Her Own Way, by Eglanton Thorne—A Project Gutenberg eBook

Author of "Aunt Patty's Paying Guests," "Beryl's Triumph,"
"My Brother's Friend," etc.

"You mean that Hannah is late, mother; for there is no saying when Juliet will choose to appear, and they never come together. It is a strange thing for Hannah to be behind her time."

Mrs. Tracy sighed as she looked anxiously between the flower-pots which adorned the window-ledge, and rather obscured the view from where she sat in her low easy-chair.

The window looked into a grassy enclosure, too small to be dignified by the name of garden, though there was a fine show of primroses and wallflowers in the narrow bed beside the gravel path, and ferns were growing tall and strong in the rockery below the windows. On the farther side of the strip of grass, just within the iron railing that enclosed it from the road, stood three tall, leafy poplars, screening the house from the busy suburban thoroughfare in which it stood, and giving it its name.

As Mrs. Tracy looked forth, she caught glimpses through the trees of passing omnibuses and tramcars. The din of the traffic made itself heard, though the window was closed. Some of her acquaintance had tried to persuade Mrs. Tracy that the trees shut out air from the house, and it would be wiser to cut them down; but she always felt that it would be unendurable to live so near the high road without the slight shelter which their thick trunks and soaring boughs afforded. And the comparatively low rent asked for that old-fashioned residence, known as The Poplars, suited her narrow purse, and constrained her to endure its inconveniences as best she could.

Mrs. Tracy was a frail-looking little woman, with a face which had once been pretty and was still pleasant to look upon. It wore a somewhat careworn, anxious expression, but without a trace of fretfulness. As she rested in her low easy-chair, with her knitting lying in her lap, she had the air of one to whom exertion of any kind is distasteful. She was dressed in a manner perfectly becoming her fifty years, but the lace falling so prettily about her neck, and her dainty little lace head-dress with its cunning knot of pink ribbon, showed that she was by no means indifferent to the appearance she presented. Her small, soft, white hands glittered with handsome rings; the little feet outstretched on hassock were clothed with neat velvet slippers with bright jet buckles. At fifty Mrs. Tracy had not outlived her love for pretty things.

The daughter who stood near, and who was engaged in putting sundry finishing touches to the table which was prepared for their midday dinner, did not in the least resemble her mother. Salome Grant was a tall, well-grown young woman of seven-and-twenty. She had sandy hair, pale blue eyes with very light lashes, and a rather high complexion. Her abundant hair was brushed very smooth, and arranged in the neatest fashion. Her whole appearance, indeed, was severely neat. Her serge gown fitted her well, but it entirely lacked what dressmakers term "style," and no touch of colour relieved its sombre hue. One might have credited Salome with excellent qualities, but assuredly no one at first sight could have found her interesting, or felt eager to pursue her acquaintance.

"Here comes Hannah," she said, glancing through the window, as she heard the gate swing back.

And the next minute, Hannah entered the room. She was barely two years older than Salome, and resembled her sister far more than she did her mother. She was better-looking than Salome; her hair was darker, her complexion less high-coloured, her features stronger, and her eyes a deeper blue. Her ample square forehead, from which the hair was rigorously brushed back, seemed to denote considerable intellectual power, whilst the firm lines of mouth and chin showed a strength of will which might degenerate into obstinacy. She looked a strong, capable, energetic woman as she came quickly into the room, her countenance wearing a slightly harassed expression.

She was one of the staff of mistresses belonging to a large high school established in the North London suburb in which Mrs. Tracy lived. She had worked hard, and improved her position considerably since she entered the school, having won the character of a most efficient teacher and thorough disciplinarian. She and Salome were the daughters of Mrs. Tracy's first marriage with a sober, hard-working Glasgow man of business. They resembled their shrewd, staid, matter-of-fact Scotch father far more than they did the pretty, loving little Englishwoman, whom, with a strange lack of his usual prudence, he had taken to wife.

"I am sorry to be late, mother," Hannah said in clear, incisive tones, "but it is not my fault. I saw Juliet in the playground with that horrid Chalcombe girl, so I went to ask her if she were ready to come home. Juliet was in one of her tiresome moods, and was not too polite to me. At first, she would not say what she would do; but finally I understood her to say that she would come. However, after I had waited for ten minutes, I saw her walking away in the opposite direction with her new friend."

"Did you really tell Juliet, mother, that she was not to make a friend of that girl?"

"Oh yes, dear, I spoke to her about it; but she seemed to think it hard that they could not be friendly when they were in the same form, and I thought that Juliet would soon be leaving school, and after that they are not likely to see much of each other, you know."

"But, meanwhile, there is time for Juliet to get a great deal of harm," replied Hannah. "However, if you like her to associate with the daughter of an actor, I have nothing more to say."

"My dear! I do not like it. You should not say that. Is the girl's father really an actor?"

"Well, I do not know that he acts," said Hannah deliberately; "I think someone said that he was the lessee of a theatre at Bow. He has a son who sings at music halls."

"What people for Juliet to take up with!" exclaimed Salome, in a tone of disgust. "She will be wanting to become an actress next. There is no accounting for what Juliet will do. She seems to have no sense at all."

"Don't make her out worse than she is," pleaded her mother. "She knows nothing of the father and son, and I daresay the girl is not so bad; Juliet seems very fond of her."

"I only wish you could see her!" said Hannah. "She dresses in the most extreme style, wears flashy jewellery, and is generally vulgar. Her complexion is frightfully got up. As for her work, their form-mistress tells me it could hardly be worse. We all wish she had not come to the school, for she will do us no credit."

"It is easy to say that," replied her mother, "but you know it does not do to take extreme measures with Juliet. Once drive her into defiance, and you can do nothing with her. I believe she is persisting in this intimacy just because she knows you are set against it."

"That is likely enough," said Hannah, in a bitter tone. "Well, I only hope that you may never regret that you have not taken more extreme measures with Juliet. You will not wait dinner for her, mother?"

Mrs. Tracy made a sign of dissent, and in a few minutes they were seated at the dinner-table. The mother was depressed, and ate with little appetite.

She stood in some awe of her elder daughters, with their exemplary conduct and correct views. She always felt that they had had some right to resent her marriage with Captain Tracy, a gay, dashing Irish officer, some years younger than herself. Hannah and Salome had been mere children at the time, but they had not failed to show their resentment. When, shortly after his marriage, the captain's regiment was ordered to India, a relative of their father offered to take charge of the two girls during their mother's absence abroad. Mrs. Tracy was well pleased with this arrangement.

She had been absent for seven years when she came back to England with her pretty though faded face, framed by a widow's sombre veil, and bringing with her a wilful, fascinating little girl, with sunny hair and violet eyes. The gay captain had met with an accident at a polo-match, from the effects of which he had died shortly afterwards. His widow mourned him sincerely, though he had been but a sorry husband, sublimely indifferent to her comfort and welfare, as long as he could squander her money on his own pleasures. But the indifference had been delicately veiled, and only on rare occasions had Mrs. Tracy, with a bitter heart-pang, suspected its existence. Captain Tracy pursued his extravagances in a gentlemanly manner, and never failed to treat his wife with lover-like, caressing tenderness, so that she loved him passionately to the last, and paid his debts of honour, time after time, with but faint remonstrance.

But the large sums she had realised for this purpose, in spite of every objection raised by the Scotch solicitor who managed her affairs, were a serious drain on her resources. She came home to find the property her first husband had left her considerably diminished, and to learn that it behoved her for the rest of her life, by rigid economy and self-denial, to make amends for Captain Tracy's extravagance. The lesson was a painful one, embittered by her sense that her elder girls had a right to reproach her with careless neglect of their interests.

By this time, Hannah and Salome were almost women. The high-bred, irreproachable, somewhat narrow-minded Scotch cousin in whose home they had been living had left her stamp on them. They hardly seemed like her own daughters to Mrs. Tracy now. They were far more orderly and methodic in their habits than she was herself, and held stricter views with regard to the expenditure of time and money. The mother felt half afraid of these very wise girls. She was thankful that they were so good, but she could not help wishing that they had been a little less strong-minded, and could have made some allowance for the faults of their pretty, perverse half-sister.

Then, with a sigh, she would remind herself that it was only natural that they should be hard upon poor little Juliet, and resent her presence in their home. And the mother's heart clung the more passionately to the child who seemed so much more her own than these others. The girls were quick to see that their mother loved Juliet best, and their minds were not too high-toned to admit of jealousy. Juliet became a constant thorn in their sides. They looked upon her as the disturber of the peace of their home. But Juliet was her mother's darling, though, in truth, a very naughty darling.

For a year or two after her return from India, Mrs. Tracy had a hard struggle to maintain a little home. But Hannah studied with an assiduity which astonished her mother, whose own education had been of the old-fashioned, superficial order; she passed one examination after another with honours, and finally attained the immediate goal of her ambition by being appointed assistant-mistress in a high school. Then it was that Mrs. Tracy felt justified in taking The Poplars as her residence, which had now been their home for over eight years.

The meal was half over, when a loud and very characteristic knock at the front door announced Juliet's return. The next minute she entered the room, a slight, graceful girl, whom no one would have taken to be more than seventeen, though, in truth, she had passed her nineteenth birthday.

A greater contrast than her appearance presented to that of her sisters it would be difficult to imagine. She was delicately fair, with eyes of that deep, soft hue which is better described as violet than blue. Masses of soft bright hair, which might justly be termed golden, though not of the deep reddish tinge which often wins that name, showed beneath the sailor hat which, either by intention or accident, was placed on her head at rather an unusual angle. Juliet's wavy, flossy locks were always more or less dishevelled. Perhaps she meant them to express a protest against her sisters' smooth, shining polls. Her serge gown had quite a different effect from Salome's, yet was made of the same material. It suited her charmingly, though it was shabby, and an ink-stain soiled the frilled cambric vest.

Mrs. Tracy turned with a smile of welcome on her face as the girl entered. It was a delight to her to see the sweet, bright face that smiled at her in response. She thought that no one could fail to feel the charm of that young face; but her sisters saw in Juliet's demeanour only the signs of those qualities of mind and character which they held in special abhorrence, and her prettiness was to them merely an aggravating circumstance, heightening the enormity of her heedlessness.

She came into the room swinging a strapful of books in one hand, and she surveyed the party at the table in the coolest manner for a moment, ere, advancing to her mother's side, she bent to kiss her.

"How is it you are so late, Juliet?" asked her mother, with only the faintest reproof in her tones. "See, we have almost finished dinner."

"I walked a few steps with Flossie Chalcombe," replied Juliet, her eyes flashing defiance at her sister Hannah; "she had something to tell me. I did not think it was so late."

"I told you it was getting late," said Hannah; "I warned you there was no time to spare."

"That was very good of you," returned the girl, with insolent coolness; "I fear I lost sight of the fact afterwards. But here I am at last, and desperately hungry too, mother dear; so don't let us waste time in words."

"What does it matter?" asked Juliet. "What's in a name? A potato, please, Salome. Oh, you need not look at my hands; they are quite clean, I assure you. I washed them in the dressing-room before I left school. Just fancy I am Mrs. Hayes, and it will be all right."

"Never mind, dears," said Mrs. Tracy hurriedly, as she met the disapproving glances of her elder daughters; "it is better she should take her dinner quickly. Ann is so put out when the meals are kept about."

"You had better speak to Juliet about that," said Salome. "It is not Hannah and I who keep the meals about."

"Oh, of course it is me," said Juliet, with more emphasis than grammar; "everything that happens is always my fault."

But Juliet was not easily subdued. Hannah and Salome fell into dignified silence, but Juliet continued to talk in her gayest, most careless manner, as though determined to show her sisters that she cared naught for their disapproval. She looked very charming, with a glow of soft, rich colour in her cheek and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

Her mother might be forgiven for the loving admiration her eyes so plainly expressed. Despite the daring freedom with which she often deported herself, there was no grain of coarseness perceptible in Juliet's bearing. Even in her most careless actions, her least conscious attitudes, there was always a subtle grace. She was as frank and bold of speech as a boy, yet had all the charm of fresh young maidenhood.

She was a grand favourite with both scholars and teachers at the high school, where she still studied. Even those who shook their heads over her thoughtlessness, and were most aware of her faults, felt the witchery of her prettiness and grace and sunny light-heartedness. Perhaps her sisters were the only exceptions to this rule. But then Juliet had never tried to ingratiate herself with them. She had always taken a perverse delight in shocking and vexing them.

When they had finished their dinner Hannah and Salome begged to be excused from sitting longer at the table, as they wanted to go out. Juliet heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed on them.

"No?" said Juliet, turning to her mother with a smile which seemed to take all the impertinence from the query. "But you and I are always happier when we are left alone together, mother dear. You can't deny that. There are two parties in this house; you and I on one side, and Hannah and Salome on the other. We are the Whigs, and they are the Tories. It is a house divided against itself."

"Oh, not so bad as that, I hope!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy. "You know what the Bible says about a house divided against itself?"

"That it cannot stand," replied Juliet gravely. "Sometimes I wonder how long our house will stand. Hannah will have to learn somehow by the time I am twenty-one that I mean to take my own way and do as I like."

Mrs. Tracy looked troubled. "I wish you would not set yourself so against Hannah," she said; "she only desires your good."

"Oh, of course!" Juliet laughed scornfully. "I suppose it was my good she was seeking when she came after me in the playground, using so little tact in her efforts to draw me away from Flossie Chalcombe, that Flossie saw her intention, and was hurt."

"Ah, that was a pity!" said Mrs. Tracy, with feeling. "But, dear, I am afraid, from what I hear, that Miss Chalcombe is not a nice friend for you."

"But, mother dear, you can have heard nothing of her except what Hannah says, who is a most prejudiced person. Flossie is really a very nice girl. May I bring her here some day to see you?"

"Oh, if you must consider them!" exclaimed Juliet impatiently. "They fancy Mr. Chalcombe cannot be respectable because he has something to do with the theatre, though if he were at the top of the profession, like Irving, they would be eager to make Flossie's acquaintance."

"I don't think that would make any difference to your sisters' feelings, Juliet."

"Well, perhaps not to theirs," the girl admitted; "but it would be the case with most of the teachers and girls at school. It is a shame the way they shun Flossie. I feel for her very much. She says I am the only friend she has, and I mean to be true to her. I will not give her up, whatever Hannah may say or do."

Mrs. Tracy received this defiant speech in silence. She could sympathise with Juliet's generous resolve to stand by the girl to whom others were disposed to turn the cold shoulder. She herself, as an officer's wife, had been wont to seek out and befriend those whom, for some trivial cause or other, the elite of the regiment were disposed to hold at arms' length. She hesitated to tell the girl that she must restrain her kindly impulses.

"You would do the same in my place, mother," said Juliet, as she fixed her large violet eyes on her mother's face, and read her mind.

Mrs. Tracy smiled. "Perhaps I should, Juliet; but still I do not like you to make undesirable acquaintances. You are so young, and know so little of the world."

"I may know little of the world," exclaimed Juliet hotly, "but at all events I know enough to see that people are not so bad as they are made out. If Flossie is an undesirable companion, I can only say that I like her infinitely better than any proper, correct, narrow-minded person like Hannah. I begin to doubt the advantages of the respectability on which Hannah and Salome pride themselves, when I see how much nicer people can be without it."

"Oh, child, don't talk like that! You frighten me. Hannah and Salome are right. They may be a little over-strict,—I do not say they are not,—but they are right in the main. It never does to defy social opinion. Bohemianism may look attractive to a young girl like you, who knows nothing about it, but it is a perilous borderland at the best. Oh, I do wish I could persuade you—"

"Not to give up being friendly with Flossie Chalcombe, who has no dear mother as I have, and really wants me," said Juliet, who had approached her mother, and now slipped one arm about Mrs. Tracy's neck, and deftly closed the lips, whose utterance she did not wish to hear, with her rosy finger-tips. "You would not wish me to do that, I am sure, mother mine." Then with a loving hug and kiss Juliet bounded away, laughing lightly as she quitted the room.

Thus the talk between Juliet and her mother ended as Hannah could have foretold that it would end.

CHAPTER II

HANNAH GRANT was an excellent person in every way. Her health was as sound as her principles, and she was a fine-looking, without being a winsome, woman.

Others beside her pupils shrank from the severe scrutiny of her cold blue eyes. Yet she was fairly liked by the girls she taught, for, whilst a strict disciplinarian, she was invariably just. Clear-headed and eminently practical, she had a knack of imparting knowledge in such a manner that even the least nimble-minded could not fail to grasp it. This, however, was not the outcome of mere chance, but the result of conscientious effort on her part.

Whatever Hannah undertook to do, she took infinite pains to do it well. She gloried in her thoroughness, her good sense, her subjection of inclination to duty. It followed that she had little patience with those whose conduct fell below her own standard. She lacked the imaginative insight and the gentle sympathy that might have led her to make allowance for her weaker sisters. The idle, thoughtless, and inconsequent amongst her pupils found no mercy with her.

Juliet was not in the form taught by her sister, and they came little into contact during school hours. Though by no means stupid, Juliet rarely took a good position in her classes. She had been frail and delicate as a child, as children born in India often are, and Mrs. Tracy refused to allow her education to be pressed. She should run wild until she had attained some robustness.

The running wild may have been of advantage to Juliet physically, but it developed in her qualities of mind and character which could not afterwards easily be eradicated. When she entered the high school she was far more backward in her studies than most girls of her age, and, having never learned to apply herself, her progress for some years was most tedious.

It vexed Hannah that Juliet should take so low a place in the school. She was irritated by seeing in her sister those faults of idleness, carelessness, and indifference which she knew must prove fatal to her advancement. She was persuaded that Juliet could have done better if she would.

But Juliet would not see the importance of her own education; there was no inducing her to take a serious view of the future that lay before her. She had wished to leave school long before this, and Mrs. Tracy would weakly have yielded to her desire, but for Hannah's strong representation of the necessity for Juliet being properly educated, since she would have to take a situation when she left school.

Mrs. Tracy shook her head in secret over the thought of her pretty Juliet becoming a governess, but she did not dare to openly oppose Hannah's suggestion. Though she remained at school longer than many girls do, Juliet never attained the dignity of the sixth form, and Hannah herself had decided that her young sister must leave at the end of the present term.

Hannah might be forgiven for feeling annoyance when Juliet, who could have had almost any girl in the school for her friend, chose to attach herself to Flossie Chalcombe. For undoubtedly the girl was of a lower social stamp than most of the scholars, though she was sufficiently bright and pretty to attract Juliet's somewhat fickle fancy. Her features were good and of a pronounced type; she had a quantity of dark hair, which she wore very much becurled on her forehead; long, rather peculiar greyish eyes; and a complexion which was suspiciously pink and white. She was wont to darken her eyelids and otherwise "get up" her eyes, and her lips were brilliantly red. She dressed smartly; but her clothes seldom looked fresh, and were never such as became a schoolgirl. She wore ornaments in her ears, and her hands were always adorned by rings and bangles. There was a disagreeable, underbred air about the girl.

Juliet, who with all her perversity was an innate little lady, could hardly be entirely unconscious of what was lacking in her friend. Flossie looked the elder, though in reality, some months younger than Juliet. Her life had been very different from that of Juliet. Ignorant of many things, with mind untrained and neglected, she yet had much of such knowledge of the world as she would have been better without. Hannah was right in deeming her an undesirable acquaintance for her young sister; but it was a pity she so openly opposed the friendship, since it had the effect of rendering Juliet, ever prone to resent Hannah's judgments, perversely bent on maintaining it. Left to herself, Juliet would probably soon have ceased to care for Flossie Chalcombe. She was rather given to becoming passionately attached to people for a short time. The fascination, enthralling whilst it lasted, was seldom of long duration.

On the day following that on which our story began, Juliet and Flossie came out of the schoolhouse together about four o'clock. They were not often at the school in the afternoon, but to-day they had been attending the class for calisthenics, for which no time could be found during the morning.

"Do come home with me, Juliet," said Flossie, as the gate swung to behind them; "you might as well. You have plenty of time this afternoon."

"I can't come home with you," said Juliet, somewhat startled by the proposition, "but I don't mind walking part of the way."

"Why cannot you come all the way?" asked Flossie. "You have never even seen where I live. But I know why it is. You are afraid of what Miss Grant will say. She does not consider me a proper acquaintance for you."

"Well, if it is, I don't care that for what Hannah says." And Juliet emphasised her words by kicking a piece of orange peel from the pavement into the gutter.

"Bravo, Juliet! I admire your spirit. As I was saying to Algernon yesterday, you are not the girl to be domineered over by those old maids at home."

Juliet was silent. She did not quite like the way in which Flossie spoke of her sisters. In spite of her antagonism to them, she was not insensible to the family bond, but was ready to resent any detraction of them from an outsider. Flossie saw she had made a mistake, and tried to divert Juliet's thoughts by the remark—

"Was he there? Oh, I wish I had seen him!" exclaimed Juliet naïvely, though the next moment she blushed for her words. Flossie constantly talked to her of this brother, of whom she seemed very proud, and Juliet had become interested in him.

"Yes, he came because he wanted to see you, and he hardly took his eyes off you all the time. He said there was no one else worth looking at. He paid no attention to the music; he only looked at you."

"Of course he could not care about the music," she said hurriedly, "it must be so inferior, so different at least, from what he is accustomed to."

"We were farther back, at your right. We did not stay till the end. Algie got tired of it—or rather, he had another engagement. We saw you well, Juliet. You looked so pretty in that white frock. I never saw you in white before. I suppose that nice-looking lady in black silk was your mother?"

"But what an odd-looking individual it was who sat on the other side of you! I took her to be your other sister, by her likeness to Miss Grant. Does she always dress in that very severe style?"

"Always," said Juliet, with some sharpness in her tone, for she thought her companion a little too free with her comments. "Salome thinks it is wrong to dress like other people. You know she is very religious, works amongst the poor, and all that sort of thing, so she dresses plainly on principle."

"Oh dear, I am glad I do not feel it my duty to make a guy of myself!" laughed Flossie. "However, as Algernon remarked, she makes an excellent foil to you. Do you know he walked to school with me this morning because he wanted to see you? It was tiresome of you to come late."

"Now don't be high and mighty. What harm would Algernon do by looking at you? He says you are an inspiration to him."

"Ah, you may laugh, but it is true. He has begun to write a dramatic play, and you are the heroine."

"It's quite true. You are a lovely maiden shut up in a castle, guarded by an ogre, and he is the hero who comes and delivers you. He told me so, indeed. Of course he may have been making fun; but I know he is writing a play."

"Yes, but they have never been put on the stage. He thinks this will be a great success. He writes sometimes, and things of his have been published in the comic papers. Algernon is really very clever, though I say it."

As they talked thus, Juliet had been walking on without noting how far she was going. Nov, as a turn of the road brought into view a wide grassy space enclosed by palings and intersected by paths running in various directions, she suddenly paused.

"Why, here we are at the Green!" she exclaimed. "I never meant to come so far. Now I must say good-bye, Flossie."

"No, indeed. You must come home with me, now you are so near. That is our house just over there on the other side of the Green. Do come, Juliet; Algernon will be so pleased if he is at home."

"But he is hardly likely to be at home at this hour," said Flossie, with a quick perception that she had said the wrong thing. "I shall probably find the house empty. You might come and have a cup of tea with me, Juliet."

Juliet shook her head, but she felt tempted. She was curious as to her friend's home, and interested in the brother whom she had inspired to write a dramatic play. She shrank from the thought of meeting her admirer; but she would have liked well to get a clearer notion of him and his surroundings. But she knew that her mother would strongly object to her entering the Chalcombes' house, and to do so would be to flaunt the flag of defiance in Hannah's face.

"You need not tell them at home, if you are afraid of a row," suggested Flossie, as Juliet hesitated.

"I am afraid of nothing," exclaimed Juliet impetuously, "and I am not one to conceal what I do! But I cannot stay, Flossie. Mother would—"

"Consider that you had demeaned yourself by crossing our threshold," Flossie interrupted her, in a resentful tone. "I wonder what there is about us that people should shun us as if we were lepers."

"Mother does not feel so, Flossie; she does not know you. It is only Hannah who is—as horrid as possible."

"But you say you do not care for Hannah's opinion; you are not going to be controlled by her. Ha, ha! Juliet; I shall begin to think you are afraid of Miss Grant, after all, if you refuse to come in."

The colour rose in Juliet's face. She was one who could be dared into doing things, as Flossie knew well. Juliet forgot the pain her action would cause her mother, forgot every consideration which should have withheld her from entering the house of which she knew so little, in the passionate desire of her will to assert itself, and show she was in subjection to no one.

"I am afraid of nobody!" she exclaimed hotly; "I take my own way whenever I choose; and, just to show you that, I will come with you, Flossie; but you must not ask me to stay long."

Flossie smiled triumphantly as they started to walk across the Green. Juliet might boast of taking her own way; but in their intercourse it not seldom happened, as now, that it was Flossie and not Juliet who gained her end.

The house in which the Chalcombes lived stood back from the road, and was screened by a small shrubbery. The approach to the house was ill-kept, and the steps very dirty; but Juliet was not one to heed such details. On the top of the steps, a huge bull-dog was stretched. He roused himself at the sound of a strange voice, and broke into a fierce bark; but Juliet being absolutely fearless of animals, spoke soothingly to him and patted his broad head, whereupon his bark subsided into a whine, and he wagged his stump of a tail.

"Why, Sykes has quickly made friends with you," exclaimed Flossie, in surprise; "he is most suspicious of strangers, as a rule."

With that Flossie used the knocker vigorously, and, after some delay, the door was opened by a very untidy maid-of-all-work.

And Juliet followed her across the threshold, not without an uneasy thought of how her mother would feel if she could see her.

CHAPTER III

FLOSSIE CHALCOMBE led Juliet into a square, lofty room, which was the dining-room of the house.

It was not an ill-furnished room, but it looked dingy, and had, even to Juliet's unobservant eyes, a most untidy appearance, whilst her sensitive nostrils were at once aware of the disagreeable odour of stale tobacco.

The ceiling was darkened by smoke; the curtains, once white, had, under the strain of smoke and dust from within, and damp and smuts from without, developed a greyish hue; the carpet, once handsome, was discoloured and threadbare, rather, perhaps, from the effects of careless usage than as the result of long service; a pipe-rack and a tobacco jar appeared amongst other odd ornaments on the mantelpiece, and the pier-glass above it presented a curious effect, being bordered on each side as high as hands could reach with papers, play-bills, photographs, etc., stuck for security within its rim. The chairs were of oak, curiously carved, with crimson leather seats. A handsome sideboard with a plate-glass back stood on one side, presenting an array of flagons and decanters flanked by a black bottle or two. A plated spirit-stand was in the centre. The cut-glass decanter labelled "whisky" had been drawn out and stood on the table beside two empty glasses. Near the door a cottage piano stood open, the top littered with sheets of music, and on the music-stand a piece bearing on its cover a marvellous representation of a gentleman in extravagantly fashionable attire making his bow to an imaginary audience.

As Juliet glanced round her, the misgivings with which she had entered the house increased.

"Is father at home?" Flossie asked of the servant, as her eyes fell on the empty glasses.

Flossie slightly shrugged her shoulders, and Juliet fancied she was not best pleased.

"Make us some tea, Maria, as quickly as you can," said Flossie, "and let it be strong, mind. And stay, you had better run to the nearest shop for a cake; I don't suppose there is any in the house."

"Nonsense, Juliet!" Flossie checked her laughingly. "I may surely order cake if I like. I want some, it you do not."

"You are not going till you have had some tea, so there," said Flossie imperiously. "Excuse me one moment." And she disappeared.

Juliet heartily wished that she had not entered the house. She foresaw that the maid's getting tea would be a long business; but it seemed impossible to hurry away now without hurting Flossie's feelings.

