CHAPTER XXI

THE FRUIT OF SELF-WILL

VERY early the next morning, so early that the familiar roads and houses looked strangely unlike themselves, Salome and Juliet drove up to the gate of The Poplars. It was an hour by which, even on a week-day, few persons have quitted their beds, and this was Sunday, though both Juliet and Salome were oblivious of the fact. Every blind visible at the front of the house was closely drawn.

Juliet, shivering, as she looked out of the cab, from the combined effects of excitement and the chill of the early morn, did not pause to reflect that she had never before looked at her home from the outside at that hour. The closed windows could suggest to her but one idea, and she turned deadly pale as she gasped out, "Oh, the blinds—the blinds are all down!"

"As they always are at this hour," said Salome, in her matter-of-fact way; "do you suppose we sleep with our blinds up?"

Juliet looked somewhat relieved. They advanced to the door. The knocker was muffled, and produced so slight a sound, that Juliet hardly expected they would gain admittance; but Hannah must have been looking out for them, for after a few minutes she opened the door, attired in a dressing-gown, and wearing the haggard look of one who has been watching all night.

She drew Salome in and kissed her with an air of welcome; but after giving Juliet a brief, cold stare, she turned her shoulder on her and addressed herself to Salome.

"Oh, I am so thankful you have come! I have wanted you very much these last two days."

"How is mother?" asked Salome.

"Very ill. She has not slept at all. Dr. Gardner fears for her brain. Her mind is wandering now. She keeps talking and talking and calling for Juliet."

Hannah paused, and cast a hard, reproachful glance at Juliet.

"I hope you are satisfied, Juliet, with what you have done," she said.

"Oh, don't, Hannah," interposed Salome swiftly; "don't be hard on Juliet! She has suffered enough."

Hannah looked on her young sister's altered face, and felt that her words were cruel. The wavy golden hair escaping from the little travelling-cap framed a face which was utterly colourless save for the blueness of the lips, and which had a wan, pinched look strangely in contrast to its childish contour. Grief will often bring a look of age even to a young face, and the anguish and remorse which had been working in Juliet's mind through the long hours of the night had left their impress. It was not a girl, but a grief-stricken woman, who looked at Hannah with a mute appeal for mercy in her melancholy eyes.

"What does Dr. Gardner say? Tell me," she demanded breathlessly. "He does not think she will die?"

"He is very much afraid," Hannah answered, choosing her words carefully. "He said if you did not come soon, it would be too late; but he thought your coming might save her."

A sob broke from Juliet. She turned in haste to the staircase. She would have gone at once, as she was, into her mother's presence; but Hannah checked her, and went first to acquaint the nurse with her coming.

A few minutes later, Juliet entered the familiar room. The windows were so darkened that she could hardly see her way across it. There was a strong smell of vinegar. Was it her mother's form moving so restlessly on the bed? Was the voice which sounded so hollow and so far-away indeed her mother's? Juliet drew nearer, and words became audible.

"Oh, Juliet! Oh, my child!" wailed the weary voice. "Is she lost—lost? Tell them they must find her. She cannot have wandered so far-away. The jungle is a terrible place. There are tigers there—tigers and snakes—oh, such horrible snakes! And she such a tender little darling. Oh, why did I not take better care of her? Why did I trust her out of my sight? Juliet! Juliet!"

"Speak to her," said the nurse, drawing Juliet close to the bedside, "speak to her; she will know your voice, perhaps."

Juliet's voice was so choked by sobs that for a few moments she could not command it; but with a desperate effort she controlled herself, and bending close to her mother, she said—

"Mother, I am here. I have come back to you. Look up and see. It is I, your Juliet."

The talking suddenly ceased. Mrs. Tracy opened her eyes.

"Speak again," whispered the nurse.

"Mother, darling mother; do you not understand? Look at me, speak to me—your Juliet."

At this moment, the nurse slid back a curtain and turned the venetian blind. The sunlight entering fell on Juliet's golden head as she knelt beside her mother. A look of sudden recognition came into the patient's eyes.

"Oh, Juliet!" she murmured, in accents of joy, "Juliet! My darling!"

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Juliet, breaking down utterly and crying aloud. "I have been so wicked, so wicked! I do not deserve your forgiveness. But oh, say you will get well now! Oh, promise me you will get well now!"

"Of course, darling," murmured the faint, far-away voice. "But don't cry, Juliet; I cannot bear to hear you cry."

The nurse attempted to draw the weeping girl from the bedside, but her mother's weak fingers had fastened upon hers. "Don't leave me, Juliet," she gasped out. "Stay with me, now you have come."

"Yes, yes," murmured Juliet, and she clasped the dear hand closer and pressed her lips to it, struggling to keep back her sobs.

