CHAPTER XX

A DELUSION DESTROYED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salome felt that she had yielded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly you may," said Salome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salome quickly made herself ready, and they set out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Juliet looked as if she could not believe her ears.

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

"I have no recollection of ever using those words," he replied. "When you came to me, I understood that you wished to sing as an amateur, and as such I gave you lessons. I could not have encouraged you to dream of becoming a public singer, for till this moment I had no idea that you ever contemplated such a career. If you had consulted me, I should have told you it was impossible. Now I will be quite candid with you. You have a fair voice; it is sweet, it is flexible, there are good notes in it; but—it would be lost in a concert hall. It would do very well for drawing-room singing. You can study with that end in view; you might in time perhaps give lessons."

"Thank you," said Juliet sharply. "I have not the least desire to be a teacher."

He shrugged his shoulders again. "And you would need to learn a great deal before you were fit to teach," he said. "You are no musician, my dear Miss Tracy. Your knowledge of the science is very imperfect; you are no timist; you lack accuracy, delicacy, finesse; above all, the indomitable perseverance which alone achieves greatness in art. Oh yes, I know. You think it would be grand to be a prima donna; you crave the admiration, the applause, the renown. You desire to be set up yourself. But love of self is not the love of art, nor can the highest success be won by its inspiration. It is not religion only that demands self-denial. No end worth having can be won without it. And art itself becomes a religion to the true artist. I could tell you passages of my own history that would astonish you."

So far Signor Lombardi had spoken with growing earnestness. But now he suddenly checked himself in his fervency, shrugged his shoulders, made a comical grimace, and said, with a side glance at Juliet—

"Bah! Why should I talk thus? How can a young lady like you, living only to amuse herself, understand the steep, rough steps by which the artist climbs? No, no. It is not your vocation to be an artist. You are a charming young lady; that is your vocation."

Juliet stood as one stunned. Her mortification was so intense that she could not speak. She winced when Signor Lombardi told her that she was a charming young lady, conceiving that he used the words in scorn; but she had no retort to make. All her spirit seemed gone. It was Salome who interposed to end the interview.

"It is a disappointment to you, Juliet," she said, "but you must be grateful to Signor Lombardi for telling you the truth. We need not occupy more of his time."

"Oh, do not hurry away," said the signor, flourishing his fat white hands; "I am sorry my words have been so unpalatable, but I think it is best to speak the truth."

Juliet flashed an indignant glance at him.

"I wish you had spoken it before," she said bitterly.

He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. "I have never spoken otherwise," he said. "Ah, my dear young lady, you are angry with me now; but some day you will be thankful that I saved you from the toilsome life of the artist who is fated to fail. For it is too late for you to dream of making your mark as a singer. Your training should have begun years ago. You are, I believe, twenty years old?"

"I am twenty-one," said Juliet.

"Just so. Well, you must be thankful that Providence has been so kind to you, that you are not dependent for a living on your musical gifts. Fate has doubtless in store for a beautiful young lady like you a far happier lot than that of the majority of singers."

Juliet turned in haste to go. His words seemed to her insulting, his presence, since he had so wounded her self-confidence, insupportable. When she presently found herself walking by Salome's side on the hot pavement, she had no consciousness of bidding him good-day or passing down the long staircase into the street.

Salome looked at her, and held her peace. The girl's miserable, hopeless expression stirred her compassion; but she knew that Juliet could bear no word from her then. So in absolute silence they traversed the long, broad streets.

But when they reached the house, a new and more sorrowful turn was given to their thoughts. A telegram had arrived in their absence; its brief, blunt message bid them both return home at once. Mrs. Tracy's illness had assumed a most serious aspect, and it was feared she could not live.