HIS LAST MESSAGE
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."
"Oh, hush, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, dreading a scene.
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.
The sisters looked at each other.
"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?"
"It is not rubbish," said Juliet stoutly, "it is a splendid tale."
"Utter trash, if not worse," said Hannah. "I hate to see such a book in
our house."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Juliet warmly. "There is no harm in the
book."
"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."
Hannah was the secretary of a "Society for the promotion of solid
reading."
"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?"
"I shall go to him, of course. I must go at once."
"I will come with you," cried Juliet.
"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."
"Really, Juliet, you seem to have no common-sense!" exclaimed Hannah.
Juliet flashed an angry glance at her sister, but forbore to urge her
proposal.
"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."
"Yes," said Salome; "shall you tell her to-morrow?"
"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."
Juliet was coughing when her mother came into the room to say good-bye
to her.
"My dear child," she said tenderly, "I cannot bear to hear you cough
so."
"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.
"Oh, don't tell me!" exclaimed Juliet wildly. "Don't tell me that he is
dead!"
"Perhaps you had better read the telegram, then," said Salome grimly.
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?"
But Juliet shook her head despondingly.