"What would Hannah say if she could see me!" she thought. "How shocked Salome, who always wears the blue ribbon, would be if she saw that sideboard!"

In fact, Juliet was slightly shocked herself. Decidedly the people who dwelt in this house were of a different set from her own. What a strange, disorderly room it was! She glanced at the pier-glass, and saw the likeness of a ballet-girl taken in such extreme attire, that, though she was alone, Juliet instinctively lowered her eyes with a sense of shame. But ere she had time to observe more there was a sound of voices in the hall, and Flossie entered followed by her brother.

"Juliet, this is Algernon, who has been wishing so much to make your acquaintance. I hardly thought he would be at home, but—"

"Fortune has been kind to me," added her brother, in a low, rich voice, as she hesitated.

The colour flew into Juliet's cheeks and deepened as she met the frankly admiring glance of Flossie's brother. She hardly knew how she acknowledged the introduction, so conscious was she of those tiresome blushes and the timid fluttering of her heart.

But there was nothing formidable in the appearance of Algernon Chalcombe, unless it were his extreme handsomeness. Juliet saw before her a well-formed, graceful man of middle height, whose dark beauty was well set off by the crimson and black "blazer" which he wore. His black hair was rather long and inclined to curl; he had fine dark lustrous eyes and regular features. The mouth was rather large in proportion to the rest of the face, with full lips, the chin large, full, and rounded. He had been told that he resembled the portraits of Lord Byron, and the suggestion flattered his vanity. He was amply endowed with that commodity, and his countenance revealed its presence, and betrayed tokens too of luxurious, self-indulgent habits.

But Juliet had not the experience that could discern these. She was struck with the graceful bearing and polished ease of the young man. Although his eyes plainly expressed admiration for her, there was no insolence in their gaze. On the contrary, he contrived to infuse into his manner a subtle suggestion of self-depreciation and humility inspired by her presence, and his tone in addressing her was charmingly deferential.

"He is a perfect gentleman," thought Juliet, with a sense of agreeable surprise.

And certainly Algernon Chalcombe lacked none of the externals of a gentleman. It had been his father's ambition to make him such, and his education had been expensive, and therefore presumably good. It had even comprised a sojourn at Oxford, but his career at the University had come to an abrupt termination, and he had reasons for preferring not to speak of that period of his life. At Oxford and elsewhere he had courted the society of men of a higher social standing than his own, and had been quick to catch their tone and learn their habits.

Thus it was that Juliet discerned in him what she took to be tokens of high breeding and superior personal refinement. Having no brother, and belonging to a wholly feminine household, her ideas as to what constitutes a gentleman were perhaps more crude than are those of most girls. Certain it is that Algernon Chalcombe's ready courtesy, his pleasant accent, the well-made garments which he wore with such careless grace, his white hands and polished nails, all combined to produce on her the impression of a personal distinction and innate chivalry befitting a hero of romance. Juliet had read few romances—Hannah had seen to that—but perhaps just because they were so few, those she had read had made the more impression on her vivid imagination.

Flossie was quick to see how Juliet was struck by Algernon's appearance and bearing. She was delighted, for she was very fond of this brother seven years older than herself. She was able to make a hero of him in her way, though she saw him under other aspects than that which he was so studiously presenting to Juliet.

"This is not the first time that I have had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Tracy," remarked Algernon Chalcombe. "Flossie pointed you out to me at your school concert."

"Yes, so she told me," said Juliet hurriedly, blushing deeply the next moment, as she remembered all Flossie had said when she told her.

He did not appear conscious of her confusion, though in reality, he thought how pretty she looked when she blushed, and what a fresh, naïve, charming little girl she was.

"It was rather a slow affair that school concert, was it not?" he said, in his full, deep tones, with the fine drawl he affected.

"Oh yes—at least I do not know that I found it so," Juliet corrected herself; "but then I knew beforehand what it would be like. One cannot expect anything very startling at a school concert, when only the pupils perform. Of course it must have seemed a dull affair to you."

"Oh no; I liked it very much. I do not mean to say that I enjoyed the music particularly, but I liked being there. I was disappointed, though, to find that you were not amongst the performers. I had hoped to hear you play or sing."

"Flossie could have told you that was impossible. I do not learn music at school. I do not learn at all now, in fact."

Juliet shook her head. "I am afraid not. I am very fond of music, but I cannot play much. Salome used to teach me, but she gave me up in despair; and, indeed, I could never learn of her. We used to quarrel at every lesson."

"Mother wanted me to have lessons of someone else, but Hannah said that would be an extravagance, when Salome is so well qualified to teach me. She gives lessons in music, you know, and is said to have an admirable method of training young strummers. I know her playing is quite correct, and all that, but can never feel that there is any music in it, somehow."

"I know the kind of playing you mean," said Algernon; "this is it, is it not?" He turned quickly to the piano, sat down and played a little air of Beethoven's; played it correctly, coldly, the time strictly accented, but without the least expression.

"That's it—that's it exactly!" exclaimed Juliet, delighted. "Salome always plays in that hard, woodeny manner."

"Do you know anyone who plays like this?" he asked. His hands now wandered over the keys in uncertain, fluttering movements, one hand always a little behind the other, as in staccato fashion, he struck out "Ye Banks and Braes."

"What do you think of this?" he asked next. His hands descended with a crash upon the piano, tore at the notes, flew up and down the keyboard. Crash followed crash, run pursued run, there was a tumult in which hammer and tongs, tin-whistle and wooden drum might have been taking part, assisted by an enraged cat. The piano rocked beneath the violent onslaught, the room seemed to shake with it; then, suddenly, the din ceased, and the performer leaned back from the stool, laughing.

"'Battle, Murder, and Sudden Death,' an impromptu, by Algernon Chalcombe," he answered gravely.

"Won't you sing something to Juliet, now she is here?" suggested his sister. "She wants so much to hear you sing."

The colour rose in Juliet's face. She looked half-ashamed of hearing such a thing said. But the suggestion was very agreeable to Algernon Chalcombe.

"With pleasure, if she wishes it," he said, in his low, musical tones. "Her wish is a command to me."

He sang a song which was comic without being vulgar. His singing was very spirited, and his full, rich baritone was delightful to listen to. But when Juliet asked for another song, he chose one of a very different description. It was Blumenthal's "My Queen," and he sang it with great power and feeling.

The song is familiar enough to most persons now, but Juliet had not heard it before, and she was thrilled by the beauty of the words and the music. Still more was she thrilled when Algernon at its conclusion suddenly lifted his dark eyes to hers, and looked at her with a glance that seemed charged with unutterable meanings. Juliet trembled under the magnetism of that glance. She rose and looked about for her gloves, feeling a sudden desire to get away. But the tea had not yet appeared, and till now she had been unconscious how time was passing.

"You must not think of going yet," said Algernon, in his low, deep voice, as he came to her side. "Won't you sing something to me now? I am sure that you sing."

"Yes, indeed; she sings beautifully," exclaimed Flossie; "her voice is as clear as a bird's. Do sing, Juliet."

"Oh, I cannot! I never sing, except sometimes with mother some of the old songs that she used to sing when she was a girl."

"Won't you let me hear one of them?" said Algernon persuasively. "I love those good old songs."

"Oh, but you must, you shall!" exclaimed Flossie. "I won't let you off, Juliet."

"Stay, Flossie. Miss Tracy shall not be urged to sing if the idea is really disagreeable to her. Of course it would have given me great pleasure; but it shall be just as she likes."

Juliet immediately felt convicted of ingratitude. He had been so kind in singing to her, it seemed horrid of her to refuse to gratify him in her turn.

"I will try, if you like," she faltered; "but you must please go to the other end of the room and promise not to listen."

"I cannot promise that," he said, with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, "but I assure you I will not listen critically."

He moved away as he spoke, and Juliet, sitting down at the piano, struck a few notes in uncertain fashion, and then trilled forth the sweet old song, "Where the bee sucks, there lurk I."

She loved singing, and in a few moments, she had forgotten her nervousness. Her voice was untrained, but it was singularly sweet and clear. Algernon, as he stood carelessly with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window, expected only to be amused by some school-girlish warbling. He was amazed at the strength and purity of the full, clear notes.

But Algernon Chalcombe was not the only listener who was surprised and delighted by the sweet, bird-like notes. As Juliet sang the last verse, a shuffling tread was heard crossing the hall towards the half-open door, and the next moment, Mr. Chalcombe senior entered the room.

He was a short, stoutish man, with a highly coloured complexion and a round bullet head, but scantily covered with greyish hair. Late though it was in the afternoon, he wore what he was wont to describe as his "dishabilles," a gay, much-beflowered dressing-gown, considerably the worse for wear, whilst on his feet were a pair of old carpet slippers, the easiness of which was an advantage counterbalanced by the difficulty of keeping on the loose, downtrodden things.

Flossie's face flushed as her father entered, and an impatient frown appeared on that of Algernon; but Mr. Chalcombe's face beamed with good-nature. He had no misgivings as to his welcome as he joined the little party.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he cried heartily as Juliet finished her song. "I congratulate you, young lady, whoever you are, on having such a voice as that."

"Father, this is Miss Tracy," said Flossie, in a tone suggestive of remonstrance.

"To be sure. Juliet Tracy, your chum at the 'igh school. I've often 'eard of you, my dear. You two are in the same class, ar'n't you? It's a mighty fine thing, that 'igh school. You young people nowadays 'ave great advantages. My hedjucation was all crowded into three years, which left little time for putting on the polish. Ha, ha! But there, I've done very well without it." And Mr. Chalcombe struck the table sharply with his hand, by way of giving emphasis to his words.

His son looked much annoyed. He moved quickly to Juliet's side, saying in a low voice, with an evident desire to cover his father's want of taste—

"Thank you so much, Miss Tracy. Your voice is indeed beautiful. One does not often have the chance of hearing such."

"Oh, but my singing is not good," said Juliet, looking much pleased, however. "You see, I have had no proper training."

"Yes, yes, I can tell that," said Mr. Chalcombe, taking the remark as addressed to him; "but it's not too late for it to be cultivated, and it's a lovely voice. You might make your fortune on the stage with such a voice as that."

Juliet looked at the speaker with a startled air. At the first moment she saw him and heard him speak, she had been conscious of a sensation of strong repulsion from one who was obviously such a vulgar member of society. But now his words were so agreeably suggestive and flattering to her self-love that she was disposed to view him more favourably.

"And why not?" he demanded. "It's my belief you'd be a grand success as an opera singer. Patti, Neilson, Trebelli, and all the rest of them would 'ave to look to their laurels when you made your début. Oh, you need not laugh, my dear; I'm not joking."

"I think you must be, when you prophesy such things as that for me," said Juliet, with a merry laugh.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I tell you, there's many a one sings at 'er Majesty's opera whose voice is a less musical one than yours. You've 'eard Orféo?"

"I have heard nothing," said Juliet. "I have never been to the theatre or the opera in my life."

"Indeed I do. My mother and sisters do not approve of the theatre. They would never let me go."

Mr. Chalcombe muttered something that it was well Juliet did not catch, since it was not complimentary to the intelligence of her family. Flossie was listening rather nervously to the talk going on between her father and her friend. It was a relief to her that at this moment the maid appeared bearing the tea-tray, which she placed with some clatter on the table.

"Here's the tea at last!" Flossie exclaimed. "You must have thought, Juliet, that it was never coming."

Thus reminded of the flight of time, Juliet glanced at the clock, and was dismayed to see how late it was.

She rose from the piano. Algernon drew forward a chair for her, brought her some tea, and waited on her assiduously.

"No, thank you, my dear, no, thank you. Tea is all very well for women-folks, but I like something stronger. Oh dear, I am forgetting my letters! I must bid you good-day, Miss Tracy. Now think over what I've said, and when you've made up your mind, you come to me, and I'll put you in the way of things. It's my belief that with proper training you might soon be earning your thirty guineas a night, and that's not a sum to be sniffed at, let me tell you."

"Juliet!" exclaimed Mr. Chalcombe. "There you are! The very name for an opera singer. She might play Juliet to your Romeo, eh, Algie? That would be the best use you could make of your good looks, as I often tell you. Ha, ha, ha!"

Juliet's cheeks were crimson as she sipped her tea, trying to look unconscious. Presently, glancing at Algernon Chalcombe, she perceived that he was gnawing his moustache savagely, and appeared much put out. Whereupon she reflected, not without sympathy, how trying a person of his refinement must find it to be saddled with such a parent.

"Oh, do not say that!" exclaimed Flossie. "How I wish you could go with us one, night! Father gets tickets for everything, you know."

And Algernon's expressive eyes said that he wished it too. But Juliet would not entertain such an idea for a moment. She rose to take her leave, and was not to be persuaded to stay longer.

As she hastened homewards at her quickest pace, her mind was in a strangely excited state. She knew that she might prepare to face a storm when she reached home, but she did not quail at the prospect. Her knowledge of the world seemed to have increased, and the horizon of her life to have widened with the experience of the afternoon. Her imagination played delightedly with words and looks which had been full of pleasant insinuation, as well as with the practical suggestions of Mr. Chalcombe senior. Her future seemed to be quite bewilderingly full of wonderful possibilities.

CHAPTER IV

SALOME GRANT seated herself at the tea-table behind the steaming urn. The clock on the mantelpiece had just struck six, and six was the hour at which they took their evening meal. The fact that Juliet had not yet come in was no reason for delaying it. Salome prided herself on her punctuality. Juliet could hardly be said to know what punctuality meant.

It was always Salome who made the tea, and her tea was excellent. She, indeed, attended generally to the housekeeping. Carefully trained by the Scotch cousin in whose home she had passed so many years, Salome had developed into as notable a housekeeper as her teacher. She was well versed in the niceties belonging to every department of domestic management. Her jams were always clear, her cakes light; her store cupboard never seemed to get out of order, and it was a pleasure to look into the linen-press, for Salome was a first-rate needlewoman also, and prided herself on the way she marked and kept the household linen.

Mrs. Tracy was well pleased, on the whole, to leave the care of the household in her daughter's capable hands. She was conscious that she was herself by no means a model housekeeper. As she moved with Captain Tracy from station to station, she had kept house in a careless, happy-go-lucky fashion, and the captain had never grumbled, though he seldom found it convenient to dine with his wife. But their expenses, though there was little to show for them, had mounted up wonderfully, and Mrs. Tracy had always an uneasy sense that she was being cheated, without being able to discover where the fraud originated.

Ere long they went to India, and there, as everyone knows, housekeeping differs considerably from the prosaic ordering of an English home. So Mrs. Tracy, on her return from abroad, had been thankful to find Salome such a clever manager, with quite an old head on her young shoulders. The mother, with her delicate health and languid dislike to exertion, had gradually fallen into the position of a merely nominal ruler, content to perform only such functions as her powerful prime minister would permit.

It had been necessary for Salome to leave school very early, though for some years afterwards she had pursued the study of music, with the result that she was now able, by giving lessons, to earn a sum which more than covered her modest personal expenses. There were times when Salome felt keenly the deficiencies in her education and the poverty of her mental attainments, compared with those of Hannah. But her sister never assumed airs of superiority. She was always ready to assure Salome that she had a special gift for domestic economy, and served the family interests as truly by her clever thrift and practical industry as she herself did by means of the good salary she earned.

A close bond united the sisters, though their affection was not demonstrative. Salome had the greatest admiration for Hannah's intellectual ability, and gladly set her free to devote her time to study, by undertaking Hannah's mending and making in addition to her own. She held Hannah's opinions in high esteem, and echoed them with a firm belief that they were her own. The two held together in most things, and on no matter were they more in accord than in their criticism of Juliet, and their mother's mistaken treatment of her.

Salome was pre-eminently a worker. Despite her many home duties, her music lessons, her sewing, she yet found time to take up outside work. She was a most exemplary Sunday-school teacher, and Mr. Hayes, the Vicar of St. Jude's, a church near The Poplars, counted on her help in various branches of his parish work.

Mrs. Hayes, herself a woman of considerable energy, which had to divide itself between the claims of her husband's parish and those of her rather numerous family, thought Miss Salome Grant a most excellent person, who would prove just the wife that Mr. Ainger, their single curate, needed; one who would make the very most of his slender stipend, and be capable of superintending any amount of cutting out and sewing for the poor of his parish, to say nothing of the management of soup-kitchens and blanket-clubs. Mr. Hayes was quite of the same opinion, though he made a mental note of the fact that Miss Grant was rather plain in appearance. But he himself had chosen his wife on the same principle that he chose his boots and broadcloth, for good wearing rather than showy qualities, with the additional advantage, which Salome lacked, that the lady had a few hundreds a year of her own.

Mr. Ainger, however, though ready to echo the praise which the vicar's wife bestowed on Miss Grant, evinced no desire to make her excellences his own. He remained obtuse to every hint, and Mrs. Hayes could only sigh over the perversity of men.

"Tea is ready, mother," said Salome, when she had filled all the cups, and Mrs. Tracy still remained at a distance bending over her needlework.

"In one moment, dear," said her mother; "I must finish this, now it is so nearly done."

Salome looked annoyed as she watched her mother's movements. Hannah had already taken her place at the table.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, holding up to view a tastefully made blue cotton blouse into which she had just set the last stitch. "How will that suit the child? She wants something cool to wear, now the weather has turned so warm."

"It is pretty," said Salome, in a tone which seemed to suggest that prettiness was a doubtful advantage.

"I do wonder, mother, when you will cease to think of Juliet as a child," said Hannah.

"Oh, not yet, I hope," said Mrs. Tracy cheerfully, pausing, to Salome's vexation, at the window to look up and down the road ere taking her place at the table. "After all, what is she but a child?" she added, as she turned towards the table.

"She was nineteen last February," said Hannah, in her most matter-of-fact tone. "I began to teach when I was nineteen."

"Ah, yes, my dear; but you were always so different from Juliet. And the youngest is usually more of a child than the others. Besides, you two are so much older. Why, you, Hannah, will be thirty on your next birthday."

"Yes, I shall be thirty," said Hannah calmly, with an air which said she was above being sensitive on the score of her age.

"Dear me, how old it makes me feel to think of having a daughter who is thirty!" observed Mrs. Tracy. "That is the worst of marrying young. You know, I was not twenty when I married your father. Why, how strange it seems! I was only a few months older than Juliet is now!"

"It is to be hoped that no one will be wanting to marry Juliet yet," said Salome, with a short laugh. "I should pity the man over whose household she presided."

"Oh, she would soon learn how to manage," said Mrs. Tracy, in her easy way; "that sort of thing comes to girls when they are married."

"Nor I," said Hannah. "It would certainly take Juliet a long time to learn to be such a housekeeper as you are, Salome. But Juliet must be taught to make herself useful when she leaves school."

"And she must find some employment," said Salome, "though I hardly know what she is fit for."

"Oh, there is time enough to consider that," said Mrs. Tracy, with an air of uneasiness. "There she is!" she added in a tone of relief, as Juliet's peculiar knock resounded through the house.

"So you're having tea?" said Juliet, thrusting her pretty, flushed face inside the door without entering. "I don't want any; I've had mine."

And she was off ere any questions could be asked, bounding upstairs three steps at a time.

"Where can she have had tea?" asked Salome wonderingly of her sister. "Do you think she went home with Frances Hayes?"

"I do not think so," said Hannah; "Juliet is by no means fond of Dora. I heard her call her a sneak only yesterday. No, if you ask me, I should say that most probably Juliet has been taking tea with her friend, Flossie Chalcombe."

Hannah made no reply, but smiled in a peculiar and exasperating manner. The subject was allowed to drop, but all three were feeling intensely curious as to how Juliet had passed the afternoon. That young lady did not appear to satisfy their curiosity.

As soon as tea was over, Salome went upstairs to get ready to go out. There was a committee meeting at the vestry that evening which she had promised to attend. On the first landing she paused, and, after a moment's hesitation, tapped on the closed door of the room Juliet shared with her mother.

Juliet was seated on her little bed. She had not removed her hat, but it was thrust far back from the flossy curly mass of sunny hair above her forehead. Dusty shoes still covered the little feet, which she was swinging to and fro in undesirable proximity to the spotless counterpane.

Salome felt the natural irritation of an immaculate housewife who had recently sustained the burdens of a spring cleaning.

"Juliet, I wish you would not sit on your bed. It impossible to keep the counterpane clean if you do so."

Salome looked with angry disapproval at her flushed, excited face and saucy eyes.

"Of course not. How could I know that you were sitting on the bed till I opened the door? I came to ask if you really would have nothing to eat. There are some nice fresh scones downstairs."

Juliet's tone expressed no gratitude. Already she divined that Salome had come mainly from a desire to find out how she had spent the afternoon.

"With a friend," replied Juliet laconically, still retaining her position on the bed, and swinging her feet faster than before.

"Of course," replied Salome, with mild sarcasm; "I did not suppose it was with an enemy. That is no answer to my question."

"It is near enough," said Juliet. "I do not see that it matters to you with whom I took tea."

"You may ask, of course,—as many questions as you like,—but I do not feel bound to answer them."

"Pray do not let us quarrel about such a thing," said Salome coldly. "You are welcome to make a mystery of it, if you please, only I must say it does not look well that you are ashamed to say with whom you have been taking tea."

"I am not ashamed!" exclaimed Juliet, suddenly springing from the bed and darting after her. "And you know it is not my way to make mysteries of things. Since you are so consumed by curiosity, I will inform you that I went home with Flossie Chalcombe and had tea with her. There, now; are you satisfied?" And Juliet went back to her room flushed and triumphant.

A few minutes later, Salome, in her close-fitting, deaconess-like bonnet, with her waterproof cloak neatly folded on her arm, one or two dark clouds being apparent in the evening sky, came into the room where Hannah and her mother were sitting. Her face was rather more highly coloured than usual; but it was in a quiet, composed manner that she said—

"You were right about Juliet, Hannah. She has been taking tea with the Chalcombes."

"You do not mean that?" exclaimed Hannah. "But I am not surprised," she added the next moment.

"Are you sure of what you are saying, Salome?" she asked, with unusual incisiveness.

"Oh no; I am sure she was not joking," said Salome demurely. "But I must go now, or I shall be late." She passed quickly from the room, and the next moment they heard the hall door close behind her.

At the same instant, Mr. Ainger might have been seen crossing the road from his lodgings on the opposite side.

There was silence in the room for some minutes after she had gone. Mrs. Tracy was feeling intensely hurt and mortified.

"I should think, mother," Hannah said at last, "you must now see that it is desirable Juliet should take a situation as soon as she leaves school."

"Not at a distance," replied Mrs. Tracy, in quick, agitated tones. "I will not have my child sent away from me."

"It would be a very good thing for her to leave home for a time," said Hannah quietly. "It seems the only way of withdrawing her from undesirable connections."

"I will never give my consent to it!" said Mrs. Tracy, in an excited manner. And she rose and went hurriedly from the room, as if resolved not to listen further to Hannah's views on the subject.

Juliet was standing before the dressing-table when her mother entered their bedroom. She had removed her hat, and was engaged in arranging, somewhat fastidiously, her golden locks; but, careless as was her attitude, she was not so much at ease as she appeared. For the last ten minutes she had been hearing with the ears of her imagination the discussion of her conduct that was probably taking place below. Her reflections on the consequences of her confession to Salome were not agreeable.

"Juliet," said Mrs. Tracy, when she had closed the door, "I think you will break my heart."

Juliet had been hardening herself in anticipation of reproof, but she had not expected such words as these. As she heard her mother's faltering tones, and saw that there were tears in her eyes, her own face fell, and she said in tones that expressed unfeigned regret—

"My dear, after what I said to you only the other day, you must have known that I should very much dislike the idea of your entering the Chalcombes' house."

"Well, yes, I suppose I did know it," Juliet acknowledged ruefully; "but Flossie persuaded me so, and she taunted me with being afraid of Hannah. I could not stand that. But I am sorry if you are vexed with me. Oh dear! I am always doing the wrong thing."

"It is because you are so thoughtless, dear. You always act upon impulse. If only you would give yourself time to reflect."

"Oh, mother, don't preach to me!" exclaimed Juliet impatiently. "It is done now; and, after all, I am not entirely sorry, for, do you know, I was singing to Flossie, and Mr. Chalcombe heard me—"

"Yes, he came into the room when I was singing. He is a vulgar little man, mother; but he knows about things, and he said my voice was beautiful, and that if it were properly trained I should be a great success as a public singer, and earn lots of money. Only think, mother, how much better that would be than teaching brats, as Hannah wants me to do!"

"But, mother, would you not like to have a daughter who could sing like Antoinette Sterling? Fancy, he said I might earn thirty guineas a night! Only think! We should soon be as rich as Crœsus!"

"I daresay," said Mrs. Tracy, with a faint smile; "but you are a long way from that at present, my child. I expect he only said it to flatter you. You must not dream of being a public singer, Juliet. I hate the idea of a public career for a woman. The quieter and simpler her life, the happier she is, as a rule."

"I don't think so," said Juliet, vexed that her mother did not share her elation. "I know I am sick to death of the quietness and simplicity of my life. Oh! what is the matter, mother?"

Her mother had sunk on to a chair, and was pressing both hands to her temples. Her face was very pale.

"My head!" she moaned. "It has been aching all day, but now the pain has grown almost unendurable. I believe I shall have to go to bed."

"Oh dear it is all my fault!" exclaimed Juliet, greatly distressed. "You must go to bed, mother dear, and I will bathe your head with toilet vinegar, and give you the medicine which always sends you to sleep."

And, contrite and remorseful, Juliet waited on her mother in the deftest and tenderest manner. When, some time later, she lay down in her own little bed, her mind was still so uneasy that sleep did not come readily. She turned from side to side, though cautiously, that she might not disturb her mother, many times ere she fell asleep.

Mrs. Tracy, when once her dose began to take effect, slept soundly. She woke in the early morning to find that Juliet was already up and kneeling in her nightdress by the fender, engaged in some mysterious operation.

"I am getting you a cup of tea," Juliet replied, as she anxiously watched the little kettle she had placed to boil on a spirit-lamp; "it will soon be ready now."

"You are very good, darling," Mrs. Tracy said, as Juliet brought the cup of fragrant tea to her bedside. She liked the refreshment of an early cup of tea, though it was an indulgence she rarely allowed herself, since Salome regarded it as an extravagance, and Hannah condemned the habit as pernicious.

"How did you manage to get all the things?" Mrs. Tracy asked, with pleased curiosity.

"Then, darling," said her mother, eager to embrace the favourable opportunity, "you will not mind giving me a promise that will be a great comfort to me."

Juliet was silent for a few moments, and her colour deepened. She was not one to give a promise lightly, and she did not want to bind herself thus. But when she met her mother's tender, pleading glance, and noted how white and weary-looking was the face which pressed the pillow, it seemed impossible to refuse.

"I promise, mother," she said, in a low voice; and then her mother drew the girl's face down to hers, and kissed her with passionate warmth.

After all, the mother told herself with a throbbing heart, she was a good and loving child, this wayward, spoilt Juliet.

CHAPTER V

"AT last I have heard of the very thing for Juliet," said Hannah, in tones of extreme satisfaction.

Mrs. Tracy looked up quickly from her needlework, her face expressing some anxiety. Hannah had just returned from an afternoon visit to the high school. It was a busy time with the teachers, for the school year was drawing to its close and the examinations were being held.

Already the beauty of the summer was past in London. The suburban trees looked dim and dusty; the grass was baked brown; the air was oppressively close and the sun's heat torrid. Everyone was talking or thinking of the seaside.

"Miss Tucker invited me into her room for a little talk," continued Hannah, in response to her mother's questioning glance. "She said she had heard of a situation which she thought Juliet might take. It is at Hampstead—just to teach two little girls. The elder, I believe, is only eight. Miss Tucker thinks Juliet might do well there if she chose."

