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?