CONTRITION
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."
"I am not so sure of that," said Salome.
"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?"
"Hardly. She and Frances have not seemed at all friendly of late."
"With Dora Felgate, perhaps," suggested Mrs. Tracy.
"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."
"Oh no, Hannah," said Mrs. Tracy quickly; "Juliet would not go there."
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.
"Come in!" rang out Juliet's voice, and Salome entered.
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."
"Oh, did you only come to say that?" Juliet's accents were provokingly
cool.
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."
"No, thank you, I am not hungry."
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.
"Where did you have tea?" asked Salome.
"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."
"Really, Juliet, it is hard if a sister cannot ask so simple a thing as
that!"
"You may ask, of course,—as many questions as you like,—but I do not
feel bound to answer them."
"I must say, Juliet, you are very polite."
"And I must say you are very inquisitive."
"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."
And Salome quitted the room.
"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.
Mrs. Tracy turned round with a startled air.
"Are you sure of what you are saying, Salome?" she asked, with unusual
incisiveness.
"Quite sure, mother. Juliet told me so herself."
"She was perhaps joking," suggested Mrs. Tracy.
"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—
"Oh, mother! I am so sorry. I did not think you would mind so very
much."
"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—"
"Oh, did you see him?" interrupted Mrs. Tracy, in a tone of vexation.
"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!"
"I don't agree with you, dear. The idea is not at all to my mind."
"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.
"What are you doing, dear?" her mother asked.
"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.
"I brought them up last night," Juliet said exultantly.
"I do believe you love me a little, Juliet," her mother said.
"A little, mother! I love you a very great deal."
"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."
"What is it?" Juliet asked reluctantly.
"Promise me you will not enter the Chalcombes' house again."
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.