"If she chose!" The proviso was an important one. Mrs. Tracy felt its significance.

"Miss Tucker says that she would have no hesitation in recommending Juliet for the situation. She thinks she might teach such little ones very nicely; but she is not fit to undertake older ones, for she is not taking at all a high place in the examinations."

"It is the result of idleness rather than lack of ability," said Hannah severely. "If Juliet were really stupid, one could forgive her. She trifles away her time with that horrid Chalcombe girl instead of working. I don't know whether you are aware, mother, that they are constantly together."

"Yes," said Salome, looking up from the accounts she was carefully auditing. "I asked Frances Hayes yesterday why she never came to see us now, and she said she fancied that Juliet had ceased to care for her visits since she had been so taken up with her new friend. Frances would have nothing to say to such a girl. Her mother is too careful of her."

Mrs. Tracy's colour rose. She looked annoyed—rather, it is to be feared, with her elder daughters than with the culprit they denounced.

"Perhaps Mrs. Hayes has cause to be distrustful of her daughter," she said proudly. "I am not afraid for Juliet. She is kind to that Chalcombe girl because she knows her to be lonely and friendless in the school. The intimacy will naturally cease when Juliet leaves school."

"I hope it will," said Hannah. "It is on that account that I am anxious to lose no time in getting an engagement for Juliet. This lady will want her from ten till five every day, which will leave her little time to herself."

"It does not much natter what she says," returned Hannah decisively. "She must be shown what is her duty. The salary will be forty pounds. We cannot afford to throw away such a chance. It is time Juliet helped to maintain herself. Her clothes cost a good deal."

"Not very much," said Mrs. Tracy deprecatingly, "since I make most of her things myself. Of course I see that it is a good chance; but it will be hard for the dear child to get into harness at once. She has been counting on a little extra leisure, and meant to practise up her music. I had almost promised her that she should have singing lessons."

"Surely, mother, you are not going to encourage, Juliet in her absurd notion of becoming a public singer!" Salome exclaimed.

"By no means, dear; but the child has certainly a beautiful voice, and it is a pity that it should not be cultivated."

"Of course, if you have money to throw away on such lessons, there is no reason why you should not indulge her whim," said Hannah coldly.

Mrs. Tracy flushed. The words stung her, coming as they did from the one who contributed most largely to the support of the household. But ere she could defend herself against the insinuation they conveyed, the door opened, and Juliet walked into the room.

Mrs. Tracy made a quick movement, which expressed to her elder daughters her wish that no more should be said on the subject at present. But Juliet saw the signal, and she noted, too, her mother's flushed face and the excited air worn by all three. Little escaped the keen observation of that young lady. She felt sure that she had been under discussion when her entrance broke off the conversation.

"Dear me! How very warm you all look!" she remarked with the utmost sang-froid. "What agitating topic has excited you so? You should really, from sanitary considerations, avoid such discussions when the thermometer stands at eighty degrees in the shade. I am not surprised at you, mother darling; but I do wonder to find Hannah and Salome showing so little good sense."

"I suppose you think that is clever," said Salome, who could never endure Juliet's raillery.

"Oh, very; do not you?" said Juliet, with superb indifference in the glance of her violet eyes.

Salome turned away discomfited. She was not quick at repartee, and she knew that Juliet always got the better of her in a battle of words.

Juliet carried a large fan open in her hand. She now drew her mother's form back more comfortably into her chair and began to fan her. Hannah cast an expressive glance at Salome, and quitted the room Salome soon followed, wishing doubtless to talk over the situation with her sister.

"Well, mother," said Juliet, when they were alone, "what are the latest tactics of the enemy?"

"No?" Juliet lifted her eyebrows comically. "Well, then, what is Hannah's latest plan—'for my good'?"

Her mother could not help smiling at the manner in which Juliet uttered the last words. Mrs. Tracy sometimes feared that she was guilty of encouraging the child in her naughtiness. But the little puss had such pretty, fascinating ways, and the eyes looking mischievously into hers were so full of charm.

Mrs. Tracy's face grew quickly grave again, and she sighed ere she replied to Juliet's question.

"It is rather Miss Tucker's plan," she said, with fine tact. She knew that Juliet, in common with most of the schoolgirls, held the headmistress in high esteem. "She has heard of a daily engagement for which she thinks you are suited," continued Mrs. Tracy, "and has very kindly promised to recommend you for it."

Juliet's countenance fell. She threw down the fan she had been using and walked to the window, where she stood looking out with a moody expression on her young face.

"I hate it!" she said at last. "I hate the thought of teaching a lot of little brats!"

"It's all the same," said Juliet; "I am not a bit fitted for it. But I suppose you want me to take the situation?"

"I think, dear, it is time you began to earn money for yourself," said her mother gently. "Your sisters have a right to expect it. They work so hard, and Hannah contributes so much—"

"Oh, don't tell me of Hannah's exemplary conduct," broke in Juliet impatiently, "I am sick of it. It is horrid to be so poor. If only—oh, mother, if only my voice could be trained, think what I should earn! How much better off we should be!"

"You would probably only be disappointed, dear. You think of the few women who succeed; but you forget the many who fail. I hear people say that all the professions are overstocked. It must be so with music too."

"Of course there are too many stupid, talentless performers," said Juliet, "but you know there is always room at the top."

"Well, dear, there is no reason why you should not practise your music, if you take this engagement," said her mother. "Hannah thinks the salary would be forty pounds, so perhaps you might afford to give yourself lessons. You will go and see the lady, Juliet, if she wishes for an interview?"

"Oh yes, I will go and see her," said Juliet, a mischievous gleam coming into her eyes. "Perhaps when she sees me she will not want to engage me."

Two days later, Juliet was sitting with her friend, Flossie Chalcombe, on the public green near which stood the home of the latter. Juliet had kept the promise she had given to her mother. She had not again entered the Chalcombes' house, in spite of many persuasions to do so. The green had become instead the rendezvous of the friends. Here they would linger for a talk when they had walked together from the schoolhouse, and here Juliet would occasionally seek her friend on the fair summer evenings.

Not infrequently it happened that Algernon Chalcombe strolled across from the house with his dogs and lingered by Juliet's side for a talk. Juliet felt very shy of him when first he came, but she soon grew used to seeing him, and came to look forward to her talks with him. It was pleasant to perceive his admiration, which betrayed itself in so subtle a way that her pride could not take offence. From him and his sister she received ample sympathy in her longings after an artistic life. They fed her vanity continually by pictures of the glorious future from which, as they described it, she seemed to be separated only by a few steps.

Juliet and Flossie were alone on this warm summer evening, and their talk consisted largely of lamentation, for Juliet was the bearer of disagreeable intelligence.

"Is it not horrid, Flossie?" she said, as soon as they met. "Hannah is going to take me to Hampstead to-morrow to see that lady."

"Is it not? I hate the idea of going there to be inspected; but—" and a laughing look came into Juliet's eyes—"it shall not be my fault if the lady engages me. I mean to do my utmost to make a bad impression on her."

"Oh, Juliet! How lovely! What a capital idea!" said Flossie, laughing heartily. "Algernon says it is shameful of anyone to think of making a governess of you. He says your people don't deserve to have you. He is just mad about it. You should hear how he goes on."

"The lady will not want me till the autumn, happily," said Juliet. "She wishes to engage someone before she goes to the seaside. Are you going to the sea, Flossie?"

"Yes, we are going to Margate," said Flossie. "I like Margate, don't you? Where will you go, Juliet?"

"Oh, I don't know. Mother and I will perhaps get a fortnight at Herne Bay together. Hannah is going to Cambridge, and Salome is to accompany the Hayeses to a religious convention in the North. It will be nice to get rid of them for a while; but I don't care much for anything with this hanging over me."

As the girls talked together there came across the green, from one of the houses opposite, a young clergyman accompanied by a little boy. As he approached the bench on which they were seated, he paused and exclaimed in a tone of vexation, "There! I've forgotten the packet I promised to post. Run back for it, Archie, there's a dear boy. You'll see it on the hall table."

"You will wait for me, Uncle Arthur?" the little fellow stipulated ere he sped away.

"Of course I shall wait for you. See, I will sit here till you come back." And he seated himself on the farther end of the bench.

The girls glanced at him with some curiosity and then continued their talk, Juliet instinctively lowering her tones and Flossie as characteristically raising hers. She was one who never lost an opportunity of showing herself off, and cherished the delusion that her words and bearing could not fail to please everyone.

"Really, Juliet," she exclaimed flightily, "it is very odd to think of your becoming a governess. Everyone will be calling you Miss Tracy."

"Indeed, I hope they will not address me in that prim way," said Juliet; "I shall hate it."

"But they will. Governesses are always addressed in that manner. 'Miss Tracy, I hope that your pupils give you satisfaction,'" said Flossie, mimicking the air of a grand lady.

"Do be quiet, Flossie," said Juliet, with some irritation, caused rather by her companion's loudness than by her words. She glanced towards the clergyman.

To her surprise, he was regarding her with an air of interest. He seemed about to speak, then hesitated; finally, with heightened colour, he bent towards her, lifting his hat and speaking very courteously.

"Excuse me if I seem intrusive,—I would not willingly be impertinent,—but I could not help hearing your name. Now it happens that a gentleman with whom I have recently travelled from Australia is anxious to find some relatives of that name in London. Can it be that you are one of those he is seeking?"

"I do not think so," said Juliet, much surprised; "I believe I have no relative of the name of Tracy. There are just my mother and I. My father, who was an officer in the army, died many years ago."

"Strange!" exclaimed the clergyman. "This gentleman spoke of having had a brother in the army. I wonder if you would mind letting me have your address, on the chance of its being of service to him? He is not one whom you need fear would make any undesirable use of it."

"Oh, I do not mind in the least," said Juliet, and she hastened to tell him where she lived.

He thanked her cordially; then, as his little nephew came running to him, he lifted his hat and walked away.

"Well, that's a funny thing!" exclaimed Flossie. "To think of his catching up your name like that! Can it be that he has met with any relative of yours?"

"I do not think so," said Juliet; "I never heard of our having anyone in Australia belonging to us. But mother will know."

"Suppose it should be a rich uncle turned up to make you his heiress," said Flossie. "Would not that be lovely? You would not have to be a governess then."

"No, indeed. Oh, it would be lovely!" exclaimed Juliet, her imagination elated by the idea. "But it is not in the least likely! Such a thing would never happen to me."

"I don't know about that. It seems to me that you are just the one to whom nice things should happen. I can fancy you becoming anything—a prima donna, a duchess, a queen!" said Flossie, who set no limits to her flattering speech.

"A poor little drudge of a daily governess is what you may fancy me, Flossie," she said. But she was not ill-pleased by the tribute paid to her vanity. "I wonder who that gentleman is," she said, glancing back at the clergyman's retreating form. "Do you not think he has a nice face?"

"No, indeed. I thought him remarkably ugly," replied Flossie; "but I admit he is rather distinguished-looking. A gentleman, no doubt."

"Really, Juliet, I did not know you were so fond of good people!" said Flossie, laughing.

"I do not admire people who think themselves good, and want to put everyone else right," said Juliet, "but I do like people who are really good. I wish—"

Juliet suddenly checked herself, with an instinctive sense that Flossie would not understand her wish. How could she express the emotion with which, in spite of her perversity and self-will, her heart would often swell as she thought of all that is good, and true and beautiful in human life?

Juliet did not mean her life to be just like the lives of the people about her. She was impatient when others sought to control her. She wanted to take her own way, but she never meant that it should be an ignoble way. She had her ideals, though they were all too vague and visionary. She hated selfishness and meanness, and felt a keen sense of injustice whenever her sisters pronounced her selfish. But they could only judge her actions by their shrewd, matter-of-fact observation; they had not the imagination to conceive how different they might appear seen from her point of view.

CHAPTER VI

"MOTHER, do you think it can be anyone belonging to us?" asked Juliet eagerly, when she had told of her meeting with the unknown clergyman that afternoon, and the question he had put to her.

"Oh no, dear! Tracy is not an uncommon name. And yet—it is very strange—your father had a brother who went to Australia; but he has been dead for years—at least, it was always believed that he was dead."

"But it was a mistake—it was a mistake, and he has come back to claim us as his next of kin!" cried Juliet excitedly. "Oh, that's so, I am sure! Of course he is rich, and I shall not need to be a governess—"

"My dear child, how you talk! You quite bewilder me! You forget what a big place Australia is. There may be hundreds of Tracys there. And your father always believed his brother to be dead. To be sure, he went off in a huff, and perhaps wished his relatives to think him dead. His name was Ralph. There were only the two children—your father and he. They were early left orphans, and were brought up by their grandfather. I believe there was some jealousy between them. At any rate, there was a quarrel, and Ralph took himself off; but I never heard the particulars. Your father did not care to speak about it."

"Oh, mother, I can't help thinking that it is my uncle who has returned! How I wish he would make haste and look us up! I could snap my fingers at Hannah and Salome if I had a rich uncle to defend me."

"Just so. Quite incorrigible. I shall consider it my duty to inform Mrs. Campbell that I shall not make an exemplary instructor of youth."

Mrs. Tracy glanced quickly at Juliet. She caught a gleam of mischief in her eyes that caused her some misgivings. How would the child behave on the morrow? But she took no notice of Juliet's words. She wished to avoid all reference to the interview arranged for the morrow. She was fearful lest anything should be said that might throw Juliet into an intractable mood. So she did not attempt to check the girl, when she presently launched out into glowing descriptions of what their life might become on the advent of the rich uncle. Castle-building is undeniably an amusing diversion, and we learn soon enough the unsubstantial nature of the airy structures we rear.

Juliet's mood had changed by the next morning. She had no longer any hope of something wonderful happening to brighten the horizon of her future. Her spirit rebelled more than ever at the thought of the hated inspection to which she was to be subjected in the afternoon. She was petulant and irritable in her speech, looked at times very cross, and at others exhibited a mischievous glee accompanied by that wicked gleam in the violet eyes which had already caused her mother uneasiness.

"You will be careful to dress yourself neatly," said Salome to her, when she was about to prepare for her visit. "So much depends upon the first impression."

"You need not be afraid," returned Juliet, with sparkling eyes, "I mean to be very careful as to the impression I make."

There was little fault to be found with her appearance when she came down a few minutes later. To her mother's eyes she had never looked prettier. Salome scrutinised her carefully from head to foot; but gloves, boots, gown, all were neat. Salome's disapproving glance fell on the unruly locks which showed in soft, flossy confusion beneath the wide Leghorn hat which so charmingly became the fair, young face.

"Can't you make your hair a little tidier?" she asked. "It seems frizzier than ever to-day."

"No, I can't," said Juliet, giving her head a shake which made the wayward golden curls stand out farther from her brow than before. "My hair is just part of myself, and I cannot alter it. Most people find my golden locks admirable."

"There, you look very nice, dear!" said her mother fondly. "Run away now; you must not keep Hannah waiting, or you will miss the train."

Mrs. Tracy and Salome stood side by side at the window and watched Hannah and Juliet as they walked to the gate.

"No, indeed, poor dear!" responded Mrs. Tracy, with feeling. "You look much more suited for it," she added, not without a touch of satire.

But Salome was unconscious of the satire. She received her mother's words as complimentary. She prided herself on the extreme simplicity of her dress, and the contrast it presented to the general mode. She liked to think that she was not as other women. To her the word fashionable appeared quite synonymous with sinful. She believed the attitude she maintained towards the world and its fashions to be indicative of a superior mind and character. It cost her no self-denial to refrain from wearing pretty things, for she had little taste for these; nor did it pain her to be considered odd. She had her reward in many a glow of self-esteem, many a proud, complacent reflection upon her own heroic, martyr-like fortitude.

Juliet had little to say, as she and her sister walked to the railway station. She responded so briefly to the remarks made by Hannah that the latter concluded she was "sulky."

As soon as they had taken their places in the train, Hannah, who had a horror of wasting time, unrolled a copy of the "Educational Times," with which she had provided herself for this opportunity, and read intently till the train stopped at Hampstead station. Once or twice she glanced at Juliet, who had seated herself at the farther end of the compartment, which they had to themselves. Juliet appeared to be absorbed in contemplating her gloves. Hannah was shortsighted, and she failed to see that Juliet's right hand held a tiny penknife, with which she was carefully opening the seams of the glove on her other hand just at the tips of the fingers. Nor did she observe that Juliet afterwards gave some attention to her boots.

The house for which they were bound was at some little distance from the station, and Hannah experienced difficulty in finding the way. She was anxious to be punctual to the hour Mrs. Campbell had named, and as she hurried along, she gave little heed to Juliet; but she was aware that whilst she was growing worried and impatient, Juliet's mood had taken the reverse change. Her sulkiness had vanished. She took an amiable interest in her sister's perplexities, spoke brightly, and even made humorous observations on the persons and places they passed—a sure sign she was in a good humour. Hannah marvelled, but congratulated herself on the transition.

They reached the house very little behind time. As she stood on the doorstep and rang the bell, Hannah turned to make a critical survey of Juliet.

"Why, Juliet," she exclaimed, in a tone of dismay, "there's a button gone from the front of your frock! How very careless of you to come out like that!"

"So there is!" said Juliet. "And it has not been off long," she added, raising her hands to the spot where the loose threads hung, and examining it with an air of scientific interest. The action brought her gloves full into Hannah's view, and she exclaimed in horror as she saw their condition—

"Juliet, how could you put on such gloves? I declare there is every finger showing! They are perfectly disgraceful."

"Now you mention it, they do look rather bad," said Juliet, as though the idea would not have occurred to her unprompted.

"Bad!" The opening of the door cut short Hannah's indignant utterance. There was no help for it; retreat was impossible now. Hannah had to compose herself as best she could, ask for Mrs. Campbell, and follow the neat parlour-maid across the hall to the drawing-room, with a mortifying conviction that the coming interview must prove a failure. What had her mother and Salome been about, not to see that Juliet started properly equipped?

"My dear Juliet, do sit with your back to the light, and keep your hands out of sight as much as possible," Hannah admonished her when the servant had left them to themselves.

"Really, Hannah, I don't think that would be fair to Mrs. Campbell," Juliet replied, with provoking, gravity. "I came here that she might inspect me, and she has a right to see me in the best light."

She seated herself as she spoke opposite to a window with her feet well exposed to view. With fresh consternation, Hannah perceived that two buttons were missing from her left boot.

"Dear me," said Juliet, as Hannah pointed it out, "it is strange how buttons will sometimes come off!"

Before Hannah could say another word, Mrs. Campbell entered the room. No woman could bear herself with more dignity and self-possession than Hannah was wont to display; but now her usual self-possession deserted her. Her sense of shame at the appearance Juliet presented made her nervous and almost shy. She half suspected that Juliet had deliberately planned to discomfort her thus, and she was in absolute dread as to how her young sister might comport herself during the interview. What could she venture to say, whilst Juliet sat by with that mischievous light in her eyes, and that innocent—all too innocent—expression of the rosy mouth, the meaning of which Hannah knew but too well? Never had she felt herself in a more uneasy position.

Mrs. Campbell was a graceful little woman with pleasant manners. Her blue eyes had a very keen, alert expression, and Hannah felt sure that she took in at the first glance the glaring defects of Juliet's attire.

"I could have sunk through the floor with shame," she said afterwards, when describing her sensations to Salome.

"This is surely not the sister of whom Miss Tucker wrote to me," she said, turning to Hannah. "She looks far too young to be a governess."

"Indeed! I should hardly have thought you were seventeen," she said, looking with a smile at Juliet. "Are you fond of children?"

"No, I am not," said Juliet frankly. "To be sure, I never have had much to do with them, for I am the youngest at home; but I do not think I should like them."

"That is unfortunate," said Mrs. Campbell, looking puzzled; "then what made you think you would like to teach?"

"I don't think it," replied Juliet; "I must tell you candidly that I hate the idea, and I do not think that I am in the least fitted to be a teacher. It is my sisters who wish me to be a governess. They think I ought to earn money."

Hannah flushed crimson. "Juliet," she protested, "you are not fair to us in putting the case so. We are anxious that Juliet should find something to do," she explained, "because we are sure she would be happier if she had regular occupation. Of course I do not mean you to understand that it is not of importance to us that she should help to maintain herself, but I am sure our main desire is for her good."

"Certainly, certainly. You are quite right. It is well for girls to have something definite to do," said Mrs. Campbell. She could sympathise with the elder sister in her embarrassment, but Juliet had still more of her sympathy. She was charmed by the girl's prettiness and amused at her audacity; but, as a governess, she put her out of the question at once. "Still, I think it a mistake to try to force inclination," she continued. "If your sister has no fancy for teaching, would it not be better for her to try something else? I am strongly of opinion that no one should attempt to teach who does not feel a true vocation for it. Now I must own that my little girls are so high-spirited and so little disposed to learn, that I should feel afraid to entrust them to one who did not truly love children, and feel some enthusiasm in teaching them."

"Of course; I can quite understand that after what has passed you could not feel otherwise," said Hannah, rising to go.

But at that moment a servant entered with tea, and Mrs. Campbell gently insisted that her visitors must take some ere they went away. Each would gladly have gone at once. Juliet's momentary sense of triumph was past, and she was feeling ashamed of the part she had played. She felt that she had acted meanly by Hannah. Moreover, her self-respect was sorely wounded, and her cheeks burned with shame as she was obliged to display her very untidy gloves, whilst Mrs. Campbell, with charming courtesy, waited on her and supplied her with tea and cake. For Juliet had the instincts of a lady, although she had chosen to act in defiance of them that afternoon.

Hannah said nothing for some minutes after they had left Mrs. Campbell's house. She was feeling so indignant that she hardly dared trust herself to speak.

"You need not fear, Juliet, that I shall ever come on such an expedition with you again," she said at last, bitterly. "This is the first, and it shall also be the last."

"You might have told me," continued Hannah, "that you meant to make it impossible for Mrs. Campbell to engage you. You need not have placed me in such a humiliating position."

"I said nothing but what you knew perfectly well before," returned Juliet. "I thought it right to be candid."

"I never knew before that you disliked children," said Hannah. "I have seen you play with the little Hayeses as if you were quite fond of them. You have thrown away an excellent chance. I believe Mrs. Campbell was inclined to like you."

"You have no right to speak so, Juliet. I am sure there is nothing I would not do for you; but you must remember that if people wish to be loved they should be loving. When do you try to please me or Salome? You simply delight in vexing us."

"Then I must be a happy mortal, for it seems very easy to vex you," said Juliet.

Hannah attempted no retort to this shaft of satire, and for the rest of the way home they maintained silence. Though she held her head high and affected the utmost indifference, Juliet was feeling rather out of spirits as they came in sight of The Poplars. To her surprise she saw a hansom cab standing at the gate.

"Who can have come?" she asked. Then, clasping her hands in sudden glee, "Oh, if it should be my rich uncle!" she cried, and hurried into the house.

"Gently, Juliet," she said; "there is a gentleman in the drawing-room with mother. See, this is his card. I suppose he is some relative."

"Mr. Ralph Tracy! It is he! It is my rich uncle!" she cried, and tearing off her gloves and throwing them from her, she hurried to the drawing-room door.

"Stay, Juliet!" exclaimed Salome, as soon as she was aware of her intention. "You must not go in unless mother sends for you."

CHAPTER VII

JULIET walked impetuously into the drawing-room, and gazed with frank curiosity at the stranger who sat there talking earnestly with her mother.

He was not at all the big, florid, prosperous-looking man she had expected to see. He was of slight build, and so thin as to be almost cadaverous. His head was bald, save for a fringe of iron-grey hair at the back; he had sharp features, and keen though rather sunken eyes. He spoke hoarsely; his clothes were good, but of a precise, old-fashioned cut. He was seated with his back to the door, and Juliet, as she approached, had time to notice these details ere her mother uttered her name and the stranger rose.

"So this is Juliet?" he said, looking at her with evident admiration. "I am happy to make your acquaintance, my dear;" and as he took the hand she offered him, he bowed over it with old-fashioned courtesy.

"Juliet," said Mrs. Tracy, who was looking much pleased and excited, "this is your uncle, your father's only brother, whom everyone thought was dead."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Juliet, in clear, ringing tones. "I am very glad that everyone was wrong. How delightful to have an uncle!"

"It is very pleasant to hear you say so," said her uncle, looking intensely gratified; "and, for my part, I am ready to say, 'How delightful to have such a niece!'"

His face had a very agreeable expression as he spoke. His eyes, if keen, were kindly, and had a humorous twinkle. Juliet looked at him, and felt that she should like him.

"It is but lately I have learned that I might claim so precious a possession," continued Mr. Tracy. "Strange to say, I never heard of my brother's marriage nor of his death till quite recently, chance brought to my remote Australian dwelling a gentleman who had formerly been in your father's regiment. He told me that he believed my brother's widow and child were living somewhere in London. I pondered the news for some little time ere I made up my mind to come home. I had grown weary of a lonely life; the reasons which had led me to cut myself adrift from all who had known me in the Old World no longer existed. Perhaps I was wrong in acting as I did, but I thought myself justified at the time. However, there is no need to dwell upon that now."

Mrs. Tracy manifested no indiscreet curiosity. She judged it best the past should remain in obscurity. An attempt on her part to explore its mysteries might result in bringing to light facts concerning her husband, Captain Tracy, which it would be painful to learn.

Juliet, too, had no desire to learn more of her uncle's history than he was disposed to tell. She was interested in him for various reasons, but not at all in his past. It was not strange that he should display considerable interest in her; that seemed to her only what was to be expected. She received his flattering attention in the most unabashed manner, wondering that he was so old-looking, and so unlike the portraits of her father she had seen.

"I have been married, but my wife is dead," was his reply. "I had a little daughter, too, but she died."

He spoke with an effort; evidently it was painful to him to speak of himself. He was one who shunned rather than sought sympathy, but he was very ready to ask questions concerning his sister-in-law and her child. Juliet was soon chatting away to him, and giving him abundant information concerning herself in her usual outspoken way.

He inquired wherein the horridness of the afternoon consisted, and Juliet proceeded to give him an amusing description of her interview with Mrs. Campbell. He could not help laughing as she told the story. Even Mrs. Tracy had difficulty in keeping a grave countenance—a fact which robbed of all effectiveness the reproofs she felt bound to deliver.

"I am afraid she would not make a model governess," said Mr. Tracy to her mother, as he wiped away the tears that laughter had induced.

"I am afraid not," said Juliet, with a resigned air; "but a governess I shall be, if Hannah and Salome have their way."

Mrs. Tracy, with some embarrassment, explained the existence of her two elder daughters.

He listened, and looked at Juliet with new interest. Was this pretty young creature, then, in the position of a Cinderella, tyrannised over by elder sisters, whose hearts were as ugly as their persons? Well, he would see if he could not act a part similar to that of the fairy godmother. A little later he rose to go, and was not to be persuaded to remain longer in order to make the acquaintance of Hannah and Salome.

"Another day I shall hope to have that pleasure," he said. "Now I must be getting back to my hotel. The truth is, I am somewhat of an invalid, and have to diet myself very carefully, so that I am obliged to decline all hospitable invitations."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Tracy. "Are you thinking of consulting any of our London physicians while you are in town?"

"By no means," was the reply, given with more energy than he had as yet displayed. "I have no opinion of modern physicians. If by the time he is forty, a man has not learned to understand his own constitution better than anyone else, it is a pity. Health is mainly a matter of diet; the flesh-consuming propensities of humanity are a fertile source of disease."

"Well, yes—I suppose I am," he said, and then, with his usual aversion to discussing himself, abruptly changed the subject.

"Take care of that pretty child of yours," he said, lowering his voice; "and don't let there be any more talk of making her a governess: she is far too young for that. I will see that she has what she wants. I am not a rich man, but I can so provide for her that there shall be no need for her to earn money."

