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.