A look of content stole over Mrs. Tracy's face. Her eyelids drooped. The nurse darkened the window again, and in a few moments the patient was peacefully sleeping with her hand clasped in Juliet's.

Juliet knelt there, fearing to move, lest she should break her mother's slumber, till her limbs grew stiff and her constrained position became agonising. Then the nurse gently drew her mother's hand away, and Juliet saw that the sleep was too profound to be disturbed by so slight a movement. The repose which exhausted body and excited brain so sorely needed had come at last. There was now good hope of recovery.

And Mrs. Tracy did recover. As Dr. Gardner had foreseen, the return of Juliet, the sight of her face, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, were the best medicine her mother could have. The improvement which set in with her coming was steadily maintained.

Yet Mrs. Tracy's recovery was slow, and several weeks passed ere she could quit her bedroom. During that period, Juliet scarcely left her side. Again and again, her mother would urge her to go out; but Juliet was content to take the fresh air in the little garden at the back of the house, and seldom went beyond the gate. She felt that she could never do enough to show her love to the mother who had received her again so lovingly, and not only forgiven her gross ingratitude, but put it utterly from her, as a thing to be consigned to everlasting oblivion.

Juliet could not so dismiss it. The more she was made to feel her mother's love, the more she hated herself for what she had done. In her bitter repentance and self-loathing, she would have felt it a relief if her mother had upbraided her, or in any way caused her to suffer for her wrong-doing.

"You ought to hate me, mother," she would say sometimes.

"Oh no, dear," her mother would respond, with a smile; "you were so deluded, you did not know what you were doing."

"Deluded? I was mad!" Juliet would reply.

And madness indeed it now seemed, the insatiable vanity which demanded worldwide admiration and renown, her proud belief in her own power, her confidence that she could bend others to her will, her wilful determination to win her own way at any cost. She had been as the victim of an insane delusion, like such as imagine themselves kings or queens when they are but ordinary mortals, or who persuade themselves they are the possessors of thousands of pounds, when they have not as many pence. But Juliet knew that though she had been thus mad, it was a madness for which she was responsible. For she had known all the while what she was doing.

Each step had been deliberately taken in defiance of the protests of her better self. Regardless of every consideration which should have restrained her, she had striven to make of her life what she would, and, like all who so seek to save their lives, she had suffered loss. How great and bitter the loss her wrong-doing involved, Juliet had yet to learn.

She knew little of the outer world during the days which she passed in devoted attention to the invalid. The nurse had been dismissed shortly after the patient was pronounced out of danger, and Juliet now performed her duties, with some occasional help from Salome. Hannah had gone to take the change at the seaside which her mother's illness had delayed, and which it was desirable she should enjoy ere returning to her duties at the high school. The days passed quietly and uneventfully. Juliet seldom found time and inclination to look at a newspaper. She did not know that Algernon Chalcombe had been tried at the county assizes, found guilty, and sentenced to twelve months' imprisonment. She was not curious concerning his fate. She hated to think of him now, and would have been thankful if she could have banished his name and memory for ever from her mind.

Salome was aware of the fact, but she shrank from mentioning it to Juliet. Salome was trying hard to be patient with Juliet, and to make every allowance for her; but there were times when she was disposed to resent bitterly the folly of which Juliet had been guilty. It was certainly making life hard for Salome. She visited her district as assiduously as ever, neglected no religious duty, and attended every service of the church; but these engagements were made bitter to her now by her perception of a coolness in Mrs. Hayes' bearing towards her, since Juliet's elopement became the talk of the neighbourhood. She imagined, too, that Mr. Ainger must think less well of her in consequence, and the thought made her painfully nervous and self-conscious whenever she encountered the curate. A sense of injustice rankled in her mind, for surely no one had a right to blame her for what Juliet had done. She, most certainly, had never failed to administer reproof when occasion demanded it.

When Hannah returned home in September, and resumed her duties at the high school, she too found fresh cause to resent the way in which Juliet had disgraced them. She treated her young sister with marked coldness. Juliet did not so much mind that, but she felt painfully that she had brought a heavy shadow on the home life. Her mother came downstairs again and took her accustomed place, but she looked sadly aged and worn by all she had suffered. The old brightness had gone from her glance, and even her smiles seemed sad. Juliet could hardly look on her without a throb of keenest self-reproach.

As her mother no longer needed her constant attention, Juliet, thankful though she was to see her so much better, became conscious of a sore weight of depression, such as she had never known before. She hardly knew how to occupy herself. The days dragged heavily. Her life seemed to have lost all interest.

"Why do you not practise your singing, dear?" her mother suggested to her one day, as Juliet lounged about, unable to settle to anything.

A hot flush suddenly dyed Juliet's face.