"You are very kind, I am sure. It is too good of you!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, with a flush of surprise and pleasure.

But to be thanked was apparently even more alarming to Ralph Tracy than personal talk, and Mrs. Tracy's thanks caused him to hurry from the house with all speed.

Mrs. Tracy half hoped that Juliet had not heard her uncle's parting words, but her quick ears had caught their purport, in spite of his lowered tones.

As his cab drove away she rushed into the dining-room and pirouetted wildly round the table in her delight.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Juliet. "My rich uncle has come, and there is to be no more talk of my being a governess. He said so himself; I heard him. Mrs. Campbell may get me now if she can!"

"You forget," said Hannah, "that Mrs. Campbell very distinctly declined to engage your services."

"Thereby showing herself a sensible woman," said Juliet. "Oh, I am so glad! I feel just crazy with delight!"

"And you act as if you were crazy," said Salome, as she stitched vehemently at a garment she was finishing for the Dorcas Society.

"Well," said Juliet, with a sigh of intense satisfaction, "there is some chance of my getting a little of my own way now."

"Who would have thought of such a thing?" said Mrs. Tracy, as she entered the room, her face radiant with happy excitement. "My husband's brother! And I hardly knew that he had a brother! Indeed, when first he mentioned him to me, he told me he felt sure that he was dead. It is most strange!" And sitting down, she described very vividly the interview with Mr. Ralph Tracy, and repeated all he had said.

It did not strike her that her elder daughters listened with little interest. She was too thrilled and elated herself by what had happened to mark how it affected these others; but Hannah and Salome were painfully conscious of being out of it all.

The event of the afternoon was nothing to them; it was not their uncle who had presented himself in this remarkable manner, and Hannah felt bitterly that Juliet, who deserved to be severely reprimanded for her conduct at Mrs. Campbell's, would now escape without even a reproof. She had no right to the wild delight she was exhibiting. Hannah's common-sense withheld her from introducing the subject of Juliet's misdoings at this moment. She knew that her mother was in no mood for discussing them, and it would be wisest to pass them over in silence.

But none the less, Hannah resented the light-heartedness Juliet was displaying. Would it always be thus? Would the girl never be made to feel the consequences of her flagrant wilfulness? It seemed so. It appeared as if life were to be made exceptionally smooth and easy for Juliet's feet. There was to be no further thought of her being a governess or earning her own living in any way. And Hannah, who had worked very hard all her life, first as a schoolgirl, ambitious of distinction, and later as a painstaking, conscientious teacher, unconsciously felt aggrieved at the contrast which the lot of her young sister seemed to present to her own.

"Juliet will get her own way in everything now, you will see," she remarked to Salome that night, as they were going to bed.

"She has had it pretty much already, I think," said Salome. "Do you mean that she will gain her desire of becoming a public singer?"

"I was not thinking of that especially," said Hannah, startled by the suggestion. "I devoutly hope that may not be the result; but nothing would surprise me. It is possible, however, that her uncle might object to such a career for his niece."

"He said he was not a rich man," replied Hannah; "but since he volunteered to provide for Juliet, I presume that his means are not straitened."

"Well, I hope this may prove for Juliet's good," said Salome, with a dubious air, "but I cannot help thinking it would be better for her to have to work."

"Indeed it would. She is far too idle and frivolous as it is. I don't know what she will become when she has nothing to do but to please herself."

"I would not change places with her," said Salome. "Idleness is a great temptation. I am more than content with my life of hard work."

But, in spite of their wise words, perhaps neither of the sisters was absolutely free from envy, as they contemplated the good fortune that had befallen that spoilt child Juliet.

CHAPTER VIII

IN the days that followed, Hannah's prophecy respecting Juliet seemed to find its fulfilment. She certainly did win her own way in everything, and with as little effort as possible. If her uncle were not a rich man he was a very generous one.

Juliet had but to express a fancy for anything, and, if it were in his power to obtain it, he got it for her directly. He literally showered gifts upon her. Juliet had charmed him at the moment of their first meeting, and the fascination increased as he saw more of her. It was delightful to think that she was his nearest relative, and that he had a better right to care for her and protect her than anyone else except her mother. Naturally a man of warm and affectionate disposition, his years of solitary, self-centred life had left him with a heart still so tender that it found exquisite delight in ministering to the pleasure of "the child," as he constantly called her, forgetting, as so many did in regard to Juliet, that in years she was no longer a child.

Mr. Tracy had named so liberal a sum as the extent of his provision for the child's frocks and personal expenses; that Juliet could now indulge freely her taste for pretty dress. She spent most of the early days of her freedom as a young lady who had "left school" in visits to the West End shops, accompanied by her mother, to whom the business of choosing gowns, millinery, and various of the latest dainty trifles designed for girls' summer wear, afforded scarcely less pleasure than to Juliet. It gratified Mrs. Tracy intensely to see how pretty her darling looked when arrayed in these; but Salome's face was very grave when she saw the parcels opened and the dainty clothes displayed. Such an outlay on finery appeared to her most extravagant, whilst it must tend to foster Juliet's vanity. Mrs. Tracy was driven to defend herself, in response to the accusation she read in her daughter's looks.

"There is surely no sin in wearing pretty clothes, Salome?" she said. "At Juliet's age it is but natural to take delight in them. One can be young but once. You might sympathise with her a little."

"I can't help seeing what these things may lead to," said Salome. "Don't ask me to encourage her vanity."

Juliet's shopping was by no means entirely for self. She was anxious to purchase for her mother more things than she was willing to accept. One day a charming little bibbed apron struck her as just the thing for Salome to wear when engaged in domestic duties, and she bought it for her.

But when she gave it to her, Salome looked doubtfully at the cream lace and crimson bows, and said, after a moment's hesitation, "It is very kind of you, I am sure, Juliet, but—I should not know myself in that be-ribboned thing. You had better give it to mother."

And Juliet, sorely stung, vowed that she would never give Salome a present again.

On the following Sunday morning, Juliet stood at the dining-room window waiting till her mother was ready to accompany her to church. Hannah and Salome had already started. It was the first Sunday in August, and oppressively hot. On Tuesday, Salome was to travel north with the Hayeses; Hannah would start for Cambridge on the following day, and Juliet and her mother hoped to leave for North Devon two days later. Through Mr. Tracy's liberality they were to have a more enjoyable change than they had anticipated. He was taking the greatest interest in their plans, and even talked of joining them at Lynton a little later.

Juliet had arrayed herself all in white, and was looking delightfully fresh and cool. She was enjoying the inward satisfaction produced by her consciousness that every adjunct of her attire was in faultless taste. It is to be feared she was not indifferent as to the effect her appearance was likely to have on those who saw her in church. As she stood at the window, she observed with some curiosity the church-goers who were passing.

"Mother," she said, as Mrs. Tracy came into the room, slowly putting on her gloves, "come and look at Dora Felgate. She has a new pink gown. It is very smart, and it suits her because she is so dark. She and her sister have done their hair in the new way. I don't think it suits Dora; but she always likes to be in the latest fashion. Ah! There is Mr. Ainger coming out of his house and hurrying to overtake them. Yes, now he is speaking to them. Oh, how he is smiling at Dora! Ha! Ha! How foolish it is of Salome to think she can attract him by dressing in that dowdy fashion! He does not admire plain gowns and deaconess bonnets. He likes girls who dress à la mode."

"You naughty child! You shall not talk in that way," protested Mrs. Tracy. "Salome does not dress to attract Mr. Ainger."

"Oh, does she not?" said Juliet, with mischief in her eyes. "Then I should like to know why she persistently makes such a guy of herself."

"It is not fair to call Salome a guy," said her mother; "those small, close-fitting bonnets are very becoming, I think. And you know that your sister spends as little as possible on dress, in order that she may have more to give away."

"And yet when I offered her an apron for nothing she would not take it," said Juliet.

Among those who cast admiring glances at Juliet's pretty, fresh attire as she followed her mother up the aisle of the church was Flossie Chalcombe. She had come to church indeed chiefly for the sake of seeing Juliet. They had hardly met since their school term ended. There had just been one brief opportunity, of which Juliet had availed herself to tell Flossie the wonderful news that the rich uncle had indeed appeared, and her life was delightfully changed in consequence.

Flossie was longing to know more. Now, as she observed Juliet's graceful, distinguished appearance, she noted that new clothes were among the agreeable results of the uncle's coming. There was envy as well as admiration in Flossie's eyes as she scanned every detail of Juliet's neat, perfectly fitting costume. Flossie's own gown was far gayer, but, as she knew well, it was not in such good style as Juliet's. Flossie loved fine clothes. She regarded with absolute reverence everything that could be described by her favourite adjective, stylish. She could seldom gratify as she would her own taste in this respect. Her father was at once lavish and mean. Money was often scarce in their extravagant, ill-ordered household.

Flossie had no regular allowance for dress, but had to coax and cajole her father into giving her money as she wanted it. If he were in a good humour, he would perhaps give her more than she expected; but more often, he gave her less than she wanted, so that she was driven to run up bills unknown to him, reckless of the storm she must face when they had to be settled. As she had no idea how to lay out money to the best advantage, and generally bought the first thing that struck her fancy, her wardrobe was full of sharp contrasts, and her appearance seldom presented a harmonious whole. The effect of a good gown would be marred by shabby boots, or that of a fashionable and expensive hat by a cheap and ill-cut jacket. In spite of all her efforts, poor Flossie did not, as Juliet's sisters were so keenly aware, look like a lady. There were times when she was dimly conscious of this herself. Such a twinge of painful consciousness visited her now, as she watched Juliet looking so cool and at her ease in the gown which became her so well.

"Enter not into judgment with Thy servant, O Lord." The voice of the clergyman, who was commencing the service, broke in upon her thoughts. Oh, if God were to judge us according to the vain imaginings, the petty cares we suffer to absorb our minds when we profess to worship Him, where should we stand?

At the close of the service, Flossie watched for her opportunity, and as Juliet stood alone at a little distance from the church waiting for her mother, who had lingered to speak to an acquaintance, she approached her.

"How awfully nice you look to-day, Juliet! I never saw you in a more becoming frock. If Algernon could see you now, all in white, he might well call you an angel."

Juliet started, coloured, and looked round in some alarm, for Flossie had not thought it necessary to lower her voice.

"Hush, Flossie! I wish you would not speak in that way. I am not an angel, or anything like one."

"Now you need not be cross. I meant no harm. You do look charming, and I think a poor unlucky creature like me might be allowed to admire the way in which you act the role of the rich heiress."

"Heiress indeed! What nonsense you are talking! I am no more an heiress that I am an angel."

"Rubbish, Juliet! You need not try that on with me. Of course your uncle means to leave you all his money."

"If he does, I am quite unaware of his intention; nor has such an idea even occurred to me before," said Juliet disdainfully, whilst the colour deepened in her cheek.

"Well, I am sure your friends would be only too glad if he did. Algernon was saying yesterday how fitted you were to grace any position. He says he is glad for your sake; but he can't help feeling that he shall never see you now. You will forget your old friends."

"You do not know me, Flossie, if you say that," replied Juliet, with flashing eyes; "I never forget friends—I am faithful, whatever else I may be."

"Of course you are. That is what I told him. You are a darling, Juliet. There is no one like you. You are not to be tried by ordinary rules."

Juliet felt impatient of this flow of adulation. She looked back, and saw her mother coming alone.

"I must go back and meet mother," she said; "I cannot let her walk home alone. Good-bye, Flossie; I shall see you again, I hope, when we return from North Devon."

So they parted. On the opposite side of the road Hannah and Salome were walking with Mrs. Hayes. Juliet met them as she turned back. Her eyes flashed defiance at her sisters. Mrs. Hayes looked at the girl with hard scrutiny as she bowed to her. She was of opinion that Juliet was not a nice girl.

The following Sunday found Mrs. Tracy and Juliet at Ilfracombe, delighting in the grandeur of that rocky coast and the magnificent sea that beats against it. They had not had such a holiday together for years, and they enjoyed it most thoroughly. Mrs. Tracy was still young at heart; she was, in many respects indeed, far younger than either Hannah or Salome, and she quite enjoyed the novelty of wandering about, taking irregular alfresco repasts, driving in a donkey-carriage when the distance was beyond her walking powers, and almost living out of doors during the glorious August weather. From Ilfracombe they went to Lynton, and there Juliet's uncle joined them.

In spite of his thin, cadaverous appearance Mr. Tracy seemed strong and wiry. He was ready to accompany them on any excursion they liked to plan. He had no objection to picnics, as long as he was not urged to forsake his own regimen. When Juliet and her mother ate sandwiches with the relish imparted by strong, pure air, he would allow himself only the refreshment of two Abernethy biscuits and an acid drop, the latter item being, as he would gravely assure Juliet, safer and better as a thirst-quencher than a draught of water, when one could not be sure that that was absolutely uncontaminated.

Juliet was greatly amused by his fads, which happily he did not try to persuade her to follow. But Mrs. Tracy was rendered quite uneasy by them.

"I cannot think how he sustains life on so little," she would say. "He need be thin. It is a wonder he is as well as he is. What a profit they must make out of him at the hotel!"

Juliet was content to leave her uncle's health to his own care. He must please himself. But she liked him exceedingly, since he showed himself more and more charmed by her pretty ways, and more and more desirous of gratifying her every fancy. With him, she was never wayward and petulant, but only sweet and winsome and mischievous. Instinctively she showed him the best side of her character; and, as her sisters were wont to remark, Juliet could be very nice to people when she chose.

One lovely evening, the three were walking along the romantic cliff path at Lynton, which commands such a glorious view of sea and sky, and terminates at the Castle Rock. Juliet's quick steps had carried her a little in advance of the others. She was singing little snatches of song to herself, and was only half conscious of the beauty about her, for her mind was busy weaving golden visions of the future, when round a bend of the narrow path, she came face to face with a stranger so suddenly that she started and uttered a nervous cry.

"Oh, I am so sorry I frightened you!" said the gentleman in concern; and he put forth a hand to steady her, for the cliff was very precipitous at that point, and she seemed perilously near the edge.

Then as she looked at the grave, kind face bent upon her she had a puzzling sense of recognition. Where had she seen before that broad, overhanging brow, those deep-set grey eyes,—gleaming now with a kind of pleased surprise, as if he too saw a face not unknown,—and those strong, rugged features?

Her uncle's voice gave her enlightenment. "Why, Mainprice!" he exclaimed, hurrying forward. "Who would have thought of seeing you here?"

Of course. This was Mr. Mainprice, the curate, who through his chance meeting with her on the green near Flossie's home had been able to direct her uncle where to seek her. She had often heard Mr. Tracy speak of him since, and knew that he held this young clergyman in high esteem.

"I might reply in similar fashion," said Mr. Mainprice, as they shook hands. "I have come down from town on my bicycle. I like touring in that fashion, as you know."

"To be sure. Well, it is healthy exercise. But now let me introduce you to Mrs. Tracy and my niece, whom you were the means of my finding. We feel that we owe you a debt of gratitude for that, do we not, Juliet?"

"Oh, I do not feel that I deserve any gratitude. You would have found each other sooner or later in any case."

"Then I am happy that I was the cause of your meeting when you did," he said with a smile, which Juliet decided made him look quite handsome.

Mr. Mainprice was easily persuaded to turn back with them, and they all walked on together towards the Castle Rock. Juliet did not talk much at first. She was occupied in observing Mr. Mainprice and listening to what he said. She liked the frank, easy manner in which he talked and the sound of his deep, strong voice.

"I am going to the top of the rock," cried Juliet, as they approached the tall, rugged mass of rock, which like a castle surmounts the crag and fronts the sea.

"Oh, do be careful, my dear child!" cried Mrs. Tracy anxiously, as Juliet started to clamber up.

"I will see that she comes to no harm," said Mr. Mainprice, as he hastened after her.

With an air of relief, Mrs. Tracy seated herself on a rock to await Juliet's return, and Mr. Tracy remained with her.

To step from rock to rock by a kind of rude stairway to the top of the pile was a matter of little difficulty, and Juliet would have none of Mr. Mainprice's help.

To stand on that lofty summit and gaze down on the waves beating so far below would have severely tried weak nerves; but Juliet had a steady head, and enjoyed the novel sensation of being perched on the crag. Both seaward and landward a glorious prospect offered itself to their view.

"Oh, I like this!" cried Juliet gleefully, as she struggled with the breeze which threatened to carry away her hat. "What a lovely view! And what a glorious wind! If only I had wings and could soar away on it! Oh, how happy I am!"

"Is it?" she replied, looking at him mischievously. "I should rather have expected you to say it was good to be miserable. Salome thinks so, I know."

"Oh, my sister," she said, without deeming it necessary to explain further. Then she added impetuously, "If I am happy, I owe it to you. I was not happy till uncle came."

"No?" he said, amused at the childlike way in which she gave him her confidence. "How was that?"

"Oh, my sisters were always trying to make me do what I did not want to do. They meant me to be a governess, and I hated the idea. But now uncle has come, there is no thought of that. He lets me have my own way in everything, and I do just as I like."

"Yes," said Juliet, giving her head a little nod, "that is my idea, and a very good idea it is too."

"I do not agree with you. You are under a delusion. What you are grasping after as happiness is not happiness, but only its empty shadow."

"Then I am content with the shadow," said Juliet. "I have tried having my own way, and I like it very much."

"It will not satisfy you long," he said. "Nothing betrays and disappoints like self-will. There is no peace for us till we learn that God's way and not ours is the best, and learn to seek that rather than the gratification of our own desires."

"God's way!" So he wanted to talk religion to her. She had forgotten that he was a clergyman.

"But I am not sure that I care about peace," she said perversely; "to me the word has rather an insipid sound. I am afraid I enjoy strife and excitement. I dread nothing more than stagnation."

He smiled at her, much as he might have smiled at a wayward child. Then he pointed to the distant stretch of ocean shimmering in the sun's level rays.

"Look," he said, "at the sunlit sea, at that bank of cloud flushed with softest crimson, and the yellow glow where the sun is just sinking to the horizon. What an air of calm and hush there is! Does it not all breathe peace? Yet there is no stagnation there."

She did not answer him, but gazed in silence at the western sky, till slowly the colours faded and sea and clouds grew grey. Then she turned and began to scramble quickly down the rocks. She did not speak again till she was by her mother's side.

Though Juliet resented Mr. Mainprice's attempt to "talk religion" to her, his words had gone home. She could not forget them.

That night, after her uncle had gone away, she lingered alone in the little garden attached to the house in which she and her mother were lodging. It was growing dusk. Already stars were appearing in the clear sky above her head. A light breeze rustled the trees. Behind her lay the vast, mysterious moor. In front, far down beneath the trees, out of sight, but making its presence known by the low, distant moaning of its waves, was the sea.

All about her God's great, wonderful world. What a poor, insignificant atom she seemed in comparison! Did it matter so very much how she lived?

"Yes," the voice of her better self made answer, "it did matter. It must be better to take God's way, even if it seemed steep and hard, for it would lead upward."

And her own self-chosen, pleasure-seeking way, where would that lead? Juliet had a distinct sense of being called at this hour to make a choice. She could clearly see the two ways opening before her, one easy and pleasant and winding, the other straight and steep. A struggle went on within her. The yearning for goodness she had felt before awoke again. Oh, to have an inner life as pure and serene and beautiful as the summer, night! Oh, to know that all was right with her life, to feel that a Power outside herself, a Power as loving as it was mighty, was leading, guiding, controlling all!

Juliet's better self had almost gained the day, when there came to her the thought of Salome. Could she become such a one as Salome, so harsh and censorious, wearing such plain, ill-fitting clothes, denying herself all amusement, walking in so straight and narrow a way?

No, anything but that. And self-will asserted itself anew. She could not try to alter herself. She must follow her own way, whatever it might lead to. So self-will gained the day, and Juliet hurried into the house, determinedly closing her mind against serious thought.

Salome, with all her blindness and self-deception, was yet sincere in her endeavour to do her duty and lead a Christian life. How she would have grieved, could she have known that her austerity had driven Juliet at this critical moment of her life from the loving Saviour, whose image she, who called herself His disciple, had so utterly failed to reflect!

CHAPTER IX

Juliet's eyes brightened. She leaned nearer to her uncle as he sat in his easy-chair, and laid her hand with a pretty caressing movement on his shoulder. Such spontaneous expressions of affection, which she gave with the grace and freedom of a child, were delightful to him. His niece was spending the day with him at the comfortable chambers in Bloomsbury in which he had established himself when he returned to town in the autumn. He lived there very quietly, spending much of his time amongst the books in the British Museum; but it was an understood thing between them that when Juliet came to see him he must devote himself to her entertainment, and he thoroughly enjoyed the hours he spent with her in sight-seeing and other forms of diversion.

"Oh, uncle, there is such a lovely concert at the Crystal Palace this afternoon. Adelina Patti is to sing. Oh, I should so like to hear her!"

"Never. I have never heard anyone. I never go anywhere," said Juliet plaintively. "Hannah and Salome always think it wrong to take any pleasure and I cannot go to places by myself."

"Poor child! You are hardly used," said her uncle, with a merry twinkle in his eyes; "but now let me hear more about this concert. How would it do if I were to take you?"

"Oh, uncle! Will you really? How lovely! There is nothing I should like so much. Oh, it is good of you. And afterwards the fountains will be illuminated, and there will be splendid fireworks. Oh, I shall enjoy it!"

"But, my dear, if we stayed to see the fireworks, you would not get home till very late, and your mother would be alarmed," said her uncle.

"Oh, of course, I must send her a telegram," was Juliet's prompt reply. "And there is a little room, half-way up the stairs, which Mrs. Carroll lets sometimes. She showed it to me the last time I was here. The best plan would be for me to sleep there to-night. You would not care to take me home so late."

Assuredly he would not. But was there ever such a little puss for getting her own way? How quick she was to foresee and provide against every objection that might be made to that which she proposed!

So to the Crystal Palace they went that afternoon. The popular resort of Londoners was a novel place to Juliet, and it was many years since Mr. Tracy had visited it. They were able to see a good deal of its beauties ere it was time to take their places for the concert. Mr. Tracy did not mind paying a handsome price for the tickets, and they could not have had a better position than they secured.

It was an excellent concert. The prima donna sang beautifully, and, to Mr. Tracy's delight, she sang simple old English ditties, which he had known and loved from his boyhood. He listened entranced to her exquisite rendering of these, and was scarcely less rapturously delighted than was Juliet.

But the instrumental music which followed had much less attraction for him, and whilst it proceeded his eyes wandered over the audience or marked such details of the finely proportioned building as came within their range. As he gazed about thus, he suddenly became aware that a young man, who with a couple of companions occupied comfortable seats to the right above their heads, was leaning forward with his opera-glass levelled at Juliet, and regarding her with a persistency which quickly excited her uncle's ire. Juliet soon became aware of the gaze fixed on her. She looked up, and her face flushed as she recognised Algernon Chalcombe. When he was aware that she saw him, he dropped his opera-glasses and looked at her, awaiting her recognition. She smiled and bowed; he bowed in return, with such a look of pleasure that Juliet's heart beat high with elation. But her uncle had observed these salutations with little pleasure.

"Yes," Juliet replied, with lowered eyelids; "I went to school with his sister."

Her uncle made no further inquiry, but he continued to regard the young man with disfavour. It struck him that the handsome dark face had a dissipated appearance, and that he looked too much of a fine gentleman to be the genuine article. Mr. Tracy wondered if it were indeed a diamond which flashed conspicuously on the young man's hand.

Juliet did not again turn her pretty head towards the seat where young Chalcombe sat, but she was aware, without seeming to be so, that his opera-glasses were often directed to the spot where she sat. Her uncle observed it also, and felt enraged with the fellow for his impudence.

When the concert was over, Juliet and her uncle took a walk in the grounds. Juliet spoke with rapture of the concert, and the delight with which she had listened to Adelina Patti.

"I do know," she responded excitedly. "It must be a splendid life. Think what it is to stand before such an audience and know that every eye is on you, everyone admiring you and listening spellbound to your voice. Did you hear that gentleman behind us say, when she had finished singing 'Home, sweet home,' that he should think she would make home sweet?"

"Humph," said her uncle slowly, in the tone of one who will not utter all his mind; "I daresay it seems very fine to you, my dear, but you speak in ignorance. Such women are far from being so happy as you suppose. You see the glamour and glitter, you hear the applause, but you do not know what lies behind—the heartache and jealousy and bitterness."

"Oh, of course there are drawbacks," said Juliet loftily; "but that is the kind of life I should like."

"My dear, I hope that yours will be a far happier lot. I do not like the idea of a public life for a woman. Home is the woman's true sphere."

"Oh, uncle, excuse me, but that is a terribly old-fashioned idea—quite an exploded one, in fact. A woman has as much right to make a career for herself as a man. For my part, I have no wish for a happy lot, if it must be a humdrum and commonplace one. I want to live."

"So you shall, Juliet, but not by acting or singing in public, I trust. You must be patient, and wait till the prince comes who shall reconcile you to a home life."

He turned to Juliet with a smile on his wrinkled, parchment face, and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

But a disdainful frown sat on that young lady's brow, and she responded impatiently, "Really, uncle! Do you think I want to be married? I assure you that is the last thing that enters into my aspirations for the future."

He felt himself snubbed, and was silent. He was beginning to find his young niece somewhat of a puzzle, and even a perplexity. She did not agree with the notions of womanhood which he had held all his days, without ever harbouring a doubt of their truth. The wife whose early death was the most bitter grief of his life, had been a gentle, loving, domesticated woman, who had had no ambition beyond that of performing in the best possible manner those duties of her sex which he believed to be the whole end and aim of womanhood!

At first, he had been highly entertained by Juliet's self-will and audacity. He had observed them with amusement, as we watch the wilfulness of a tiny child or the frolicsomeness of a kitten. They seemed but childish failings which she would lose as she grew older. But to-night, for the first time, he felt misgivings as he thought of Juliet's future. He had already adopted her in his heart as a daughter. He had confided to her mother his intention of leaving Juliet all that he had. Now, however, he reflected that the command of money might be a fatal gift to one so pretty and young and wilful. He remembered with uneasiness the young man whom he had seen watching Juliet so intently. Yes, money might make her the prey of a worthless fortune-seeker. He must weigh the matter well, lest inadvertently, he did harm instead of good to the girl he loved.

Not only was Ralph Tracy his own medical man, he liked to be his own lawyer as well. It vexed him to think that the simple will which he could have drawn up himself would hardly meet the necessities of the case. To secure the property to Juliet, and protect it from unscrupulous hands, it would be necessary to make careful provisions. He hardly knew if he were equal to framing them himself, but ere he called in the aid of a solicitor, he would have a try at it, with the help of sundry large books crammed full of legal information which was often very hard to digest.

Such was Mr. Tracy's resolve, but he did not immediately proceed to carry it out. He found it more agreeable to let the thing slide for a while. It is curious how reluctant most men are to make provision for the event of their decease.

Yet he was really uneasy about Juliet when he retired to rest after their return from the Palace. He was so troubled, indeed, that he could get little rest. He could hardly have slept worse or had more frightful dreams, had he supped intemperately on beef-steak, instead of on the very thin cocoa and dry biscuits which were all he permitted himself.

And Juliet too passed a restless night, but the dreams which visited her broken slumbers were of another order. One gay scene followed another in her visions. There was laughter and singing and applause, and ever she was the gayest of the gay, the most admired of the admired, the cynosure of all eyes. She was singing before the Queen in Buckingham Palace, and the Princess of Wales was advancing to present her with a huge bouquet, when the postman's loud knock resounding through the house woke her to the consciousness that it was only a dream.

