the evils of society, and an ardent believer in the power of Christianity to purify and redeem every region of individual and national life.
Juliet had heard much of Lady Ernestine, and felt considerable interest in her. She had never caught more than a passing glimpse of her, and she had been looking forward to the opportunity of seeing her at the bazaar. She had prepared an exquisite little bouquet, which she meant to present to her ladyship when, on her tour of inspection, she reached the flower stall. But now this anticipated pleasure was dashed like the rest.
The room was well filled when Lady Ernestine entered it, accompanied by a party of guests who had driven with her from the Priory. In a clear, musical voice, Lady Ernestine made the briefest of speeches, declaring the bazaar open, and commending its wares to the assembled public. Then, escorted by Mrs. Staines, she passed slowly from stall to stall, making some purchase at each. Such of the stall-holders as were unknown to her ladyship, Mrs. Staines was careful to present to her, and she received each with the charming grace of manner which had largely conduced to make her the popular woman she was in society, despite what some of her associates called her "terrible fads."
Juliet's heart beat more quickly, as Lady Ernestine on her round approached the spot where she stood. Her face grew more colourless than before, and a nervous tremor seized her. But it was not Lady Ernestine who occasioned it. There seemed nothing to fear from that strong, kind face, which, without being beautiful, was exceedingly winsome. It was the cold, inflexible expression which Mrs. Staines' countenance had taken on which made Juliet tremble.
Yes, it was as she had expected. As they came up to her stall, Mrs. Staines, with curious dexterity, contrived to turn her shoulder upon Juliet, and to interpose her own person between her and Lady Ernestine, whose attention she directed to the two little girls who now came forward with their button-holes. Lady Ernestine kissed Gwen and Gladys and accepted the lovely posy they offered her. She was charmed with the children; but she presently turned to give a glance at the pretty girl who stood a little withdrawn, her eyes bent on the plants which she was nervously lifting and replacing without knowing what she did.
Though she did not raise her eyes, Juliet knew that Lady Ernestine spoke to inquiry was Mrs. Staines. Instinctively the girl divined that inquiry was being made concerning her, and as she imagined how Mrs. Staines would reply to such a query, her cheeks suddenly flamed with colour.
Whatever the words were which Mrs. Staines uttered almost in a whisper, they brought a look of perplexity to Lady Ernestine's face. Mrs. Staines would have drawn her on, but she paused, and after an observant glance at Juliet, moved deliberately to her side.
"What a lovely palm that is!" she said, in her soft, low voice. "I really must have it, for I have not one like it in my conservatory. What is the price, please?"
"Five shillings," replied Juliet.
"It is a beauty," said Lady Ernestine, as she opened her purse. "If you can put it on one side for me, I will send my servant for it presently. How very pretty your stall is! I would rather have this one than any other in the room. It must be delightful to sell flowers."