"Don't name my singing to me again, mother, if you love me!" she said, with concentrated bitterness in her voice. "That delusion is shattered for ever."

"But, dear, you have really a very nice voice," Mrs. Tracy began, in her gentle, soothing way. A glance at Juliet arrested the words.

The girl was leaning against the window-shutter, and the light falling full on her face showed it to be pale and thin, the delicate brows contracted as if with pain, and her expression so sorrowful as to be almost that of despair.

"Oh, my dear child, do not look like that!" cried her mother in distress. "You must not let yourself brood upon the past. Try to forget what is so painful."

"As if one could forget," said Juliet bitterly, and the tears, which had been slowly gathering in her eyes, suddenly began to fall. But she quickly wiped them away, and stood motionless as before.

"Why do you not go out?" asked her mother. "It is such a lovely day. You never take a walk now, except those little turns with me, which are not exercise enough for you."

"I hate to go out alone when I have nothing to do," said Juliet. "If you would care for a drive to-day, I should be pleased to go with you."

"Not to-day, thank you, dear. I think it is rather too cold for driving. And I cannot allow you to be always spending money on drives for me."

"Mother, don't talk like that, please. What have I to do with my money now except spend it on you?"

"You are very good, my darling. I know you like to give me pleasure," said Mrs. Tracy. "If you want an object for a walk, I can give you one. I wish you would get me some more of this grey wool at Spalding's. You cannot match it at any other shop, and I shall soon be at a standstill for want of it."

Juliet did not like to refuse her mother's request, but it was with reluctance that she went to prepare for the walk. She had not walked alone in the vicinity of her home since her return from the Continent.

It was a lovely though keen September day. The crisp, autumnal feeling in the air made walking delightful. In spite of sorrowful thought, Juliet was agreeably sensible of the freshness and clearness of the atmosphere, as she walked briskly along the high road, where many of the trees were already brilliant with the golden and russet hues of autumn, and dead leaves thickly strewed the garden paths.

Juliet's way took her past the high school. Miss Tucker came out of the door as Juliet approached, but suddenly she turned and hurriedly re-entered the building. Her eyes had met Juliet's for a moment ere she turned. An uneasy sensation smote like a chill to Juliet's heart. Could it be that Miss Tucker had turned so quickly in order to avoid her? Though she had been such an unsatisfactory scholar, she had always regarded the head mistress with warm esteem, and she had believed that Miss Tucker liked her. Had she heard all, and did she condemn her late scholar so severely that she could not even vouchsafe her a greeting? Juliet's face burned with shame at the thought. Her heart sank very low. She walked slowly on, lost in painful thought, made her purchase without giving much heed to it, and turned homewards.

As she re-passed the high school, the girls were coming out. Juliet had carefully taken the opposite side of the way, but Dolly Hayes, a bright little girl of nine, who had enjoyed many a romp with Juliet, saw her and came running to her across the road. But almost immediately an elder sister followed, and as Dolly reached Juliet's side, she caught her by the skirt behind, and drew her back, in spite of her struggles and indignant protests. Juliet stood watching with amusement, thinking it only a bit of rough play, till she heard the elder one say—

"Come away, Dolly. You are not to go to Juliet Tracy. Don't you remember mother said we were not to speak to her if we saw her in the street?"

"I don't care. I shall speak to her. I love Juliet," protested the angry child.

But Juliet had heard enough. There was no misunderstanding this. She felt as if she had received a sudden stab. Her very strength seemed to go from her. In an instant she was weak, wounded, helpless. She bent her head and hurried home, scarce able to see her way for the blinding tears which would keep rising in her eyes.

At a corner, not a stone's throw from The Poplars, she ran against Mrs. Hayes, who was walking with Mr. Mainprice. Juliet lifted her eyes and met Mrs. Hayes' pitiless stare. That lady gave her a hard, scornful, deliberate glance, sufficient to show that she recognised her perfectly, but did not intend to salute her, and walked on.

Juliet dimly saw that Mr. Mainprice lifted his hat. She heard him utter her name. She believed afterwards that he had stopped and held out his hand, but she was too confused at the moment to observe anything distinctly. Conscious only of bitterest humiliation, her one instinctive impulse was to escape and hide herself from those cruel eyes.

She entered the house as noiselessly as possible, hoping that her mother would not hear her come in, and hurried up to her own room. There she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, and sobbed as though her heart would break. For she knew all now. There had been that in Mrs. Hayes' glance which had made everything clear to her comprehension. She knew how people were regarding her. She saw the impression which her conduct, revealed only in its bare details, must have made upon their minds. She understood how fatally she had marred her future. In her wilful folly, she had tarnished the good name which is a girl's most priceless possession. And what could life be worth without it?