When she came downstairs an hour later, her uncle had long finished his frugal meal, and was leisurely studying his newspaper. He laid it aside when she entered, and talked to her as she ate her breakfast. Juliet would talk of nothing but the concert. When she had finished her meal, she sat down at the piano, and began to play snatches of the melodies she had heard. Although she had made little progress under Salome's tuition, Juliet had a fine ear for music. Presently she broke into a good old song, which was a favourite with her mother, "The oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree."

Her uncle listened with pleasure. The familiar words recalled to him vividly the days of his early manhood. When she ceased, he thanked her warmly, and not without emotion.

"That song carries me back over many years," he said. "Ah, you cannot think what it is to be old, and to have the scenes of your youth come back to you like dreams. You have a very nice voice, dear; I like to hear you sing."

"I am glad you like my voice," Juliet said; "but it needs training sadly. I want some good singing lessons. I am trying to save money to pay for them."

"You need not save money for that, Juliet. I will pay for the lessons. Why did you not speak to me about it before?"

"How could I, uncle, when you have already done so much for me? You are too good, indeed!"

"Nonsense, child! I only want to see you happy. Of course you shall have lessons, if you wish for them."

"Oh, uncle, you cannot think how happy you make me! You don't know how I have longed for lessons!"

"Then you shall certainly have your heart's desire, though that does not invariably bring happiness. All, that reminds me of a sermon I once heard Mr. Mainprice preach about the heart's desire. It was very good. I wish you could have heard it."

"Don't wish that," said Juliet; "I do not like Mr. Mainprice, and I probably should not have liked his sermon."

"Not like Mr. Mainprice!" exclaimed her uncle, in astonishment. "You surprise me, Juliet. Why, he is one of the best men I know. Indeed, I do not know another young man like him—so good and earnest and strong in every way."

Yet it was not true that she disliked Mr. Mainprice, as in her perversity she chose to declare. Her real feeling for him was far removed from dislike, but she disliked to recall certain words she had heard him utter; she wished to avoid thinking of the man whose rare personality had so impressed her that the very thought of him had the force of a condemnation.

Her uncle looked at her in amazement for a moment; then he leaned back in his chair smiling, as one smiles at the quaint sayings of a child.

"I know enough," she returned. "In books they always die young, and it is the best thing they can do."

"It would be a sad thing for the world if that were always the fate of the good young men," said her uncle, smiling. "You are talking nonsense, you foolish child, and you know it. Nothing is of so much importance as a man's character. What he does, or what he has, are trifles in comparison. I see that more and more clearly as I grow older. What is a man worth to God? That is the supreme test of his life's value."

But her uncle's thoughts had taken a turn Juliet had no wish to pursue. She hastened to bring them back to the subject which so greatly interested her.

"As soon as it can be arranged," he replied. "Where can we find a good singing master for you?"

"That is a good deal to say for the man," observed her uncle; "how do you know that he is the best?"

"I have been told so by people who understand all about music," said Juliet, colouring. "Of course there must be many good masters in London; but Signor Lombardi is the one of whom I should like to learn."

It was Algernon Chalcombe who had advised her to secure, if possible, lessons from Signor Lombardi, of whom he had spoken as a first-class teacher, and one who had assisted to train and introduce to the world various musical stars, Algernon himself being one of the number.

"Very well," said Mr. Tracy good-naturedly; "Signor Lombardi it shall be. But remember this, Juliet," he added more gravely, "I will not for a moment countenance the idea of your becoming a public singer. You must study to develop your talent for your own pleasure, and the pleasure of others with whom you are thrown in your home and in society. Anything beyond that is out of the question for you."

"Very well, uncle; I understand," said Juliet demurely, but her little foot as it tapped the ground would have betrayed her impatience to a keen observer. She felt that it would be unseemly to argue the question now, when her uncle was behaving so generously to her. She could only acquiesce; but if Mr. Tracy imagined Juliet's acquiescence to mean that she had renounced her cherished desire, he was making a great mistake.

That very afternoon, a visit was paid to Signor Lombardi at his rooms in Argyle Place. Fortunately he was "at home," and at liberty to see them for "three minutes only," as he was careful to explain.

The signor was a big, flabby-looking Italian, with fine dark eyes and very courtly manners. At first, it appeared that his time was so completely filled up that it was quite impossible he could take another pupil. But when he had tested Juliet's voice his manner became more expansive, and it then seemed just possible that he might be able to find half an hour for her in his busy week. He went so far as to admit that Juliet's voice was good, though so untrained that he was unable to say how it would develop.

Mr. Tracy hastened to explain that his niece was to study merely as an amateur. The signor bowed gravely, and said that this was a pity, since such a voice had great possibilities. He was then persuaded to name his terms, which were so high as rather to stagger Mr. Tracy.

But Juliet's pleading eyes were not to be resisted. He could not go back from his word. So the fees were paid, and Juliet's name was enrolled as one of Signor Lombardi's pupils. Juliet went away convinced that the signor had thought her voice a remarkable one, that he had been no less struck with her personal appearance, and that he thought it an immense pity that her uncle's old-fashioned prejudices should prevent her from winning the renown she would be certain to achieve if she made her début as a public singer.

When Juliet, on reaching home that evening, told gleefully the story of her uncle's latest act of kindness to her, Hannah looked across the tea-table at Salome with eyes which plainly said, "I told you so."

CHAPTER X

JULIET had now her own way to an extent of which a little while before she could hardly have dreamed as possible.

She should have been very happy, one might think. But human happiness does not consist of anything external, and it will not come even with the realisation of all one's desires. And Juliet would have said that she was far indeed from such an attainment. No acquisition satisfied her. She was ever reaching after something beyond. Her uncle's indulgence had the effect of making her more of a spoilt child than ever. Restless, petulant, and perverse, she was constantly working herself into a fever over something or other. She continually destroyed the peace of the household by her irritability and impatience.

Sometimes her mother would be reduced to tears by her conduct. When Juliet saw her thus grieved, she would be filled with contrition, even to self-loathing. She would overwhelm her mother with tender caresses and loving words. She would make many promises of amendment, and as long as the remorseful feeling lasted she would be quite gentle and docile in her ways. But, alas! The softened mood was never of long continuance. The old spirit would soon assert itself, and the wilful determination, to take her own way at any cost, rule her actions again.

Signor Lombardi's words seemed full of encouragement and even of flattering prophecy. But after a while, he began to criticise and correct with some sharpness. One day, he exhibited the utmost impatience because she did not play properly the accompaniment of her song.

"I did not undertake to teach you the A B C of music," he remarked, in scathing tones.

Juliet came home in despair, and cried bitterly as she told her mother about it. Mrs. Tracy persuaded her to ask Salome to help her in mastering the difficult accompaniment. Juliet's pride hated the idea of asking such help of Salome, but her dread of receiving a second rebuke from her master was even stronger than her pride. She humbled herself, and made the request of her sister.

Salome consented, but with a bad grace. She tried to improve the opportunity by showing Juliet how much she had missed by not continuing to study music with her. There is nothing more aggravating than some people's "I told you so. I knew you would regret it when it was too late."

Juliet could ill brook such comments, and the music lesson ended in a storm of recriminations which did not conduce to the harmony of the household.

Mrs. Tracy had accompanied Juliet when she went to take her first lesson of Signor Lombardi. On the following week, too, she went with her; but when the day for the third lesson came one of her severe headaches made it impossible for Mrs. Tracy to go out. She was at no time strong enough to bear much of the excitement and fatigue going about in London. She hoped that one of Juliet's sisters would be willing to accompany her. Salome at once declared that it would be impossible for her to go, since she was expected at a Dorcas meeting that afternoon, and Hannah looked annoyed at the suggestion, and said it would be very inconvenient for her to go, though she did not refuse to do so.

But when Juliet heard the question raised, she at once settled the matter in her own way. "I want neither Hannah nor Salome," she said. "I will go alone. There is no reason in the world why I should not. Other girls went about in London alone. It was a foolish and exploded notion that girls needed always to have a duenna. I have no patience with it. I hope I know how to take care of myself. I hate to be treated as a child."

To her mother, it seemed that many girls might be better trusted to go about alone than Juliet. Not that she doubted her daughter's discretion. But the girl was so pretty and striking-looking, she was certain to attract attention wherever she went, and might possibly be subjected to impertinence. But it was vain to argue the question with Juliet. She was bent on doing as she liked, and from that day she went alone to take her singing lessons.

On the second occasion of her going alone, she met Algernon Chalcombe on the platform of the station at which she took the train for the suburb in which she lived. It was impossible to avoid greeting him, had she been disposed to do so. His face was radiant with pleasure as she shook hands with him.

"This is a happy chance for me, Miss Tracy. What a lucky thing that I missed the earlier train! Let me relieve you of this."

And he took from her the portfolio of music she was carrying. The next minute, as the train came up, he opened the door of an empty compartment, and when she had entered, stepped in also.

"You have been taking your singing lesson, I see. Do you always return by this train?"

"When I can catch it," said Juliet. "Sometimes I am detained, and arrive just in time to see it gliding out of the station."

"A most aggravating experience. It was mine a quarter of an hour ago. I felt savage at the moment; but now I am awfully glad that I missed that train. It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Tracy."

Juliet's face flushed. It was pleasant to hear him say it, pleasant, though somewhat embarrassing, to meet the look that was in his dark eyes. He was certainly a very handsome man. The fashionable and faultless style of his dress had its influence on Juliet's impressionable mind. He was a "perfect gentleman," she told herself again.

And Algernon Chalcombe was observing her with new pleasure. He had been charmed with her prettiness when he had seen in her only a "little schoolgirl." It had been amusing to flirt with her without any serious intention. But now she was no longer a schoolgirl. She was a very charming young lady, beautifully dressed, and currying herself with an air which made people as they passed her involuntarily turn to look at her a second time.

Moreover, if his sister were right in her conjectures, Juliet Tracy was an heiress, a fact which had considerable importance for Algernon Chalcombe, whose life was spent in a constant endeavour to win money without the trouble of working for it. He now yielded himself with pleasure to the fascination which Juliet exerted over him, and determined that he in his turn would fascinate her. It did not appear difficult to do this. That there would be serious practical difficulties in the way of his wooing, he was well aware, but he had little doubt of ultimate success, since he was not wont to be troubled with delicate scruples in the prosecution of his purposes.

"Yes," Juliet answered, with some hesitation, "I think he is a good teacher, but so severe. Sometimes I despair of ever pleasing him."

"Oh, you must not despair," said Algernon; "his severity is just the highest compliment he can pay you. He is severe with you because he sees that you are worth taking great pains with. If you had only mediocre talent, he would be far less particular with you."

"That explanation is highly gratifying to my vanity," said Juliet, with a laugh. "I wish I could lay the flattering unction to my soul."

"You may indeed, for it is true," he replied. "I happen to know, for Signor Lombardi was speaking to me of you only the other day. You know that he and I are old friends."

It was impossible for Juliet to help looking at him with eager, questioning eyes, though she was too proud to put a direct question.

"I asked him how you were getting on," said Algernon, responding to her look, "and he said you were doing well."

"Did he?" exclaimed Juliet, in tones of delighted surprise. "Now, why could he not have told me that?"

"It is not his way, I suppose. But it is a fact that he thinks very highly of you. He says you have a beautiful voice, so clear and flexible. He thinks you might do anything with such a voice."

"You must," he said. "With such a voice it will be a shame if you are not one of these days the prima donna."

"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Juliet, with sparkling eyes. "What a lovely idea!"

Then suddenly, the light went out of her eyes. "It is impossible," she said, dropping her voice. "They would never let me. Uncle has the greatest objection to a public career for me. And mother is almost as bad."

"But surely you will not always be bound by their prejudices?" he said. "Your life is your own. They have no right to spoil it for you. Nothing can be impossible to one of your spirit and determination."

"Perhaps not," she said softly. "Certainly I manage to get my own way, as a rule."

"Of course. You ought always to have your own way. And you will, too. I have not a doubt of it."

"Decidedly I shall try for it," said Juliet, with a little laugh. "I shall not lightly give up my wish, you may be sure."

Juliet came into the house that evening wearing so bright a look that her mother felt sure she must have had a very pleasant lesson.

But when Juliet was questioned about it, she could not say that her master had given her much encouragement. "And yet I do feel encouraged somehow," she added, with a sunny smile.

It was delightful to hug to herself the secret assurance that Signor Lombardi thought she might "do anything" with her voice. The vagueness of the prophecy did not detract from its value. It rather enhanced it, by giving wider scope to the imagination.

But when on the following week, she again presented herself for a lesson, there was nothing in the signor's manner to suggest that he so highly esteemed her musical gift. He found little to praise and much to condemn in her performance, and it was with a sigh suggestive of weary relief that he finally dismissed her.

Juliet would have felt out of heart but for her remembrance of what Algernon Chalcombe had told her. To her surprise, she again encountered that young man at the railway station. It now appeared that he had an engagement which brought him into town on this day every week, and would involve his travelling home by the same train as Juliet.

Juliet hardly knew whether she were glad or sorry. She was nervous lest anyone of her acquaintance should see her as she sat talking with Algernon Chalcombe. She experienced many a throb of uneasiness, as she thought how her mother would feel if she saw them thus together. Yet Algernon made his company so agreeable to her, that she could not regret having met him. He talked to her again of her voice, and was able to recall various other laudatory remarks Signor Lombardi had made concerning it when talking to him in confidence. And Juliet's vanity drank eagerly of the cup of nectar thus presented to it.

After this, Algernon Chalcombe never failed to meet Juliet on her return from Kensington. Juliet's conscience was uneasy under what seemed so much like a clandestine arrangement. She had never concealed anything from her mother before, and she had burning sense of compunction and shame, when her mother, in her gentle, loving way, questioned her as her journey to and from the West End.

Yet she had no difficulty in defending her conduct to herself: She could not help meeting him. Her mother had never told her not to speak to him. She knew that she had seen Flossie's brother on the day she went to their house. She could not help greeting him, if she saw him. It was impossible to be rude to people.

And since he was travelling by the same train, what harm could there be in their sitting together of exchanging a few words as they went along? Of course, the prudish minds of Hannah and Salome would be shocked; but she did not care what they thought.

But, though she professed to herself not to care, it is certain that Juliet was in the habit of looking anxiously for her sisters' forms on each suburban platform at which the train stopped, and that she experienced relief at not seeing them.

One day her conscience so troubled her, that she purposely lingered on her way to the station, that she might miss the train by which Algernon Chalcombe was in the habit of travelling. But when she came on to the platform, ten minutes after the train had started, Algernon still stood there. He came up to her with the air of one who is sure of his welcome.

"Do you not know what the hope of seeing you is to me?" he whispered. "Surely you must understand that it is the one event of the week to me, and I cannot bear to miss it."

Juliet could not reply. She had felt vexed that he had waited for her, and she wanted to tell him that he must not do so again. But she could not say that or anything now.

She turned aside to hide her blushes, and encountered the hard gaze of Mrs. Hayes, who, accompanied by her husband, was stepping out of the train which had just come into the station. Juliet shrank back so dismayed that she had not the presence of mind to attempt any salutation in response to that hard stare. She hoped that Mrs. Hayes had not seen Algernon Chalcombe speaking to her; but something in that lady's manner seemed to demonstrate that she had perceived that Juliet had a companion.

Juliet took her place in the train, and Algernon seated himself beside her. She hardly knew what he was saying as the train rattled along. She was too thrilled and excited to listen. There was something intoxicating for her in the idea that this clever, handsome man was in love with her, and depended on her for his happiness. It was delightful to feel that she had such power. The very thought of love made her breath come more quickly, and her pulses throb. How could she doubt that her heart responded to the sentiment she had inspired?

Juliet parted from Algernon Chalcombe hurriedly at the station where they alighted. She would not let him walk with her in the neighbourhood of her home.

She hastened home with her mind in a whirl of excitement. She was wildly elated. She believed herself to be very happy. Her thoughts went forward into the future, but they took no definite form. She did not dream of marrying Algernon Chalcombe. She had already decided that domestic life was far too humdrum for her taste.

Her visions of the future did not include dreams of home happiness. No, she could only picture herself a renowned prima donna, adored by the public, which would delight to scatter bouquets, laurel wreaths, and costly gifts in rich profusion at her feet. But it was pleasant to imagine amidst the crowd of admirers, who had not yet revealed themselves, this one devoted lover, himself a favourite of the music halls, who would be closely bound to her by the spell of her personal magic, who would count himself happy to serve her, and be ready to obey her every behest, whilst content to live upon such crumbs of kindness as she might choose to throw to him. It was not a role which would have suited Algernon Chalcombe in the least; but what did Juliet know of his true character?

It is easy to smile at the folly of an ambitious girl's wild imaginings; but is there not something pathetic too in such ignorant, blind forecasting of the future? Poor childish Juliet, giddy and elated, was treading the very verge of a precipice without the least notion of the chasm which yawned below. And those who might have saved her from it were unconscious of her peril, and, all unwittingly, were urging her nearer and nearer to the fatal brink.

CHAPTER XI

IT was a cold, gloomy day towards the end of the year. Juliet, in the worst of her many possible humours, was lounging in an easy-chair by the fire, a yellow-backed novel in her hand. Her eyes looked dull and heavy; there was a flush on her cheeks that was not caused by the heat of the fire, and when she spoke her voice was very hoarse. She was suffering from a severe cold on her chest, which, much to her annoyance, had prevented her from taking her singing lesson as usual on the previous day.

Her mother, who sat with her knitting at the opposite side of the fireplace, glanced at her from time to time with an air of concern. She would have been much better in bed; but Juliet had absolutely refused to remain there.

"I do wish you would not look at me so, mother, every time I cough!" exclaimed Juliet, impatiently. "You need not think I am going to die just because I cough a little."

"My dear child, how you talk!" said Mrs. Tracy. "I only long to relieve your cough. Would you drink a little black currant tea if I made you some?"

"Oh, mother, don't worry me; you know how I hate all those decoctions. If only you would leave me alone."

And Juliet lay back wearily in her chair and took up her book again. It did not interest her particularly. Nothing interested her to-day. She was causing her mother a great deal of trouble; but she was far more troublesome to herself, and that not because her head ached, her chest was sore, and she felt ill all over. There was an inner discomfort that was far worse than her physical ailments. In her inaction, thoughts pressed upon her from which she would gladly have escaped. Her novel, exciting though the plot was, could not drive them away. Her own life-story was more absorbing to her at this time than any romance that human imagination could conceive. She found herself forced to review certain of her past actions, and to ponder their probable consequences.

Conscience had somewhat to say concerning these, and its remonstrances irritated her, though she would not own them to be well-founded. Then would come thoughts that were at once sweet and fear-inspiring' and visions of the future which sent the blood coursing more rapidly through her veins, and heightened the fever with which her whole frame was throbbing.

Her mother, watching her as she tossed from side to side of the big chair and breathed many a deep-drawn sigh, half divined that the restlessness was mental as well as physical. For several weeks, she had felt instinctively that her child was keeping something from her. It gave the mother's heart intense pain to think that Juliet was withdrawing her confidence, bus she would not attempt to force it. She waited, hoping and believing that Juliet would soon of her own accord confide to her whatever it was that troubled her.

"There are your sisters," said Mrs. Tracy, as the sound of the house door being opened by a latch-key reached her ears.

Juliet muttered something unintelligible. She had reasons of her own for not welcoming the return of Hannah and Salome, who had been taking afternoon tea with Mrs. Hayes at the rectory.

The next minute they entered the room; Salome rigidly neat in her deaconess-like dress, and Hannah well but soberly dressed, and looking very big, strong, and imposing in her warm mantle and velvet bonnet.

"Well, dears," said Mrs. Tracy, in her cheerful tones, "have you had a nice time?"

"I cannot say that it has been particularly pleasant," replied Hannah, in her distinct, deliberate utterance. "We are later than we thought we should be; but Mrs. Hayes asked us to stay a little while after the others had left. She had something to say to us."

It seemed to Juliet that Hannah looked at her as she spoke with peculiar significance in her glance. The immediate effect of the glance was to drive the girl into irritable speech.

"Why can't you shut the door after you when you come into a room, Salome?" she demanded. "There is a most frightful draught coming to me."

"You should have stayed in bed, if you feel every current of air so," said Hannah. "The room is already a great deal too warm to be healthy. Ah, I thought so," she added, as she consulted a small thermometer hanging against the wall, "seventy degrees! That is a great deal too high."

"I don't care whether it is seventy or eighty," muttered Juliet, "I mean to be warm. Oh, mother, don't fidget with that screen!" she exclaimed impatiently, as Mrs. Tracy tried to adjust the screen behind her chair so as to shelter her more effectually. "I do wish you would let me have a little peace."

"You are very ungrateful, Juliet," said Salome, as Mrs. Tracy moved quickly back to her place with a look of pain on her face; "mother has been doing nothing all day but wait upon you, and that is how you speak to her!"

Juliet hated herself for her impatient utterance as soon as it had passed her lips. But her sense that it was deserved did not make her less disposed to resent Salome's injudicious speech.

"It was your fault that mother rose to move the screen," she retorted, "for you left the door open. We were comfortable enough till you came in."

The heavy double knock of the postman resounding through the hall afforded a welcome diversion. Salome went out quickly, to find what he had brought. She came back into the room with two letters in her hand. One she gave to her mother; the other, after scrutinising the address with a deliberation that aroused Juliet's ire, though for once she deemed it wise to restrain, she handed to Juliet.

The girl's colour deepened as she looked at it. It was but too evident that the air of indifference with which she thrust it into her pocket and turned again to her novel was assumed.

"What book are you reading, Juliet?" asked Hannah, bending forward to read the title on its back. "Oh, how can you waste your time reading such rubbish?"

"Utter trash, if not worse," said Hannah. "I hate to see such a book in our house."

"I am afraid there can be little good," said Hannah. "What a pity you do not read something more elevating! I wish I could persuade you to join our society."

"I thank you," said Juliet drily; "I have not the least desire to do so. This kind of reading is quite solid enough for me. I find uncle's theory with respect to a light diet excellent when applied to the mind."

At this moment, Mrs. Tracy looked up from the letter she was reading to exclaim, "Oh, Juliet! Your poor uncle! He is very ill. Mrs. Carroll has written to tell me so."

"Mother!" And the next moment Juliet was by her mother's side, and eagerly trying to read the letter.

It was the letter of a person to whom the inditing of an epistle was a rare and difficult undertaking, and it told its story with much circumlocution and apparent irrelevance. Its purport, when at last they succeeded in grasping it, was to this effect. Some days earlier, Mr. Tracy had been caught in a heavy shower, and had taken a severe chill. But he had refused to keep his bed, and had spurned all the remedies which Mrs. Carroll's wisdom could suggest. He grew steadily worse, but would not own that he was ill. Even when he was obliged to keep his bed, he would not allow his landlady to send for a doctor, or to acquaint his friends with his condition. But to-day he was so much worse as to be unconscious, and Mrs. Carroll had taken upon herself the responsibility of summoning a medical man; and now, having with some difficulty discovered Mrs. Tracy's address, she wrote to inform her of his illness.

"What a pity she did not telegraph!" said Hannah. "But these uneducated people always do such absurd things."

"I expect she was afraid of frightening me," said Mrs. Tracy. "It is very alarming, you know, to be summoned by telegram."

"She should have telegraphed to me," exclaimed Juliet excitedly; "I would have gone to uncle at once. I could have persuaded him to have a doctor. What will you do, mother?"

"My dear child, that is out of the question. With such a cold on your chest, I would not have you go out for the world."

"I shall accompany you, mother," said Hannah, in her calm, deliberate manner. "It is not fit you should go alone. Already it is dark."

"Oh, thank you, dear," said her mother gratefully. It was good in moments of agitation and uncertainty to lean upon Hannah's strong, practical sense.

They went away to get ready, and Juliet sank on to a chair, coughing with renewed violence. She was really distressed to think that the kind old man whom she had learned to love, whilst laughing at his foibles, should be so ill.

After a little while, Salome slipped out of the room, and went upstairs to exchange a few words with Hannah in private ere she quitted the house.

"Shall you tell mother what Mrs. Hayes told us?" she inquired, with some eagerness.

"Certainly not," replied Hannah; "she has enough to worry her now without that. You, of course, will say nothing to Juliet about it. Mother must hear it first."

"That will depend upon circumstances," said Hannah sententiously. "We do not know what to-morrow may bring forth."

"Do you know," said Salome, "I believe the letter which came for Juliet just now was from that Chalcombe girl. I saw her writing once in a book she lent Juliet, and I feel sure the writing on that envelope was the same."

"Very likely," said Hannah; "it was clear from the haste with which Juliet pocketed the letter that she did not wish us to know anything about it."

"You will take care of her, Salome," she added, addressing the daughter who had followed her into the room. "See that she has something hot when she goes to bed."

"If she will let me," said Salome; "Juliet is not generally very ready to take my advice."

"I shall go to bed immediately," said Juliet, her manner plainly showing that she thought an evening in bed preferable to one spent in Salome's company.

"That will be the best thing to do," said her mother quickly. "Good-bye, darling. You must think of your poor uncle, and pray for him. If I find him very ill, I shall probably stay the night, but Hannah will come back to tell you how he is."

So Juliet, subdued and saddened, went to bed, her thoughts following now a sombre and melancholy channel, very different from the thrilling fancies of an hour ago. She even forgot to read the letter which she had thrust so hastily out of sight when she saw that the writing was Flossie Chalcombe's.

Hannah returned home at night without Mrs. Tracy. She brought a gloomy report. Mr. Tracy was suffering from acute pneumonia, and the medical man who had been summoned so late to his bedside could hold out no hope of his recovery. The scant regimen to which for many years he had limited himself, had not built up a constitution which could well resist the attack of such a disease, even if it had not been left utterly unassisted at the commencement of the assault.

Juliet was distressed when she heard the news, and she lay awake for a long while that night thinking of her uncle. She could not bear the feeling of emptiness in the room, which her mother usually shared with her. She hated to sleep there alone, but not for the world would she have asked Hannah or Salome to bear her company; and it never occurred to either of them, though they saw that their young sister was really very poorly, to offer to do so.

For all her apparent courageousness, Juliet was not endowed with iron nerves. Every faintest sound that reached her ears during that night caused her to shake with nervous terror. When at last she fell asleep, she dreamed that her mother was dead, and awoke crying bitterly. The utter stillness in the room seemed to confirm the impression of her dream. Juliet longed for the morning to dawn, but fell asleep again as she watched for it.

When she woke, it was daylight, and a brighter morn than London often knows at this season of the year. The sun was shining: there was frost upon the windowpane. It must be very cold outside, and all the snugger and more inviting in consequence appeared the soft warm bed. Since no one urged her to do so, Juliet decided that she would remain in bed. Perhaps by to-morrow, her horrid cough would be better.

The brightness of the morning inspired her with hope. After all, her uncle might recover. He was not such a very old man. Doctors were often mistaken. Anyhow, she would not give up hope yet. And her thoughts took a cheerful range.

Suddenly she remembered Flossie's letter, which she had never opened. She sprang from her bed to find it; then nestling again comfortably amidst the pillows, she opened it.

To her surprise, the letter enclosed in the envelope was not from Flossie, but from Algernon. Her cheeks burned as she read it. He wrote to tell her how distressed he was at not meeting her on the previous day, and to implore her to let him know if she were ill. It was a lover's letter, though the feeling it expressed was conveyed rather by delicate insinuation and covert suggestion than in plain words. Juliet's heart beat quickly; she trembled with excitement as she read it. Her vanity was flattered by the homage so subtly offered. There were passages which she read and re-read, putting ever more and more meaning into each vaguely turned suggestive phrase.

