CHAPTER XIII

MORE MISTAKES THAN ONE

"MR. AINGER wishes to see you, please, miss."

Salome looked up from her sewing, startled by Ann's words.

"Mr. Ainger!" she repeated. "Did he ask for Mrs. Tracy?"

"No, miss, he asked for you."

"Have you shown him into the drawing-room, Ann?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Ainger?" she said, indicating a chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have another sister," said the curate, with some hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the curate rose to take his departure.

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

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

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

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

A confused, guilty look came to Juliet's countenance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is always so, if I try to do any good," said Juliet bitterly to her mother.

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

"Oh, my dear, you must not let one failure dishearten you," her mother replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could I get the training of an opera singer there?" Juliet inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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