She was half frightened at his audacity in writing to her, yet could not wholly dislike it. She should certainly tell him that he must never write to her again. But meanwhile it was sweet to hold this—her first love-letter—in her hand and dwell upon its words. It was pleasant to know that she had such a lover. All the morning the letter lay beneath her pillow, when it was not in her hand. She liked the manly style of the handwriting, so utterly different from Flossie's feeble flourishes. It was not easy to read, indeed; but even that seemed as it should be to Juliet then. She racked her brains to devise a safe hiding-place for this treasure. No eye save hers must ever look on it, yet she could not bear to tear it up. If she ventured to put it in one of her drawers, her mother's hand might some day light upon it; and Juliet shrank with a painful sense of shame from the very thought of such a possibility.

As she was pondering this difficulty, her uncle's sad condition for the time forgotten, Salome entered the room with a telegram in her hand. As she advanced to the bedside, her grave, solemn look told the nature of the news she brought ere she opened her lips.

Juliet glanced at the brown sheet, read the few words it contained, and dashed it from her. Then she threw herself face downwards on the pillow, drawing the coverlid well over her head. So Salome left her; but looking back ere she closed the door, she knew by the heaving of the bedclothes that Juliet was sobbing violently.

Some hours later, Mrs. Tracy came gently into the room, and approached the girl's bedside. Quietly as she entered, Juliet recognised her step, and turned her head. It was a sad, troubled young face that looked up from the pillow. As she met her mother's gaze the tears gathered anew in her eyes.

"You must not grieve, dear," said her mother gently. "His end was very peaceful."

"I must grieve!" cried Juliet bitterly. "I shall always grieve. It is too horrible to think that if—if only we had known before, it might have been prevented. That horrid Mrs. Carroll!"

"Come, come. You must not be too hard on Mrs. Carroll. She acted according to her light. She did not know what to do better."

"To think that he should die," sobbed Juliet, "just as we were beginning to know and love him—we, who never had anyone belonging to us before! And he was always so kind—and—and—to think that I shall never see him again. If only I had known when I was there a fortnight ago, that I should never see him again!"

"Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Tracy, "it is one of the saddest things in life, that we do not know when the last times are. Your uncle was conscious for a moments ere he passed away. He spoke of you. He, said, 'Give my love to Juliet, and tell her to be a good girl.'"

"Oh, mother," cried Juliet, sobbing bitterly as she threw herself into her mother's arms, "that is just what I never can be! Everything is against my being good."

"Nay, nay, dear. Everything is for us, when we seek to do right. All the powers of the spiritual world—God Himself is on our side, and what can withstand God?"

CHAPTER XII

DEATH had surprised Ralph Tracy ere he had found time to settle his property upon Juliet for her sole and entire use under conditions which, should she marry, would prevent her husband from having any control over it. Despite his wise foresight and prudent resolves, Juliet came into absolute possession of all he had left, untrammelled by any provisions.

It was no great fortune. Her uncle had never been a wealthy man. He had always been generous to others, though extremely sparing in his personal expenditure. It was only by strict self-denial that he was able to serve others liberally, and lay up a provision for his old age. His rigorous mode of life, simple and unluxurious as that of a hermit, had cost little, and he had saved sufficient money to enable him to return to England and resume the life of an ordinary gentleman, with a purse full enough to supply the wants and gratify the fancies of the charming, capricious girl whom he found and claimed as his niece in London.

By his death, Juliet came into possession of moneys that would yield her an income of rather less than five hundred pounds a year. It was not a great inheritance, certainly; yet think what the command of so much money must mean to a girl brought up as Juliet had been, one of a household where every kind of domestic economy had to be rigidly practised; accustomed till lately to wear simple frocks made for her by her mother of material chosen for its good wearing qualities, and expected to serve two seasons, and who till the coming of her uncle, had never enjoyed a day's pleasure of which the cost had not been carefully calculated beforehand.

"I hope it may prove for Juliet's good," said Salome, with a shake of the head which signified that she held a belief to the contrary.

"I am afraid she is hardly one to make a wise use of so much money," said Hannah solemnly.

Mrs. Tracy had some doubts on this score too, but she was not seriously uneasy about it. She had great faith in Juliet's goodness of heart. Juliet's faults were on the surface; but the goodness her mother believed to be a solid, firm stratum at the basis of her character. She could not but be thankful that this darling child was so well provided for.

"We must try to influence her without seeming to do so," she said cheerfully. "Juliet is really not difficult to guide, if you use a little tact and kindness. She not be driven, but she may be led."

"I am glad to hear you say so," replied Hannah, with bitter significance, "for it seems to me that Juliet is sadly in need of guidance with regard to her choice of associates."

And she proceeded to tell her mother how Mrs. Hayes had seen Juliet at one of the metropolitan stations in the company of "that man Chalcombe who sings at music halls," talking together as if they were on most friendly terms.

Mrs. Tracy was inexpressibly shocked and distressed. Here indeed was true cause for uneasiness. Juliet's acquisition of property would be deplorable, if it led her into the toils of an unprincipled man.

"She does not know him, of course," said Salome, with emphasis, "but she knows him to be a fast, dissipated sort of character. She said no one could look at him and fail to see that."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Tracy groaned, "what shall I do? Juliet is always so ready to believe the best of people."

"I must speak to her about it, yet I hardly know what to say. I cannot tell how she will take it. She will not hear a word just now," said Mrs. Tracy, forgetting that a minute before she had asserted that it was easy to lead Juliet. "If only she had a father or a brother to protect her!"

"You must be very firm with her," said Hannah; "you must tell her decidedly that you will not have her meeting that young man, that it is disgraceful, and not to be tolerated."

"And drive her into open opposition to us all," said Mrs. Tracy. "Oh, my dear, that will not do at all. You forget that Juliet will soon be twenty-one, and she has always threatened that she would take her own way when she came of age. And now that she is quite independent—Oh, that would not do at all!"

"It is certainly rather late for mother to begin to be firm with Juliet," said Salome, with an unpleasant curl of the lips.

"The best thing would be to take her out of London for a time, so that she should not see anything of those horrid Chalcombes," said Hannah.

"Certainly it would; but who is to take Juliet away if she does not choose to go?" asked Mrs. Tracy, with despair in her tones. "She would not give up her lessons with Signor Lombardi. And she has announced her intention of attending all the popular concerts this season."

So the family conclave broke up with no result, save increased irritation in the minds of the sisters and a heavy weight of anxiety on the mother's heart.

Juliet was highly elated by the position in which she found herself placed by her uncle's death. Her sorrow at his removal, and the softened, regretful feelings which had moved her when she learned the news, were quickly succeeded by self-gratulation and a new, almost intoxicating sense of her own importance. It was delightful to feel that she was now a woman of property, having at her command the means for carrying out her own ideas, and ordering her life as she would. All sorts of brilliant but vague notions of what she might now do presented themselves to her mind. She hardly knew what she would like to do. One thing only was clear to her mind. It was in her power to have her own way, and have it she would.

With such a resolve stimulating her imagination, she was in no mood to receive meekly a word of remonstrance or reproof, not even from the mother whom she truly loved. She waxed indignant when her mother spoke to her about Algernon Chalcombe.

"It is a pity Mrs. Hayes has nothing better to discuss than my doings!" she exclaimed hotly. "I declare she is a veritable scandalmonger. But I will not have her dictating as to who are to be my acquaintances. I hope I know how to take care of myself."

Mrs. Tracy privately thought that this spoilt child knew very little how to take care of herself, but she dared not say so.

"Mrs. Hayes meant it kindly," she said. "She thought that you could not know the kind of man that he is. She fears that his character—"

"Fears!" broke in Juliet scornfully. "Say rather that she wishes to make him out as black as possible. If you want a fine example of Christian charity, go to Mrs. Hayes. But I shall not allow her to prejudice me against people who, I have no doubt, are far better than she is."

"Oh, Juliet! She does not wish to prejudice you, only to warn you for your good. Oh, my dear, you are so young and impulsive; you never foresee the consequences of your actions. But a young girl cannot be too prudent; she may so easily get herself talked about. You would not like, Juliet, to have people looking askance at you."

A deep blush slowly rose in the girl's face, and mounted even to the roots of her hair. She stood for some moments silent with downcast eyes. Then suddenly lifting her head very high, she said proudly—

"Really, mother, I don't know what I have done, that you should speak to me in such a manner. One would think it was a crime to greet an acquaintance on a London platform."

"Oh, I am sure that you always mean to do what is right," said Mrs. Tracy hurriedly; "only you are rather thoughtless sometimes, you know, dear, that is all. Don't be angry with me."

So the talk on this subject ended with Mrs. Tracy's proffering apologies, and it was the culprit who seemed to extend forgiveness. But in truth, Juliet felt ashamed of herself, as she responded to her mother's loving, pleading look by bonding to kiss her.

As the flush faded from the girl's face it left her unusually pale, and when she spoke again it was to say with a weary sigh—

"Oh, mother, I wish that now I have an income of my own, you and I could go away somewhere and live by ourselves. If only we could have a little home of our own, how nice it would be!"

"And leave poor Hannah and Salome behind?" exclaimed her mother. "Oh, I could never consent to that! Think how Hannah has toiled and denied herself to keep this house together. It would be very unkind to desert her as soon as we found ourselves able to do without her help."

"I suppose it would," said Juliet thoughtfully. "Well, I do not wish to act meanly by Hannah and Salome; but I do long sometimes to get away from them, they irritate me so."

"It will not do to make any changes yet," said Mrs. Tracy, who was naturally averse to change, and always shrank from making a decision on any important matter. "Although you have inherited this money, you will not get it into your possession for some time to come. I did not understand all that Mr. Gray Was saying about letters of administration and the like, but I know that legal processes are always very tedious. Lawyers can never be hurried."

"But I have no doubt Mr. Gray would advance you a sum of money if you wanted it," said Mrs. Tracy, on a sudden thought. "I have been wondering whether you would like to go abroad for a while. You have never been on the Continent."

"Not now," said Juliet decisively; "not till I have finished my lessons with Signor Lombardi. After that, I might go and study at the Conservatoire in Paris. Or in Milan, perhaps; I know he thinks very highly of the instruction there. I can have the best possible training now."

"Oh, my dear, you will not think of becoming a public singer," said her mother imploringly, "when your uncle had such an objection to the idea, when he hated the thought of the people you would mix with, and all the glare and excitement and publicity?"

"I have not said that I intend to become a public singer," replied Juliet coldly. "There is no reason Why I should not have the training of one."

"Oh, my dear, why should you? Surely it would bring you into contact with a very undesirable kind of people. I can't bear to think of it for you, Juliet."

Mrs. Tracy knew almost nothing of the lives of public musicians and the like, but she had a vague notion that they were generally persons of doubtful morals and irregular Bohemian habits. It was appalling to think of her darling Juliet being thrown into such society.

"Undesirable kind of people indeed! Were Beethoven and Mendelssohn, or are Patti and Neilson, undesirable persons? You know nothing at all about it, you absurd little mother!"

But Juliet hardly knew more. Though she still dreamed of herself as a future prima donna, she was becoming very careless and irregular in her music practice. On one day she would practise her scales till the nerves of everyone in the house were distracted, and on the next she would not sing at all. It was now the Christmas vacation, so that these lapses did not immediately bring on her the wrath of Signor Lombardi.

With the suspension of her weekly lessons, her opportunities of seeing Algernon Chalcombe had ceased. Juliet did not regret this. She did not want to see him again. Her cheeks would burn with shame whenever she recalled Mrs. Hayes' remarks.

But the turn of Fortune's wheel which had made her an heiress had opened so many new channels for her imagination to work in, that she gave but few thoughts either to Algernon Chalcombe or to his sister. It was delightful to plan how she would spend the income which seemed to her so ample. She was not without a sense of duty in the matter. She felt that it would be wrong to spend it all upon herself; nor had she any wish do so. No, she would provide every possible comfort for her mother, and, as far as they would let her, increase the happiness of Hannah and Salome; she meant too to be charitable towards the poor, and to give liberally to the collections in church. But, whilst cherishing these intentions, she repelled so decidedly certain suggestions made by Salome that it was little wonder her sisters did not give her credit for such good impulses.

"I hope, Juliet, that now you have so much money you will give me a subscription towards our soup kitchen," said Salome one day. "Our blanket club too is sadly in want of funds. And our poor people are suffering terribly this cold weather. The possession of money is a serious responsibility when there is so much destitution about us."

"I know what I should do if I had money," she said; "I give to my poor people all that I can. No one can say I spend much on myself. I buy no clothes that are not absolutely necessary."

"Most certainly you do not. But you need not think that I am going to spend all my money on myself. I mean to help the poor; but I like to be my own almoner. I don't believe in those societies. I think they are too hard on the poor, with their red-tapeism and over-strict regulations," said Juliet, who was rather fond of giving opinions on matters of which she knew nothing.

But Juliet had no wish to enter into a discussion. She now rose from her cosy chair by the fire, and announced her intention of going out. It was a bitterly cold day, as Juliet felt as she ran upstairs to get ready. In a few minutes she came down comfortably wrapped in her thick, fur-trimmed coat.

As she passed out of the house, she found a pitiable group on the doorstep. A ragged, draggled, wretched-looking woman stood there holding a miserable little baby in her arms. Another tiny child, wasted and rickety, was clutching at her gown, partly supported on its feet by a ragged, hatless girl about eight years old, who looked up at Juliet with what she thought were the saddest eyes she had ever seen.

The woman, in a cringing, whining manner, explained that she had come to ask Miss Grant for a coal ticket.

"Are you very poor?" asked Juliet, feeling as she uttered the question how unnecessary it was.

"Poor, my dear lady! I assure you I've not broken my fast since yesterday. Just look at my gown; look at my boots. They'll tell you whether I'm poor. And as for the children, they're fairly starved, poor dears!"

Juliet glanced at the children, and their blue, pinched faces seemed to confirm the mother's words. The girl's heart was touched. She drew out her purse and opened it. She hesitated but for a moment as she turned over its contents, then held forth to the woman's astonished gaze a glittering gold piece.

"Take this," she said hurriedly; "there, don't say anything, but just take it. You must spend it wisely, you know," she added, as she saw the delighted gleam in the woman's eyes. "Buy food for yourself and the children—food and warm clothes."

"Yes, yes, to be sure, I'll spend it for the children, and God in heaven bless you for it, my dear young lady! They shall know what it is to have a good meal for once, poor dears!"

Juliet glanced again at the children. The eldest child looked startled, but no happier. Her eyes were, if possible, more sorrowful than before. Juliet thought that she could not understand what the money was to do for them. However, she would soon know, and Juliet hurried on her way, pursued by the woman's voluble thanks, and with the happy consciousness of having done a charitable deed.

Juliet had some shopping to do. In the street where the best shops of the suburb were, she encountered Flossie Chalcombe, who generally preferred to walk where there were shops, the windows of which she could scan.

"Oh, Juliet!" she exclaimed delightedly. "What an age it is since I saw you! Why do you never come our way now? I began to think you wanted to drop my acquaintance since you have become so rich."

"I am not rich exactly; but it is true that I have inherited my uncle's property, and shall have a comfortable income of my own for the future," said Juliet, not without a sense of increased dignity.

"Oh, you lucky girl! How I envy you! If you knew how I have to beg and pray to get any money out of father. Things are horrid at home now, Juliet. Algernon and father have quarrelled, and Algie has gone off in a tiff. It was all about money, of course. Algie is so extravagant, and father will not pay his bills."

"I do not know. I have not seen him for weeks. I suppose he is somewhere in London."

"I address a letter to you for him!" said Flossie, opening her eyes widely. "I never did such a thing. Do you mean to say that Algernon writes to you?"

"He wrote once; but I have told him he must never do so again," said Juliet, colouring deeply. "It was certainly your writing which I saw on the envelope, Flossie."

"It was not, for I knew nothing about it. Algie must have imitated my hand; he can copy any kind of writing. How artful of him!"

At this moment, Juliet caught sight of the tall, substantial form of Mrs. Hayes approaching at a little distance. Wishing to avoid a meeting with this lady, she now bade Flossie good-bye, and entered the shop by which they had been standing.

CHAPTER XIII

"Certainly, miss," replied the maid, in the tone of one who resents an unnecessary question.

Salome's colour, always high in tone, had risen considerably. She laid down her work and rose quickly, with a look in her eyes that betrayed nervous excitement. She was alone. Her mother had gone out with Juliet to do some shopping. It was too early in the day for ordinary calls, and Mr. Ainger was not in the habit of paying such. He had never come to the house before and asked especially for her. Of course it meant nothing, but—

Salome glanced at the mirror above the mantelshelf to see if her person were perfectly neat—a needless precaution. Not a hair was out of place on the flat, smooth, shiny surface of her head. Her utterly plain gown was neatness itself. But the eyes that met hers in the glass had an excited gleam. They looked as if they thought something was going to happen.

Mr. Ainger was standing in the centre of the drawing-room. He was a tall man, with large hands and feet, and a very big nose. He had the expression of one who loved investigation.

"Good-morning, Miss Grant," he said, in loud, full tones, shaking hands with her as though he were anxious to get through that inevitable but unimportant preliminary with as much despatch as possible. Salome's heart ceased to flutter, and her spirits sank.

"Oh, thanks." He hesitated for a moment, then dropped into a chair which was not the one she had meant him to take, but one a great deal too low for a man of his stature, in which he sat huddled up with his big nose almost touching his knees. His attitude was so grotesque, that had Juliet been there she would have found it difficult to keep her countenance; but a sense of humour was not amongst the gifts Nature had bestowed upon Salome Grant, and she found no difficulty in maintaining the meek, humble, reverential demeanour which she felt became her in the presence of one whom she regarded as a spiritual guide.

"I want to know if you can clear up a matter which is puzzling me," he said. "I have just come from your district, and I am sorry to say I bring news that will distress you. That woman Malins, who took the pledge only last Thursday, is drinking again."

"Ah," said Salome, sorrowfully shaking her head, "I never thought that she would keep it."

"No? Well, indeed, there seems little hope, humanly speaking, for those who are so enthralled by the passion for drink. But the strangest thing about it is—I am sure I shall surprise you when I say it—that the people in the house where she lives seem to think that it is your fault."

"My fault!" repeated Salome, in amazement. "My fault that Mrs. Malins has taken to drink again! How can that be?"

"I knew I should astonish you," said the curate. "But the fact is, they tell a most curious story to the effect that she came here to ask you for a coal ticket, and that you did not give her a ticket, but gave her instead a whole gold sovereign—yes, those were the words, 'a whole gold sovereign—to buy coal with.'"

"What an amazing statement!" said Salome. "Of course you did not believe it. As if I should give money to Mrs. Malins, to say nothing of the amount, knowing her as I do!"

"It certainly seemed to me most unlike your usual good sense," replied Mr. Ainger. "But they insist on it that she came back from your house with a sovereign in her possession. The woman who lives in the next room declares that she showed it to her, and said that a young lady here had given it to her. Could she have stolen it, do you think?"

"Not here," said Salome, "for she did not come inside the house. I went to the door and spoke to her. I told her she was not entitled to a ticket, and she went away at once. I remember that she smiled broadly at me, and did not seem to mind my refusal. Perhaps she picked up the sovereign in the street."

"Not very likely. I never pick them up; I wish I could," said Mr. Ainger, with a smile. "I asked Mrs. Malins' little girl if she could tell me how her mother got the money, and she said that when they were waiting at your door, a young lady came out and gave it to her, saying she was to spend it on food and clothes. Of course Mrs. Molina could spend it only in one way. She left her children starving whilst she went off to drink, and when she came home intoxicated, and found them crying for food, she beat them cruelly. I think it is a case for the Society for the Protection of Children. But I should like to know the meaning of this story. Could your sister have given her the money, do you think?"

"Decidedly not," exclaimed Salome quickly. "Hannah is the last person to do such an unwise thing." Then like a flash came the thought of Juliet. Could she have done this thing? It was not impossible. There was no accounting for Juliet's freaks.

"Ah, yes, Juliet," said Salome. "I was just thinking that it is not impossible that Juliet may have given Mrs. Maims the money. She is capable of doing the maddest things."

"Don't call it madness," said Mr. Ainger, his manner softening. "It is generosity misapplied. There is something beautiful in the impetuosity with which youth rushes to relieve distress as soon as it is aware of it."

"I cannot call it generosity to throw away a sovereign like that," said Salome, with scarce concealed irritation; "I call it an act of pure folly."

"Oh, you must not be too hard on her," he replied. "We, who are so much older, must learn to make allowance for the thoughtlessness of youth."

Mr. Ainger happened to be several years older than Salome Grant. It was not, therefore, entirely agreeable to her feelings that he should thus class her with himself amongst the seniors who must learn to tolerate the foibles of youth, though in other connections, his use of the first person plural would have afforded her the utmost gratification. She had always imagined herself quite young in comparison with him.

"I will ask Juliet about it when she comes in," was all she could now find to say.

As she was accompanying him to the hall door, Mrs. Tracy and Juliet entered the house. The curate's face brightened as Mrs. Tracy greeted him in her cheerful, kindly way. Juliet, though she privately thought him a very ugly and uninteresting man, had a smile for Mr. Ainger as she shook hands with him. He looked with fascinated eyes at the fresh young face, into which the keen air had brought such a lovely glow, and at the golden locks curling so prettily beneath her little fur cap. Salome saw his look of admiration, and her tones as she addressed her sister were more severe than she intended.

"Did you give a sovereign to Mrs. Malins when she was here the other day, Juliet?"

"Mrs. Malins!" repeated Juliet. "I don't know any Mrs. Malins. Why should I give her a sovereign?"

"She is a woman belonging to my district," said Salome. "A wretched ragged creature, who came to the house with her miserable children."

"Oh yes," she said hurriedly, "I must own to that act of imprudence; but what does it matter, Salome?"

"It matters thus much," said Salome. "Mrs. Malins is a woman we are trying to reclaim from drunkenness. By your foolish gift, you have driven her to drink again, for she could not resist the temptation which came with the possession of so much money. If you had confided to me your wish to be generous, I could have told you how to gratify it to better purpose."

"I did not wish to be generous," said Juliet indignantly. "I saw those poor starved looking children, and I wanted to help them. I told her to buy food and clothes for them."

"It was much good to tell her," said Salome. "The children got nothing by it. She left them to starve, and later in her drunkenness beat them because they cried for food."

"But that was not your fault," said the curate, touched by Juliet's troubled look. "No one can blame you for that. Your impulse was most kind, most good. It is only a pity you did not know the woman's character."

His words gave Salome a sharp pang, the nature of which she hardly knew. That she should hear him speak in that warm, approving tone of Juliet's goodness!

But Juliet cared not in the least how Mr. Ainger might regard her action. His approval could yield her no consolation. Vexed and mortified, she turned away; and after a word or two with Mrs. Tracy, the curate quitted the house.

They were alone, for Salome had been satisfied without endeavouring to further improve the occasion, and had gone upstairs as soon as Mr. Ainger departed.

"It is not one failure," returned Juliet impatiently. "It is always the same. I cannot be good, as I have told you before."

Juliet believed that she was nothing if she were not sincere; but in speaking thus she was shuffling with her conscience, for she knew well that she had never made one resolute, whole-hearted endeavour to set her life right. That which barred her from the path of goodness was her own will. We cannot take our own way and God's way too, and Juliet had deliberately chosen to follow her own way.

Already that way was leading her into slippery and even crooked paths. There was no meeting now with Algernon Chalcombe at a railway station, or where there was risk of their being observed; but Juliet saw him frequently. They met at Signor Lombardi's, with whom Algernon was sufficiently intimate to permit of his "dropping in" upon the signor pretty often. Of course Signor Lombardi perfectly understood the attraction which drew the young man to his rooms. There was a romantic vein in his nature which made him very willing to assist, as long as he incurred no responsibility in the matter, in what he considered to be an affaire de cœur.

Algernon made the most of his opportunities. A clever man of the world, knowing the full value of every art that can fascinate or beguile, it was not hard for him to gain influence over one so simple and ignorant as Juliet. She never doubted that the world was as he painted it, and that a brilliant future was within her reach. No one had ever talked to her as he talked to her. His deep, rich, musical voice thrilled her as she listened to it, and his tender, admiring glances made her heart flutter with delight. How could she doubt that such a voice spoke truth, how distrust the love that looked at her with such soft, warm glances? The flattery with which he fed her was very sweet. She did not think it flattery. She seemed to have found herself in becoming acquainted with him. No one else appraised her at her true worth. She was a queen, and he was her devoted slave. A future of glory was before her, and in the brilliant orbit she hoped to follow, he would be her faithful satellite.

Juliet had never been more self-confident than during the spring and summer which followed her uncle's death. Signor Lombardi no longer found fault with her continually; he had ceased to utter bitter sarcasms or to manifest irritable impatience. He was again exhibiting the charming manners he as a rule reserved for new pupils. The way he looked at her when she was singing convinced Juliet that he found her admirable. He no longer hesitated when Juliet asked his opinion of her voice, but praised it warmly for its clearness, flexibility, timbre. He gave Juliet the songs she liked, and was not so strict with regard to exercises. Juliet did not perceive that he was giving her easier music than at first. Her vanity gave its own pleasing interpretation to every circumstance, and her sanguine spirit drew the happiest auguries from his words.

But her eager, excited frame of mind was not happiness. Juliet could not but feel conscience-stricken when on her return from her singing lesson, she had to explain that she had been "detained" at Signor Lombardi's. The simplicity with which her mother received the statement, her utter lack of suspicion, heightened Juliet's sense of shame. But the feeling was not strong enough to resist the fascination which Algernon exercised upon her. She would sometimes resolve that she would break off her acquaintance with him; but it was a resolution more easily formed than fulfilled.

The sense of wrong-doing, the lack of harmony within herself, resulted in discord without. Her irritability and petulance made her more of a "trouble the house" than ever. Her sisters declared that Juliet's ways were past endurance, and spoiled their home life. Their mother, whilst trying hard to excuse her darling, felt the justice of their complaints. Mrs. Tracy shed many a tear over her spoiled child's naughtiness, but eventually succeeded in persuading herself that Juliet "meant well," and would "come right" in the end.

Judging her life from the outside, it certainly seemed that Juliet should have been good and happy, for she had much to make her so. She had a rare power of attracting others to herself, and her society was much sought at this time. Invitations to garden-parties, picnics, and more formal social gatherings became more and more numerous. She grew increasingly impatient of The Poplars as a residence. The rooms were so small that it was impossible for her to receive her friends as she would like. One change after another was proposed and discussed; but nothing was decided upon, Mrs. Tracy still finding it difficult to make up her mind.

Wherever she went, Juliet's beauty, her taste in dress, her charming, bright manner attracted universal attention to her. She loved to have it so. The satisfaction of her vanity was complete for the moment, when, as sometimes happened, she chanced to hear her hostess say words such as these to some guest about to depart, "Oh, don't go yet. Juliet Tracy is going to sing, and you should hear her. She has such a lovely voice. One does not often hear such singing by an amateur. It is a real treat, I assure you."

The sensation caused by her singing in private circles, and the flattering comments it elicited, were to Juliet a delightful foretaste of what awaited her in the future. But to few persons did she breathe a word of the hope of which she daily dreamed. For all her apparent frankness and openness, there was a vein of reticence in Juliet's character. She did not wish it to be known that she wanted to become a public singer. She would like to surprise her friends, to reveal herself to them as well as to the unknown public as a new and dazzling star on the musical firmament.

With her days thus gaily occupied, the summer passed swiftly on. The London season came to its end. Signor Lombardi departed for the Continent. He did not contemplate returning to give lessons in London. He had been appointed to a musical post in Milan which he had long coveted. Juliet was in despair at the departure of her master. He too seemed to regret the parting. He urged her to come and study in Milan, representing in glowing terms the advantages that city offered for a musical education.

"You could be trained for anything," the signor answered, with a slight curious twitch of the mouth. "You would have the finest facilities for cultivating your voice."

Juliet went home fired with a determination to go to Milan in the following autumn, if she could persuade her mother to accompany her. But Mrs. Tracy was averse to a plan which she foresaw would lead to Juliet's making her début as an operatic singer. She raised objections and suggested alternatives till Juliet's patience was exhausted, and she declared that, rather than not go, she would go alone.

But Mrs. Tracy was not much afraid that she would make good her words. Experience had taught her that Juliet did not invariably accomplish all that she vowed to do. Juliet was in many things very much of a child yet. She had never taken a long journey alone. The unknown, whilst it fascinated her, was yet not without its terrors. Tenderly taken care of all her days, she could not imagine what it would be to depend entirely upon herself, far from the mother who had always made life smooth for her. Her heart sank and her courage failed whenever she tried to picture herself living a lonely, unprotected life as an art student abroad.

"If only I knew what to do! If only I had someone to help me!" she would say to herself.

She said it one day to Algernon Chalcombe, when Flossie had beguiled her into a meeting with her which proved to be a meeting with her brother also. They met in one of the parks, and Flossie soon strolled off with the dogs to a pond, leaving Algernon free to talk as he would to Juliet. Algernon Chalcombe naturally made the most of the opportunity. Juliet was told that if she needed a helper, he was at her command. There was nothing he desired so much as to serve her, if she would give him the right. He could help her to the end she desired, and he would; but she must trust herself wholly to him. He loved her better than anyone else in the world. No one could love her as he did. Could she not love him a little in return?

And gradually Juliet allowed herself to be persuaded where she was already more than half won.

She whispered that she thought she could. She let him take her hand and hold it in his. She even said that perhaps some day, though not for a great while yet, she would be his wife. At least, she was sure that she would never wish to marry anyone else.

CHAPTER XIV

"I AM going shopping this afternoon," said Juliet. "I have heard of the prettiest cotton dresses, and so cheap that it is really economy to buy them."

Like other young ladies given to extravagant expenditure, Juliet liked to maintain that she studied economy in her purchases.

"I admire your practice of economy," said Salome. "You go to the other side of London to buy a thing a few pence cheaper than you would get it here, and never take into consideration the money you spend in travelling to and fro."

"I do take it into consideration," protested Juliet, "and I am sure that I shall save my railway fare three or four times over by buying there. You need not think I am so foolish as to go all that way to buy a yard or two of ribbon. I shall make several purchases when I am there."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Salome, with a smile that provoked Juliet. "You will buy half a dozen things you do not want because they happen to be cheap, and delude yourself with the idea that that is economy."

"Oh, I hope Juliet will not buy things that she does not want," said Mrs. Tracy cheerfully, "If you would not mind waiting till to-morrow, I believe I could go with you, darling. Perhaps I might see some curtains there that would do for the drawing-room."

"Oh, mother, I must go to-day," she said; "I do so want to get something to wear that is not mourning."

For Juliet had not yet entirely cast off the black she had donned as mourning for her uncle. The soft greys, the dainty admixtures of black and white which she was now wearing, became her charmingly; but Juliet was wearying of these. Her mother looked at her as she spoke, and wondered a little that Juliet should be so impatient to leave off her mourning for the uncle who had been so good to her, and to whom she owed so much. Were young girls, with all their freshness and bloom, apt to be a trifle hard-hearted? But Mrs. Tracy dismissed the thought as it arose. It was not to be expected that a girl should grieve long for an elderly man. What more natural than that she should crave fresh and pretty clothes? Ralph Tracy would not have wished her to wear black for him at all.

Juliet went away to get ready to go out. Shopping she must go, whether her mother approved or not, and nothing did she less desire than that anyone should accompany her on this particular expedition, since she expected to meet Algernon in the course of her journey.

A worried, almost a careworn look, came to Juliet's young face as soon as she was alone. The burden of the secret pledge she had given weighed heavily upon her heart. Was it a pledge? She had not meant it to be; she had not actually promised to be his wife; but she knew that Algernon regarded her as betrothed to him. She hated the secrecy on which he insisted as a cruel necessity of their case. What was to come of it all? She would ask herself with a thrill of terror. If only her mother knew, she would sigh at one moment, and the next she would shiver with dread at the thought that her mother might possibly one day discover her duplicity.

When Juliet ran into the dining-room to give her mother the kiss, without bestowing which she never left her for any length of time, the result of uneasy thought was visible in the way her delicate brows were contracted. Her mother looked at her anxiously, wondering why it was that she now so often detected this expression of worry on Juliet's face. Must the girl lose the bright, open, childlike expression which had been one of her greatest charms? But as she watched her, Juliet's look changed to one of excitement and surprise. She was standing by the window, and she had caught sight of a familiar form passing the gate.

"Oh, mother!" she exclaimed. "I do believe that was Mr. Mainprice who went by! It was wonderfully like him. Whoever he is, he has gone to Mr. Ainger's," she reported, as she stretched herself on tiptoe to get a better view of the individual in question. "I really think it is Mr. Mainprice."

"Very likely," said Salome quietly; "a Mr. Mainprice is coming to conduct special services at St. Jude's next week. I wondered if he could be the one you knew. I think Mr. Hayes called him the Rev. Arthur Mainprice."

"Oh, I am very glad of that," said Mrs. Tracy brightly. "I liked him when we met him at Lynton. And you seemed to take to him, Juliet. You will like to hear him preach."

But Juliet's face had fallen. Thoughts had been awakened within her that had a bitter flavour.

"I do not know about that," she said, as she turned to go. "It does not follow because you like a man to talk to, that you will like to hear him preach."

She went hurriedly from the house, and walked at her quickest pace towards the station. She was presently aware of firm, quick steps coming behind her. Fast as she walked, they walked faster, till they slackened at her side.

"I thought I could not be mistaken," said the pleasant voice of Mr. Mainprice. "How do you do, Miss Tracy? I caught sight of you as you came from that house, and I have been hurrying since to overtake you."

"I am very well, thank you, Mr. Mainprice," said Juliet. "So you are in London again. We last met at Lynton, if you remember."

"I am not likely to forget it," he replied. "It will soon be a year since we met. How much has happened since!"

He observed her more closely, and it struck him that she had changed considerably during the interval. She had lost none of her beauty; she was if possible prettier than before, but somewhat of her childlike charm had gone. The lines of her face had hardened; she looked older and more determined, and, he fancied, less happy than when he had seen her at Lynton.

"I was very grieved to hear of your uncle's death," he said gently. "I little thought when I said good-bye to him at Lynton that I should see him no more. He was the best of friends, one of the kindest, most unselfish men I ever met with. He was very happy after his return to England. The meeting with you and your mother made such a difference to his life. You must be glad to think how much you added to his happiness during those last months."

"You mean that he added to my happiness," said Juliet. "I did nothing to make him happy. He never thought of himself, and I did not either. I am afraid," she added, suddenly moved to confession, "I am a very selfish person."

"We all find ourselves that, I think," he replied. "We hardly begin to be otherwise till we have recognised that fact."

"You were rejoicing in the freedom to take your own way when I saw you last," he said, regarding her with close observation. "You were bent on having your own way in everything, and believed that so you would find happiness. Is that still your aim, or have you come to take a larger and nobler view of life?"

Juliet lifted her head and looked at him with defiant eyes. "You find me no wiser, Mr. Mainprice. I still like my own way better than anything else, and I mean to have it too!"

She paused as she spoke, for they had reached the station, and held out her hand to him.

He looked at her in silence for a moment, and as she met his earnest glance a great wave of colour suffused her face, for it seemed to her as if those grave, deep eyes could read the very secrets of her heart, and knew all that she was ashamed to avow, even the purpose of her going forth that afternoon, the consciousness of which now made her tingle with shame. Her eyes dropped beneath his.

"Then I am sorry for you," he said gently. "I need not ask if you find your own way yield you happiness."

She made no reply, but turned from him quickly. There was a choking sensation in her throat, and her eyelids smarted from the hot tears she with difficulty restrained. But she fancied it was only anger that moved her thus strangely.

"What right has he to speak to me so?" she asked herself in wrath. "What business is it of his whether I am happy or not? And to say he was sorry for me! Sorry for me!"

The words rankled in her mind, and could not be forgotten. Her anger towards Mr. Mainprice increased, as she felt that he had spoiled her afternoon. She made but few purchases after all. Somehow she could not interest herself in the pretty things exhibited to her. She felt as if she had suddenly grown old, and life were altogether stale and devoid of satisfaction. Was it possible that anyone had good reason to be sorry for her?

She reached the spot where she had promised to meet Algernon Chalcombe rather before the time appointed, and he was not there. This increased her mental irritation. She was ashamed of the understanding which kept her there, scanning the shop windows till she was sick of them, and looking furtively from right to left, in dread of meeting the gaze of an acquaintance, though there seemed little cause to fear that, since she had no friends residing in this quarter of London.

He came in sight only a few seconds after the time named, but to Juliet's impatience it seemed that he was very late. She saw him ere he perceived her. He was walking languidly along with his eyes on the ground. As usual, he was attired in faultless style, and his air was that of an habitué of clubland. He was undeniably a handsome man, but his countenance would not have inspired everyone with confidence. His eyes had the weary, strained look, and his complexion the wan, unhealthy hue which tells of nights passed in feverish excitement.

But Juliet's experience could not teach her the meaning of his looks. She failed to observe how anxious and harassed was his expression as he came towards her. She was only impatient that he did not look more eagerly for her, but moved along with the air of one whose inner life was far more absorbing than the outer.

Had she known them, Algernon Chalcombe's circumstances might well have excused his self-absorption. His endeavour to lead a life of pleasure and luxury without the disagreeable necessity of working for the means of maintaining it, was landing him in serious difficulties. He had, indeed, a way of gaining money which is the exact opposite to work; but of all sources of revenue, this is the most precarious, since it depends on the caprice of the goddess men name Luck. Of late, that goddess had turned the cold shoulder upon Algernon Chalcombe, whence resulted the embarrassments which made him, whenever alone, revolve wearily in his mind every possible and impossible scheme for obtaining money.

But now he is raising his eyes, and as they meet Juliet's, the shadow flees from his face. There can be no doubt that he loves her, when he looks at her like that.

In a few minutes, they were walking amidst the trees in Kensington Gardens. He guided her to the most secluded spot he could find, and they sat down beneath the shade of a tall beech. No one was near them. An opening in the glade revealed a glimpse of gleaming water, and the voices of children playing on the brink of the pond came to them softened by distance.

"What have you been doing since I saw you, darling?" asked Algernon, gazing at her fondly. "Lots of shopping, I suppose. Buying pretty frocks, eh? I fear you are getting to be a very extravagant young lady."

"That is what everyone says," returned Juliet, pouting her pretty lips; "but I am not extravagant, though it is nice to be able to spend what I like. Do you know all my business affairs are settled at last? Mr. Gray has been more expeditious than we had hoped. I have my own account at the bank now. You can't think how proud I felt yesterday when I wrote my first cheque."

"I only wish I had an uncle to leave me money. I am desperately hard up just now. That father of mine has treated me abominably."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Juliet. "If—if only—" she hesitated. It was not easy to offer him money.

"Never mind about me," said Algernon; "I shall pull along somehow. It is time now to consider your future seriously, Juliet. Too much time has been lost already. We must begin to act, now that you have the means at your command. We cannot go on longer as we have been going."

"No, oh no; I feel as you do about that," said Juliet, with a little shiver of excitement. "I am impatient to begin, if only you will tell me what to do. I shall feel so much happier when I know that I am working steadily for the end I have in view."

Her thoughts recurred to Mr. Mainprice as she spoke. When he heard of her as a singer of worldwide renown, adored, courted, and rolling in wealth, he would not be able to say that he was sorry for her.

"You had better study abroad," said Algernon; "I should advise your going to the Conservatoire at Paris."

"Signor Lombardi spoke highly of the instruction at Milan," said Juliet timidly. "I wanted mother to go with me there, but she would not think of it."

"Why not?" he repeated. "Do you need to ask?" Then bending nearer to her and speaking in low, tender tones, he said, "I will tell you, darling, why it would not do. It is because you are a young and lovely girl, and need someone to protect you. If you went to and fro as a friendless woman student, and mingled in the mixed circles of the artistic world, you might be subjected to indignities—to insults; I shudder when I think to what you might be exposed. No, you must not go alone. I cannot consent to that."

Juliet's eyes were downcast; her face was glowing. The prospect his words presented to her filled her with alarm. She shrank from the thought of being treated with indignity, of being jostled amongst vulgar, ill-bred people, who would accord her no deference.

"What can I do, then?" she asked, rather hopelessly. "Can I not be trained in England?"

"I heard someone say the other day," continued Juliet, "that it was now possible to get as good a musical education in England as anywhere on the Continent."

"You can be trained here, of course. There are plenty of singers who have never been out of England, but—I thought you meant to aim high."

"I do aim high," said Juliet, with a little toss of the head; "you know that I aim at the top. I could not bear to be anything but a first-rate singer."

"Then you must go abroad," said Algernon. "The London winter is not good for you. A season or two in Italy would mellow your voice and bring it to perfection, to say nothing of the training you would get there."

"You must go as my wife, darling," he said, turning his eyes on her and speaking in low, impressive tones. "You must go with me as your husband by your side to protect you. There is no other way."

"Algernon!" Juliet looked at him with startled eyes, and recoiled a little from him. "What can you mean? How could I marry you now? Oh, that cannot happen for a long, long time. Mother would never give her consent."

"I know that, dearest. Neither she nor your sisters would ever give their consent, either to your marrying me or to your being trained as an opera singer. If you are in earnest, you must make up your mind to act independently of them."

"Algernon, you would not ask me to marry you without mother's consent? Oh, I could never do that!"

"I must confess, Juliet, that I see no other way to the attainment of your wishes. If you truly love me, you will not shrink from trusting your future to me; but if I have deceived myself, if you do not really love me—then, of course—in that case—"

He paused abruptly, as if the conclusion of his sentence were too painful to utter. If the look of distress his countenance wore were not genuine, it was well simulated.

"Oh, don't speak so!" Juliet implored him. "You know that I care for you more than anyone else, only—"

"And, of course, if you are in earnest in wishing to cultivate your beautiful voice to the best purpose," he continued, not hesitating to interrupt her, "you will not allow yourself to be hindered by the prejudices of your family. It seems a thousand pities that so rare a gift should not be cultivated to the highest advantage. I am certain that a brilliant career lies before you, if you will enter on it. Nothing would make me happier than to serve you. I would watch over you and guard you from all harm. I would be content to take a secondary place, to stand behind you for ever, if only I could see you win your laurels as a queen of song. But I can only help you in one way. It would never do to suffer the least shadow to fall on your fair fame. Darling, cannot you trust yourself to me?"

Juliet trembled as she heard his words. She looked into his eyes, and their passionate eagerness seemed to promise her even more than his words of love, protection, and utter devotion. The picture he drew of the future presented to her a dazzling temptation; but her heart failed her as she contemplated the step he asked her to take.

"Oh, do not tempt me!" she cried. "I could not do it. I am sure it would be wrong. It would grieve mother so. I believe it would break her heart."

"Not at all. Hearts do not break so easily. She would be angry at first, no doubt, but she would soon relent and forgive us. You are so ignorant of the world, my sweet, unsophisticated little Juliet, or you would know that such marriages are of frequent occurrence. To elope is the only thing to be done when parents are obstinate. That soon brings them round; their stony hearts melt, and everyone is happy ever after."

"If I could think it would be so in our case," said Juliet; "but I cannot believe it."

And insidiously, he strove to remove every misgiving, and to present his temptation in forms more and more alluring, till he had made evil appear as good, and well-nigh persuaded Juliet that that from which she at first had shrunk as a suggestion of wickedness, was in fact a positive duty.

CHAPTER XV

THE special services conducted by the Rev. Arthur Mainprice at St. Jude's Church excited considerable interest, and were largely attended. Juliet's mother and sisters went to several of them, and did their best to persuade her to accompany them. But in vain they spoke with enthusiasm of the preacher's eloquence, and repeated many of his earnest, pointed words. Juliet would not betray the least interest in him or his sayings. She had no wish to listen to the preaching of a man who had presumed to say that he was sorry for her.

If the words he spoke in private were so ill-chosen, his pulpit utterances might be still more objectionable. Moreover, Juliet was quick to perceive that her elders were anxious that she should attend the services, thinking that they would "do her good," and this perception was sufficient to drive her into an obstinate determination that to not one of the services would she go.

But, notwithstanding her apparent indifference, Juliet took a keen interest in what was going on. No words which the others let fall concerning Mr. Mainprice escaped her ears. She was quick to see that one evening Salome came back from church with eyelids suspiciously red, and she was aware of a change in her sister during the days that followed. It provoked her that Salome should present an invulnerable front to the darts of her sarcasm, and that her stinging words should meet with no like retort. She could not quarrel alone, and she felt vexed with Salome for declining to play her wonted part. It hurt her sorely when Salome one day took considerable pains in order to render her a service. She did not want Salome to begin to evince tokens of kindliness. She wanted her to continue to be disagreeable, and everything in the house to be as unpleasant as possible, that it might be easier to do that which she was secretly planning.

Much as Juliet had resented Mr. Mainprice's words, at times she could almost have owned that they were not uttered without cause. There were moments when she was sorry for herself, when a horror of what lay before her took possession of her mind, and she was ready to cry out to be delivered from her own way. Often at night, when Mrs. Tracy imagined Juliet to be tranquilly sleeping, the girl was shedding tears and stifling sobs, which threatened to disturb her mother. But with the morning light, glowing visions of the future would visit her again, and self-will urge her forward along the path she had chosen.

"Mother," asked Hannah one day, "have you and Juliet come to any decision with regard to our removing from this house? Here is another quarter more than half gone. It is really time something was definitely settled."

"Nothing is decided, dear, and I do not know what to say about it. Juliet appears to have lost her interest in the matter of late. She does not seem to care whether we go or stay."

"That is like Juliet. A little while ago she was so impatient to move into a larger house that she thought we could make every arrangement and get out of this in six weeks' time. I never knew such a creature of moods and tenses as she is."

"She is just at an age when girls often do not know their own minds," said Mrs. Tracy. "I was the same before I married. For my part, I am quite content to remain here, as long as she is willing to do so." And she cast a loving glance round the familiar room.

Her secret hope was that Juliet might ere long win a home of her own. Not that there seemed any likelihood of the girl's marrying at present, but Mrs. Tracy was one of those fond, sanguine mothers who easily persuade themselves of the probability of the happiness they desire for their offspring. Nothing seemed to her more unlikely than that Juliet should remain unsought in marriage. It could not be unreasonable to count upon the arrival of a suitor in every way eligible. Thus Juliet was not the only one who dreamed of a happy future for herself. The visions wrought by her mother's imagination of the life of this darling child might be painted in more commonplace hues, but they were none the less entrancing to the dreamer.

"Has Juliet yet made up her mind with regard to her summer holiday?" asked Hannah. "I have heard her make half a hundred different suggestions, but I have no idea which she finds the most alluring."

"I don't think she knows herself," replied Mrs. Tracy. "A little while ago she was wild to go to Norway. Then she proposed that we should go to Switzerland and the Italian lakes, and thence to Milan for a few weeks, that she might have some lessons of Signor Lombardi. But I do not feel equal to so much knocking about, and I think it better she should not go to Milan, so I discouraged it. You know that the Felgates have asked her to join them at Folkestone, and go across to Boulogne for a week or two; but she declares they would bore her dreadfully, and that if she went on to the Continent, she would want to go farther than Boulogne."

"She is a difficult person to please," said Hannah. "A princess could not be more fastidious. I thought she liked Dora Felgate."

"So she does. I do not think she has actually declined the invitation. I must ask her to decide soon, for our plans are dependent on hers."

"Most people are leaving town now," said Hannah. "And the sooner Juliet gets away the better, for I met Flossie Chalcombe yesterday, accompanied by a young man whom, by the likeness between them, I judged to be her brother. Mrs. Hayes said some time ago that she believed he had left the neighbourhood, but he is evidently here again?"

"Oh, my dear, I do not think you need fear that Juliet would have anything to say to him," replied Mrs. Tracy hurriedly. "She is wiser now, and feels her responsibilities more. Her talking to him at the railway station was just a piece of girlish folly."

It was growing dusk as they talked. They were sitting by the open window of the drawing-room, which looked into the tiny strip of garden at the back of the house. Salome was moving to and fro there, watering the flower-borders, which she kept in beautiful order.

Suddenly the house door was heard to open, and the next minute Juliet entered the room carrying her tennis-racket. They knew that she had been playing tennis with friends in the neighbourhood. It had long ceased to be light enough to play, but it was not surprising that she should linger for a chat when the game was over. Mrs. Tracy was far from guessing that Juliet had but now come from a stolen interview with Algernon Chalcombe.

"Sitting in the dark?" said Juliet, as she threw herself wearily into a chair. "Well, you are wise, for it is deliciously cool here. What a warm evening it has been!"

They sat in silence for a few moments. Salome had finished her gardening, and was carefully putting away everything she had used.

"Mother," said Juliet suddenly, "I mean to join the Felgates at Folkestone. I shall go to them on Tuesday."

"My dear," exclaimed Mrs. Tracy in surprise, "have you really made up your mind to that?"

"Yes," said Juliet in a quick, decided manner, "I have made up my mind. I shall write to Dora to-morrow."

"If your mind has not changed by then," said Hannah. "I should not wonder if you have another impulse to-morrow morning."

"No, I have made my decision, and I shall abide by it," said Juliet, with a curious little quaver in her tones.

Her mother turned towards her as she heard it, but it was impossible to perceive more of Juliet's countenance than the dim outline.

"Are you sure, dear, that you will like going to Folkestone as well as anything else?" asked Mrs. Tracy. "You have not decided too hastily, I hope?"

"Oh no, I shall like it well enough," said Juliet. "The Felgate girls are always good company, and the going to Boulogne will be fun. Perhaps Mr. Felgate may be persuaded to take us to Paris for a few days. Dora said something about it."

"Ah, you would enjoy that," said her mother. "Let me see. You expect to be with them for three weeks, do you not? Will that be change enough for you, or will you like to go somewhere else afterwards?"

"Oh, that will be enough," said Juliet hastily; "at any rate, that is all I can decide on now."

"Very well, dear; only you know it is often necessary to plan a little in advance. It may be impossible to get such rooms as you would like, if you put off securing them."

"I will take the chance of that," said Juliet. "I hate to be tied down to things."

"If Juliet goes to Folkestone, there is no reason why you and I and Salome should not go to the Isle of Wight, as we talked of doing," said Hannah, addressing her mother.

"No, perhaps not. We will see," said Mrs. Tracy, with a sigh, conscious that she cared little about going anywhere if Juliet did not accompany her.

At this moment, Salome entered the room. It was never Salome's way to sit idle in the twilight, and she at once kindled a lamp which stood on a side-table where the air from the open window would not blow on it.

"Oh, Salome," exclaimed Juliet fretfully, as she turned her head aside from the light, "why need you have done that? It was so much nicer without that glare."

Salome without a word placed a shade over the offending lamp, and seating herself near it, opened her work-bag. Then she said quietly—

The racket Juliet was still holding suddenly fell on the floor with a bang. Mrs. Tracy uttered a nervous cry; but, recovering herself, she said—

"I suppose so," replied Salome; "I believe Mr. Hayes will be back for the Sunday after. It is more than a fortnight since they started for Normandy, and they only meant to be away three weeks."

No one spoke again for some moments. Juliet was lying back in her chair dreamily watching a large moth which had fluttered in at the window and was circling round and round the lamp in ever-narrowing gyrations. Suddenly she started up with a cry—

Salome looked round in bewilderment, not seeing to what Juliet's words referred. When she understood, it was too late. Drawn by the attraction of its radiance, the moth swept too near to the centre of fierce heat, and the next moment with singed wings it lay writhing on the table in mortal anguish, to which Salome mercifully put a speedy end. Juliet had come to her sister's side, and she now took up the dead creature and gazed with troubled eyes at the lovely spotted wings which the flame had marred.

"What a pity!" she said. "It was such a beauty. Oh, you poor silly thing, why did you go so near?"

Then, as much to her surprise as to that of the others, a sob escaped her. She turned and hurried from the room.

"Whatever can have come to Juliet that she should weep over a dead moth?" exclaimed Hannah. "Something must have happened to put her out."

"She is overdone," said Mrs. Tracy. "I noticed when she came in that she seemed excessively tired. It is quite time she went away, for she needs a change. Juliet is not strong, although she appears to have so much life and spirit. She is highly strung and excitable, and such temperaments have ever more energy than strength. I only hope the change to Folkestone will be the right thing for her."

"You need not fear," said Hannah; "the air on that coast is splendid. It is sure to revive her, if she needs bracing."

Salome said nothing. She believed that the cause of the emotion Juliet had manifested lay deeper than her mother supposed. It had struck her before to-day that Juliet was not happy. She reproached herself for not understanding her young sister better. Now when it was too late, she regretted bitterly the wide breach she had suffered ever to yawn deeper and deeper between herself and Juliet, and which made it impossible for her at this juncture to approach Juliet with sympathy and counsel, when perhaps she needed both.

Juliet wrote to Dora Felgate the next morning, and busied herself with preparations for her departure on the following Tuesday. She found a good deal to do, and appeared to be in a state of bustle and excitement from morning till evening of each day which intervened, except on Sunday, when she complained of a headache, and did not go to church. A casual observer would have said that she was in high spirits at the prospect before her. Hannah quite thought so.

But Juliet's excitable, flighty manner could not deceive her mother. She saw that Juliet was not herself; but she hoped that the trouble was dependent on the condition of her nerves, and would soon be driven away by the strong sea breezes.

One afternoon Juliet, who had been out shopping, returned to the house accompanied by a small boy staggering beneath the weight of a huge flower-pot containing a fine palm.

"Will this do for you, Salome?" she said, as she brought it into the room where her sister was seated and placed it on the floor beside her. "You said the other day that you wished you had a tall palm for the drawing-room. Is this tall enough?"

"Oh, what a lovely one!" exclaimed Salome. "Do? I should think it would! But you should not have bought it, Juliet. It was a pity to spend your money so."

"I spend my money as I please," said Juliet. "Since you admire the palm, perhaps you will be good enough to accept it from me, and to take care of it for my sake?"

"Oh, Juliet How kind of you! It is the very thing I wanted," said Salome, who yet could not help feeling some regret that Juliet should have bought the palm just now, when it would have to be left almost immediately to the mercies of a caretaker.

"You need not thank me," said Juliet, in some confusion; "I expect I only bought it to please myself, as I do most things. Perhaps," she was constrained to add, "I shall one day do something so bad that you will hate the very sight of that palm, and wish I had not given it to you."

"Oh no, I hope not. I am not afraid of that indeed," said Salome. "I think—I hope, Juliet—that you and I are going to get on better in the future. Will you try, if I do?"

And turning, she threw her arm about Juliet's slight form, and bending forward kissed her on the forehead.

Juliet shrank from the kiss as if it stung her. She went hastily from the room, and Salome remained alone, her lips quivering and tears rising to her eyes. She could not but feel bitterly how Juliet had repulsed her. But was it not her own fault that their lives had grown so far apart, their greetings so cold and formal, that an unlooked-for caress from her should thus startle and apparently annoy Juliet?

Hannah was seated at her solid reading in her own room, when Juliet looked in to say, "Hannah, would you like to take my 'handy-volume' Thackerays to the seaside with you? I heard you say you meant to read Thackeray during the holidays."

"Oh, thank you, Juliet; I should be much obliged to you, if you are not afraid of the books getting hurt," said Hannah, surprised by this thoughtfulness on Juliet's part.

"Oh, I want you to keep the books, Hannah. I shall write your name in them. You must keep them as a parting keepsake from me."

"Nonsense, Juliet; I shall do nothing of the kind. Really, to hear you, one would think you were never coming back. The idea of your giving me those books that you like so much."

"I bought the books myself; it is hard if I cannot do what I like with them," said Juliet, affecting to pout. And when she brought her sister the books on the following day, Hannah saw that her name was indeed written in them. She was half touched, half provoked by what she considered a new manifestation of Juliet's eccentricity. She certainly was a very odd girl; but not wholly bad, perhaps, after all.

On the night previous to her departure, Mrs. Tracy advised Juliet to go early to bed, and the girl, unusually docile, obeyed. But, though she went upstairs, she did not lie down till she heard her mother's step upon the stairs. How could she sleep when everything that met her gaze in the old familiar room said to her that it was the last time—the last time probably that she would share that room with her mother, the last time that things would be as they had been?

Juliet was lying motionless, only the top of her head visible above the bedclothes, when her mother entered the room, and Mrs. Tracy moved about noiselessly on tiptoe, lest she should disturb her. But presently Juliet lifted her head and said, "You need not creep about like that, mother; I'm awake."

"Oh, I am sorry, darling," said Mrs. Tracy, coming quickly to her side; "I hoped you were in a nice sleep."

"You need not be sorry about it, mother. You are always being sorry about me, and I wish you would not," exclaimed Juliet, the emotion pent up within her finding vent in irritable speech. "I wish you would learn not to care a bit about me."

"If you knew me as I really am, you would hate me. You cannot think how I hate myself," said Juliet, suddenly beginning to sob. "Oh, mother, if I grieved you very much, if you thought me very wrong, could you still love me?"

"Of course, darling. I should be a poor mother if I could not. But why talk in this morbid way? Nothing so dreadful is going to happen."

"Oh, I don't know; it pleases me to talk so. Mother, if people talked against me, if Hannah and Salome said bitter things of me, would you still try to think the best of me, to believe that I had meant well, although—although—"

"Really, my dear Juliet, it frightens me to see you so upset," said her mother. "If anything is troubling you, tell me, my dear child, that I may help you."

"Oh, nothing is troubling me," exclaimed Juliet wildly making a great effort to master her emotion. "I am very happy, I mean to be very happy. Only I do wish, mother, that you were going with me to-morrow. Mother, promise me that, whatever happens, you always live with me. We must have a home together in the future, you and I. Do promise me that, ever naughty I may be, you will not refuse to live with me."

"You absurd child!" said Mrs. Tracy, beginning to laugh. "As if I should refuse such a thing. Of course, I shall live with you as long as you want me."

"Which will be always," said Juliet, laughing too, rather hysterically. With that she kissed her mother several times, and then lay down to sleep.

Mrs. Tracy was somewhat perturbed by Juliet's wild words, and had many troubled thoughts concerning her ere she fell asleep. But in the morning, Juliet appeared her usual self. She busied herself with her packing assisted by her mother, and talked gaily all the time. At luncheon she could eat little, but the rare excitement of a journey was sufficient to account for that. Hannah was to accompany her to the City and see her safely into the train, after which the short run to Folkestone could be attended by no risk that the most anxious mother could have deprecated.

The cab came late, so that the farewells at the last were hurried. There was some bustle in getting the train, but Hannah succeeded in seeing Juliet comfortably settled in a carriage with several other lady passengers.

"The Felgates will meet you, of course?" she said, more for the sake of making a remark than because she felt any doubt on the subject, having already heard every detail of the arrangements discussed by her mother.

Juliet nodded and waved her hand, for the train was already in motion. Then she leaned forward to take a last look at Hannah. It was but a blurred vision she caught, for tears had suddenly risen in her eyes and dimmed their sight.

CHAPTER XVI

THERE was indeed someone waiting for Juliet when she arrived at Folkestone station, but it was not Dora Felgate nor anyone belonging to her family, since they had no expectation of seeing Juliet that day.

Algernon Chalcombe was standing on the platform when the train came but she looked at him for some moments without recognising him, so strangely altered was his appearance; for he had shaved away the silky black moustache which his fingers had been for ever lovingly caressing, and the mouth, unscreened, looked large and coarse. His fine dark eyes were hidden behind smoke-coloured spectacles, and his dress was different from anything Juliet had seen him wear before. The loose-fitting tweed suit, and large, soft felt hat, might have been worn by a German artist, and for such Algernon would have been well content to pass.

"Is it you, Algernon?" Juliet exclaimed, with a start, as he addressed her. "I did not know you. How very strange you look! Why are you wearing those frightful glasses?"

"I have a weakness of the eyes, which compels me to protect them from the awful glare of sunlight on this coast," he said, with a smile. "I am sorry you do not find them becoming; but what a joy that you have arrived, my Juliet! I have been so anxious while I waited. I was afraid your courage would fail you at the last. But now you have got safely away from them all, and are here, my brave darling, all will be well."

"I wish I could think so," said Juliet, with a shiver. "Don't let us talk of it, Algernon. You don't know what it cost me to do it."

But Juliet could not feel that. Already she began to see the act she had committed in its true light, and a dread of the Nemesis which attends all wrong-doing was awaking in her heart.

"Now, what is to be done?" he asked. "We decided that it would be better to cross the Channel from Dover. Shall we go on to Dover at once, or would you like to see something of Folkestone first?"

"Oh, do not let us stay here!" exclaimed Juliet. "I dare not walk about in Folkestone. If I should meet the Felgates, what would they think?" And a deep flush of shame dyed her face. "Besides," she added, in desperation, "you decided that we should go on to Dover at once. You said that we should be married as soon as we got there."

"Yes, yes, dearest; but you know it is too late now for us to be married to-day. So I think it will be best for us to go on by to-night's boat to Paris, and have the ceremony performed there to-morrow morning."

"Can it be done as easily there?" asked Juliet. "Oh, as easily as possible. We only have to go before the British consul."

Juliet asked no more about it. She knew positively nothing of the legal preliminaries to marriage. She had indeed previously given Algernon a large sum of money, with which it was understood that he was to purchase a special marriage licence and meet other expenses incidental to the ceremony; but she was content to leave all the details in his hands.

On inquiry, it was found that there was a train for Dover in half an hour. Juliet's trunk was claimed and re-labelled; then she wrote with pencil on a postcard she had brought with her, and posted it to her mother, after which, they paced the platform till the train came up. Juliet was miserable as she waited; at every turn she dreaded to be confronted by the astonished faces of the Felgates. The change in Algernon Chalcombe's appearance filled her with vague uneasiness, though it did not strike her that it was assumed as a disguise.

It was a relief when she found herself in the train and moving out of the station; but in a few minutes, she had to alight again, this time at Dover Pier.

They found the station in a state of bustle and confusion. The boat from Calais had come in rather behind time, and its passengers, eager and flurried, were streaming up from the quay to the station. As she and her companion made their way through the crowd, alike anxious to escape observation, Juliet suddenly encountered the hard, keen gaze of Mrs. Hayes, who was advancing, followed by a porter burdened with numerous small packages.

"Where?" he asked quickly. "Never mind. Come this way, Juliet. Sharp!" And opening the door of a waiting room, he hurried her inside and out by another door into a road at the back of the station. A few minutes' sharp walking took them beyond the stir of the station.

Juliet was greatly agitated. "Oh, Algernon, she saw me! I am certain that she recognised me! And she will tell mother! Oh, what shall I do?"

"What does it matter?" he asked. "She would not recognise me. For aught she knows, we have a perfect right to be together. I might be your cousin."

"Oh, she knows I have no cousins," replied Juliet. "Hannah and Salome have some in Scotland, but I have none."

"Well, then, I might be their cousin," he said lightly, trying to smooth away her annoyance. "Why trouble about what a disagreeable old woman may think or say? We will go to an hotel now and get some tea, and then we can have a row or a drive to while away the time till the boat starts."

"If I had been a little nearer, she would have spoken," said Juliet, unable to dismiss the matter so easily. "And she is going back to London! She will tell them at home how she saw me at Dover!"

"But by that time, we shall be man and wife, and they will be unable to part us," he said.

Juliet's look did not brighten. Somehow, that consummation had ceased to appear to her a very happy prospect.

Algernon Chalcombe was over-confident as to the impossibility of his being recognised by Mrs. Hayes; that lady was greatly excited by the glimpse she caught of Juliet and her companion.

"John," she said eagerly to her husband, when he and her daughters came up, "John, I have just seen Juliet Tracy, accompanied by a man whom I am sure was that fellow Chalcombe. He had altered himself somewhat, but I am certain it was he. I am never mistaken in a face. Now, what can they be doing here alone?"

"They are eloping, John; that is what it is. Juliet is just the girl to do such a thing, and you must go after them and stop her. It is your duty as her clergyman. Quick, John! They went this way, through that door."

"That is all very well, my dear; but I should like to know what chance there is of finding anyone in this crowd," he said testily, as he looked in the opposite direction to that she indicated. There had been much to try his patience in his continental journeyings with his wife and daughters, and it was beginning to feel the strain.

"I tell you they went out of the station. There is no crowd outside. Do go and look after them."

"And meanwhile miss my train! It will start as soon as the luggage is in. How do you know that Juliet is not staying at Dover with her mother and sisters? They talked of going to the seaside. But do come along now, or you will miss your chance of a comfortable place."

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."

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.

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?"

"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?"

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

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

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."

"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."

"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'."

CHAPTER XVIII

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.

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.

"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."

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?"

"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.

"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,—

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?"

CHAPTER XIX

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.

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

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."

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."

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"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."

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.

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."

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

"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."

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

"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."

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?"

"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

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."

"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."

"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."

"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, 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.

"Oh no, dear," her mother would respond, with a smile; "you were so deluded, you did not know what you were doing."

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.

"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?"

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

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."

"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!"

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.

"I did, miss; but he asked if you were at home, and said he would like to speak to you."

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?"

"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."

"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."

"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'?"

"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."

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

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.

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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—

"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

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."

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.

"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?"

"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."

They were simple words, but uttered with a winning smile and kindly glance they came like a burst of sunshine on poor Juliet, in her gloomy, frozen mood. Whatever had been the nature of Mrs. Staines' communication, it had not made Lady Ernestine feel it impossible to speak to her. A load was lifted from her heart, and the solace of the lady's smile and gentle accents lingered there.

But Mrs. Staines felt uncomfortable as she went on her way. Lady Ernestine had not taken her hint as she had expected.

A few minutes later, Juliet, with a leap of the heart, caught sight of someone in the room whom she had certainly not expected to see there. This, it seemed, was to be a day of surprises.

Sir Richard Whitehouse had just entered the room accompanied by a tall, broad-chested, stalwart-looking clergyman. Juliet recognised in a moment the strong, rugged features of Arthur Mainprice.

Sir Richard turned to greet an acquaintance, and Mr. Mainprice stood looking curiously around him on the busy scene, with the air of one who found himself a stranger there. Suddenly his eyes lighted on Frances Hayes, and Juliet, with a throb of pain, saw him go forward smilingly to greet her. Happily, some customers now claimed Juliet's attention, and she was too busy for the next ten minutes to have time to watch Mr. Mainprice's movements.

He stood chatting with Frances Hayes for some minutes, ere he perceived that another old acquaintance was present. Frances did not see the little start he gave nor the look of pleasure that came into his eyes ere he said—

"Can I be mistaken? That is surely Miss Tracy I see over there at the flower stall!"

"Yes, it is that girl," said Frances. "Fancy our finding her here! None of the people knew anything of her history till we enlightened them."

"Oh, we told them a few facts about her which made them open their eyes—how badly she behaved, and how she was talked about in our neighbourhood, and all that, you know. It was only right they should know it." The last words were uttered with some nervousness. There was a look in Mr. Mainprice's eyes which made Frances uneasy.

"Do you mean that it was kind and Christian to repeat that sad story, which she would naturally wish forgotten?" he asked, with sternness. "Was it kind to her?"

"Oh, of course she would not wish people to know it," said Frances, looking annoyed; "but I don't think it is right that she should be received here under false pretences."

"Really!" he said, raising his eyebrows. "I don't know where the false pretences are; but I am exceedingly glad to see my friend Miss Tracy again. Excuse me, I must go and speak to her."

The next moment he was by Juliet's side, greeting her with a heartiness which was intensified by his quick perception that she was being wounded and slighted by the people with whom she was associated in this Christian work. It was impossible for Juliet to hide how she was thrilled and gladdened by his warm hand-clasp and cordial greeting.

"I am so glad to see you again, Miss Tracy," he said. "I have often wished that we might meet; but I have not been to town since I came north, and I did not know that you had left London."

"No, to-day she has one of her bad headaches; but she has been stronger on the whole since we came to St. Anne's."

"I should like to call on her one day, if I may. My sister and I are staying for a few days at the Priory. You remember my sister who lives in Paris?"

Juliet flushed deeply as she replied in the affirmative. He was vexed with himself for awakening a painful memory.

"We have no friends," said Juliet, with emphasis; "but my mother and I are happy in our little home. We do not desire society."

He saw that he was intensifying her bitter emotions. Could he do nothing to comfort her?

"I have not," Juliet replied, with the slightest upward movement of the head. "I was not deemed worthy of that honour."

The next minute Mr. Mainprice was hastening across the room to where Lady Ernestine stood, near the door, saying a few words to Mrs. Staines ere she took her departure.

"Can you spare me five minutes?" he asked, addressing her with the confidence of a friend. "I have unexpectedly found a friend here, whom I should be glad to introduce to you."

"What! That charming girl at the flower stall?" asked Lady Ernestine, who had observed him talking with Juliet. "I shall be delighted to make her acquaintance."

As they walked up the room together, he had time to give her a hurried explanation of Juliet's miserable position. Lady Ernestine esteemed him so highly that it was enough for her that he wished to befriend this girl. Presently all eyes that cared to turn in that direction saw Lady Ernestine chatting in the pleasantest manner with the vendor of flowers.

"You must really come and see us at the Priory, Miss Tracy," she was saying. "I understand that you know Miss Mainprice. Could you come to us on Friday afternoon? We have invited a few friends to an informal garden-party, and Miss Mainprice has promised to tell us something of her work in Paris. Now don't decline till you have thought more of it," she protested, as Juliet, taken by surprise, and shrinking from the visit proposed, though conscious of the kindness which prompted the invitation, tried to falter out an excuse. "We can send a carriage for you, and I hope your mother will be well enough to accompany you. I will send her a card, trusting she will excuse the brief notice."

Juliet could only murmur her thanks. Then suddenly she remembered the bouquet, which in her disappointment, she had put out of sight. She brought it forward now, and begged Lady Ernestine to accept it.

"I wanted to give it to you, before," she said simply, "but I had not the courage."

"Am I so formidable?" asked Lady Ernestine, laughing. "How good of you to think of giving it to me! The flowers are exquisite, and those Maréchal Niel roses are my special adoration. Now mind, I expect to see you on Friday," she said, loud enough for all in the immediate neighbourhood to hear, as she shook hands with Juliet. "You must not disappoint me."

Then, accompanied by Mr. Mainprice, she walked down the room to join her husband, who was awaiting her at the door.

The selling went on merrily after her departure. Juliet had no difficulty in disposing of her flowers. She was as busy as possible for some time, but not so busy that she failed to observe a difference in the atmosphere about her. Mrs. Staines came presently to ask how she was getting on, and if she would not like someone to relieve her whilst she took a cup of tea. The other stall-holders also dropped their air of aloofness, having speedily come to the conclusion that Miss Hayes' story was probably exaggerated and perhaps malicious. Anyhow, it could not much matter what Miss Tracy did so long ago, since Lady Ernestine Whitehouse was disposed to make so much of her.

Thus the day ended for Juliet better than she could have hoped, a little while before, and she was able to return to her mother in fair spirits, though its strangely mingled experiences had left their impress on her mind.

CHAPTER XXV

MRS. TRACY was elated when she learned of the invitation to the garden-party at Ainsdale Priory. Not that she was ambitious of entering such distinguished society herself, but she rejoiced for Juliet's sake. Well as she understood her daughter, she perhaps hardly realised what an ordeal the proposed visit presented to Juliet, nor how she dreaded the rush of painful memories which the meeting with Miss Mainprice must inevitably bring.

But though with the sight of Miss Mainprice's face and the sound of her voice there was a vivid renewal for Juliet of the sense of loneliness, despair, and shame which had been hers as she wandered desolate through the crowded streets of Paris, or lay sick in mind and body in her close room beneath the hot roof of the Hotel Rome, Miss Mainprice's greeting was so unfeignedly friendly, her manner so full of sympathy, that the painful feeling could be but momentary.

Lady Ernestine's simple, unaffected kindliness soon made both Juliet and Mrs. Tracy feel completely at ease with her. Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Owen, with their respective husbands, were amongst the guests, and these ladies were much impressed when they saw how Juliet was welcomed by Lady Ernestine and the lady of whom their hostess spoke as "my friend Miss Mainprice," and to hear whose account of her work in Paris she had gathered them together that afternoon.

It was a perfect day for an outdoor gathering. The grounds of the Priory were very beautiful. Grand old trees afforded ample shade, green glades stretched between, where glimpses of shy deer could occasionally be caught, and from every point of view the antique dwelling, once the home of a religious brotherhood, presented a fine picture.

Juliet enjoyed the hours spent there more than she could have believed possible, as she anticipated them with nervous dread. Accompanied by Mr. Mainprice, who was well acquainted with every feature of the place, she thoroughly explored the grounds. The quiet talk she had with him as they walked about was not to Juliet the least valued incident of the afternoon, nor would he perhaps willingly have missed it.

Later, as the company sat on the lawn in the shade of a line of beeches, Miss Mainprice told them in simple, pointed words the history of the home in Paris and the work of which it was the centre. Her words touched Juliet deeply, moving her to a new discontent with her life, and a deeper longing for a wider life of action, which should afford a more complete escape from self.

Juliet had little imagined that it would be her lot to contribute to the entertainment of the company. It was a wonder and amazement to her afterwards to think of it; but when Lady Ernestine in her gentle, persuasive manner begged her to sing to them, she found it impossible to refuse. The piano stood just within the open French window of the drawing-room. The company were grouped partly within the room and partly on the steps and lawn outside. Miss Mainprice played the accompaniment as Juliet in her clear, sweet voice sang Miss Proctor's beautiful song known as "Cleansing Fires."

A great stillness succeeded her singing. It had so taken her audience by surprise that they were not ready to applaud when she ended. But the applause which followed in a few seconds was very hearty. For Mrs. Tracy this was the crowning pleasure of the afternoon. Her heart swelled with pride, as she heard from all around her enthusiastic admiration of her daughter's "lovely voice" and "exquisite singing." But Juliet slipped quickly out of sight. She did not want to hear what people were saying about her singing. Their compliments would have for her a bitter flavour. She was glad it was time to go home.

Mr. Mainprice and his sister were persuaded by Lady Ernestine to prolong their visit, and Mrs. Tracy and Juliet saw a good deal of them during the time that they were staying at the Priory. They went from there to take a brief holiday in Wales; but Mr. Mainprice came again to pass a few days at the Priory ere returning to his northern parish. Lady Ernestine thought she knew the attraction which made him so readily accept her invitation to come again.

On a lovely September evening, Juliet was walking alone along the shore. She and her mother had returned on the previous day from a brief visit to Leeds, and Mrs. Tracy had not yet recovered from the fatigue of the journey, though it was not long.

Juliet was glad to be at home; but it was not with unalloyed satisfaction that she looked forward to passing the winter at St. Anne's. There was no hint of winter in the air yet. It had been a perfect day, and the evening was as perfect. Juliet was disposed to linger on the quiet sands. More than once she stood still to listen to the soft swell of the waves as they broke on the shore, and to gaze at the shimmering golden track with which the sinking sun was marking the sea.

She had stood thus for some minutes lost in thought as she gazed, when, turning with her eyes dazzled by the yellow light, she dimly perceived a dark figure coming towards her. It came nearer, and she heard a voice she had little expected to hear again so soon; for she did not know that Mr. Mainprice had returned to the neighbourhood. She was startled, and the colour flew into her face. He saw that she was greatly moved, but the signs of agitation were such as he rejoiced to see.

"I have just been talking with your mother," he said, as they shook hands. "She told me I should probably find you on the sands."

"Oh, then you came to find me?" said Juliet naïvely. "I never thought of seeing you, for I did not know you were here."

"I came to take the Sunday services at Ainsdale," he replied; "it was arranged when I was there before. I am going away to-morrow. I wanted so much to see you before I went."

"It seemed very strange that you should appear," said Juliet, "for just before I turned and saw you, I had been thinking of that evening when we met at Lynton. Do you remember?"

"When we met upon the cliffs—that grand path along the cliffs? Surely I remember it. The scenery there is very different from this."

"Very; and yet the quiet sea, the sunset hues, the sinking sun brought it all back to me. You did your best to warn me that night, Mr. Mainprice, but it was of no use. I had to learn my own folly by bitter experience. Is it always so? Can no one get wisdom but at such a price? I suppose not, when they are as wilful as I was."

"We most of us, I think, need to suffer ere we become conscious of sin," said Mr. Mainprice; "and we often learn to count as our greatest blessings the pains which first roused us to a sense of danger, and showed us the perilous path we were treading."

"Do you mean that I should be thankful that I have so marred my life?" Juliet asked bitterly.

"Your life is not marred," he said quickly. "I will not allow you to say it. You may surely be thankful for the pain that has tended to correct and purify your character. Juliet,—let me call you so,—it seems to me that your thoughts on this subject are growing morbid. You believe that God has forgiven you the errors of the past. Can you not forgive yourself?"

"I might," said Juliet, in a low voice, "it might be possible to forgive, if I could ever forget."

"Juliet," he said, "let me help you to forget. Put the past quite away from you, and begin a new life with me."

She did not answer for a moment. She stood looking at him with bewilderment in her eyes. "You ask me to marry you?"

"Well," she said slowly, as if thinking aloud, "I always thought you were good and kind, but I never knew till now how good and unselfish you are."

"Neither good nor unselfish, darling. You do not understand, if you think that. Tell me—shall it be as I wish?"

Again she was silent. She was gazing across the sea with a strange expression on her face, as of pride and exultation. But when he again begged for a reply, she shook her head.

"No, no," she said; "you have made me glad and proud, but I will not be your wife."

"You do not like me well enough?" His tone was suggestive of fore-tasted disappointment.

"Because I like you too well," she said. "You shall not have a wife, Mr. Mainprice, of whom people can tell such a story as they were whispering of me the other day at the bazaar. Oh, I know the kind of things they said, although I did not hear them."

"What does it matter what such people say?" he asked hotly; "it would soon die away; it would all be forgotten when you became my wife."

"Do you think so?" she asked, with a sad smile. "Now I am certain that such an event would give the story new life and a quite remarkable growth. No, no; do not urge me. You are very kind—I thank you from the bottom of my heart—but I will not be your wife. It would not be right. I cannot think of it."

"But you do not understand me. You wholly mistake my motive," he said. "How can I persuade you to look at the question from my point of view?"

"I do look at it from your point of view," she replied. She turned as she spoke to walk homeward.

And as he glanced at her, the poise of her head, the set of her small firm lips, the air of resolution with which she stepped out, all told of a will not lightly to be moved. He was in despair as he walked in silence by her side.

He did not speak again till they halted at the gate of the cottage. Then he held out his hand.

"No, thank you," he replied. "I have said all I have to say to Mrs. Tracy." Then after a pause he added, "You have misunderstood me this evening. You have imputed to me motives of kindness, of disinterestedness, to which I can lay no claim. I want you to be my wife because I love you, because I believe that our lives might blend into a harmonious, blessed whole. Now I will not add another word, except to ask you quietly and thoughtfully to reconsider your decision. I have perhaps spoken too hastily. I will wait. I cannot take this as your final answer."

"I will come again," he went on, as if he did not hear her words, "I will come again in the spring."

"I must judge of that for myself," he said hurriedly. "It is enough that you do not forbid me to come."

And he turned and walked quickly away, as if in dread of hearing more words from her.

Juliet lingered long amid the flowers and shrubs in the garden ere she entered the house. The lamp was lighted in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Tracy sat there with a book before her, which, however, she was not reading. She looked up with some eagerness as Juliet entered.

"Yes, I saw him, but he would not come in. He was going to walk to Ainsdale, I believe."

"What do you expect me to tell you, mother? If Mr. Mainprice confided his intention to you, you know all there is to tell; for, of course, you could have no doubt as to my reply."

"What did you hope, you foolish little mother?" Juliet asked, vainly striving to steady her voice. "It was noble—it was generous of him; but how can my life ever be what it might have been if—" She paused, conscious of a choking sensation in her throat.

"I am not at all too hard. Think what Salome would say if she heard that I was going to marry a clergyman!"

"No, she would be shocked. She would say she was sorry for Arthur Mainprice. And so she might be. But I will not spoil his life."

"He is not one to love lightly," said Mrs. Tracy. "You must have made him very unhappy."

"He is coming again in the spring," said Juliet, the words breaking from her involuntarily. The next moment she added quickly, "Don't let us speak any more about it. I wish it had not happened; but since it has, the only thing now is to forget it as soon as possible." She quitted the room as she spoke.

So the subject was dropped. Mrs. Tracy did not name Mr. Mainprice again, nor did Juliet ever allude to him; yet her mother doubted if she had succeeded in dismissing him from her mind. Juliet did not appear unhappy, but she was certainly unusually quiet and thoughtful. There was at times a wistful, far-away look on her face, of which her mother thought she knew the significance.

But for the most part Juliet was too busy to indulge in profitless dreaming or bitter retrospect. She was becoming a second Salome in her devotion to the poor. She was ready to undertake any work which Mrs. Staines, who since the garden-party at the Priory had treated Juliet with the utmost consideration, desired to give her. Willing workers have always full hands. Juliet was no exception to the rule, for the winter was severe, even in sheltered St. Anne's, and there was much suffering amongst the poor.

Whether the wintry weeks passed swiftly for her because she was so busy, Mrs. Tracy could not tell. She herself found them drag heavily. But she saw that Juliet was on the watch for signs of spring's awakening in their little garden.

One day she brought her mother two or three snowdrops, which had ventured to push their dainty heads above the heavy clods.

"If you could feel how keen the wind is as it blows up the road, you would not think spring was near," said Juliet. "There will be snow again soon."

"Ah, but spring is on the way," said her mother, and she saw a sudden glow on Juliet's face.

Three weeks later, at the end of February, came a burst of real spring weather. The air was mild, the sunshine brilliant; everywhere there was the mysterious breathing forth of new life and hope which makes that season like none other.

One morning, as she dressed, Juliet spied some primroses in the garden, and ran out to pick them ere she took her breakfast.

Her mother was reading a letter, but looked up from it as Juliet laid the primroses beside her on the table, saying—

"Spring is come when the primroses appear," said Mrs. Tracy. "I call it spring now, and so does someone else. See, I have a note from Mr. Mainprice. He is at Preston, and will be here this afternoon."

Juliet started; she grew red, and then pale. She moved to the French window, and opening it, stood in the opening, with her back towards her mother, as if she felt a sudden need for air. Then she said tremulously—

"He will come," said her mother, "and you will have to give him your answer again. Oh, Juliet! When the hand of God brings you this great happiness, will you refuse it? Will you let pride and self-will mar your life again?"

"Again! Oh, mother!" Juliet strove to speak steadily. "If—if I thought this was God's way for me—"

Her voice broke. She stepped hastily out through the open window, and turned the corner of the house.

"She loves him," she said to herself. "I knew it. Surely now all will come right."

And the mother's heart was no longer afraid. She believed that as spring was renewing the face of the dark earth, changing bareness to beauty, gloom to gladness, bitter blast to gentle breeze, so the life of Juliet, chilled and darkened by the errors of her youth, was to break forth into a spring of love and hope, which no shadows from the past should have power to dim.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Her own way

HER OWN WAY

CHAPTER I