A TALENT UNWRAPPED
IN a quiet little watering-place on the breezy coast of Lancashire
there stood, some years ago, a pretty gabled cottage which had long
lacked a tenant. It stood in a good-sized garden, well stocked with
shrubs; it could boast a small stable and outhouse, and a charming
little conservatory opened out of the drawing-room. It was indeed a
"desirable residence," as the advertisements proclaimed it; but, owing
probably to the extreme quietude of its situation, and the lack of
society in the little place, save for its brief invasion by strangers
during the months of July and August, the house had remained unlet from
one year to another.
Quite a sensation was created at St. Anne's when it was known that the
gabled cottage had found a tenant. A widow lady was coming to reside
there with her daughter. In due time, they arrived and took possession
of their new home. Such information as could be gleaned concerning them
rapidly circulated amongst the inhabitants of the little place. The
lady's name was Tracy; she came from London. The daughter who lived
with her was young and very pretty; but Mrs. Tracy had also two elder
daughters, the children of a former marriage, who kept a school at
Leeds. The cottage was simply but tastefully furnished. Its occupants
did not seem to mind the dulness of the situation, though it was
strange that a bright young girl should be content with the quiet life
she must lead at St. Anne's.
As time passed on, the most eager of the gossips did not find much to
add to these early discovered facts. They became familiar with the
appearance of Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, as they saw them driving
about the country in a little basket-chaise drawn by a smart young
pony, Juliet handling the reins very skilfully, and with much pleasure
in the novel diversion. The girl's bright hair, vivid complexion, and
violet eyes, the taste with which she dressed, the spirit and energy
which marked even her slightest actions, called forth much admiring
comment.
The clergyman's wife, Mrs. Staines, who early called on the new-comers,
proclaimed her "a sweet girl," and spoke of Mrs. Tracy as the "dearest
little woman imaginable." The doctor's wife, who also called, was less
discreet, and opined that there must be some extraordinary reason why
such people buried themselves alive in a dull little hole like St.
Anne's. It was all very well to say that it was on account of Mrs.
Tracy's health, but there were numbers of places ten thousand times
livelier than St. Anne's, equally sheltered and favoured with sunshine
and sea air.
Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, however, far from complaining of dulness,
showed no wish to avail themselves of such society as the little town
could offer. They received every overture courteously and pleasantly,
but made no attempt to advance to terms of intimacy with any of their
new acquaintances. Thus it came to pass, that when they had lived a
year at St. Anne's, their neighbours knew little more about them than
they did when they arrived.
One mild April afternoon, Mrs. Tracy was sitting alone in the pretty
drawing-room of the gabled cottage. Juliet had gone by rail to a large
and flourishing watering-place a few miles distant, which boasted a
good circulating library, to which she was a subscriber. She had become
a great reader, and was developing quite a critical taste for the
"solid" literature which she had formerly spurned.
Mrs. Tracy had not long been alone. A visitor had just left her, the
object of whose visit was now causing Mrs. Tracy serious reflection,
and leading her mentally to review the tranquil, unvarying course
of the last year's life. Not so long ago she would have thought it
impossible that Juliet could be content with so quiet and uneventful
a life; but the girl seemed calmly happy, as she read and studied and
took long walks and drives. Only the mother felt sure that a time must
come when she would yearn for a fuller life.
"Let us go to a place as unlike London as possible," Juliet had said,
when they began to discuss their plans for the future; and certainly
St. Anne's seemed to fulfil this condition.
The home at The Poplars had been broken up when Hannah obtained the
post at Leeds for which she had applied, and Salome accompanied her
thither. Mrs. Tracy and Juliet had wandered about for a while. It had
been suggested to them that they should go abroad, but the very sound
of that word was like a nightmare to Juliet, conjuring up visions of
crimson velvet furniture and lavish gilding, sensations of stifling
heat and sickening odours, and painful memories of the shame and misery
of which these had been the dreary accompaniments.
It was Mrs. Tracy who had thought of St. Anne's. She had known it as
a girl, and felt inclined to renew her acquaintance with the quiet,
quaint, out-of-the-world place. Moreover, it was sufficiently near to
Leeds to make it possible for her elder daughters to visit her once or
twice during the year.
When Juliet saw that the idea of St. Anne's had an attraction for her
mother, she was bent upon going there. A visit was paid to the little
town; the gabled cottage was seen and approved; as promptly as might be
all preliminaries were settled, and the quiet, pretty spot became their
home.
Mrs. Tracy's face looked brighter and less careworn than it had been
wont to look at The Poplars. She was in fair health. The tranquil,
regular life suited her sensitive nerves. Yet still she had her cares,
and as before they chiefly concerned Juliet. Not that Juliet ever now
caused her anxiety by her waywardness. The girl had grown strangely
gentle and tractable. She never complained, never admitted that her
days were dull, never expressed a wish for a more stimulating life.
Only a sigh would now and then escape her unawares, or her mother
would surprise on her face a sad and wistful look, or she would betray
a restlessness which only long and vigorous exercise in the open air
could allay. But the keen eyes of love alone could detect such signs as
these. A careless observer might have fancied that the girl liked her
life better than her mother liked it for her.
It was a lovely April eve. The hawthorn hedge which begirt the little
garden was bursting into tender green. Primroses and hyacinths and a
few late daffodils decked the garden beds. Above the gate, an almond
tree drooped its dainty pink blossoms. Mrs. Tracy could see this
beautiful banner of spring's victory where she sat watching for Juliet
to appear. A thrush presently perched on its topmost bough and sang of
the promise of the summer. It was one of those days that seem to hold
a happy secret, and set one dreaming of some wonder and delight which
the coming days will hold. Yet Juliet's face looked pale and tired, and
even a little sad, as she passed beneath the blossom-laden boughs.
It brightened, however, as she opened the door, and advancing threw
into her mother's lap a little knot of primroses. She looked prettier
than ever, as she stood there with her golden hair tossed by the breeze
into a disorder which would have shocked Salome's sense of propriety.
The girlish face had lost none of its charm, yet it had taken deeper
lines, which told of womanly purpose and strength.
"Are they not sweet?" she said. "I saw them shining on the side of a
hedge, and felt constrained to climb a gate to get them for you. So
you see I have been despoiling my neighbour, and you are a receiver of
stolen flowers."
"I don't think anyone about here would call it stealing to gather a few
primroses," said Mrs. Tracy, holding the flowers close to her face that
she might enjoy their sweet, earthy scent.
"And how have you fared, dear? Have you the books you wanted?"
"Yes, all of them," said Juliet triumphantly: "'Ethics of the Dust,'
'Kingsley's Life,' and 'Froude's Essays.' Now which will you read
first?"
"I can better decide that when I have looked at them a little," said
Mrs. Tracy diplomatically. "Do you know I have had a visitor this
afternoon?"
"Indeed! What a wonder!" exclaimed Juliet. "Pray, who might the visitor
be?"
"Oh, no one extraordinary; only Mrs. Staines."
"Mrs. Staines!" repeated Juliet. "It is not very long since she last
favoured us with a call. Why did she come again so soon?"
"Well, really she came to see you this afternoon, Juliet," said Mrs.
Tracy, with some hesitation. "She—in fact—I am afraid you will hardly
be pleased—but the truth is you remember that at church on Thursday
evening, Mrs. Staines came in late and took a seat in front of us?"
Juliet gave a nod of assent. A shadow fell on her face, as she foresaw
what was coming.
"Well, she heard you sing, and she was struck with your voice. She says
it is lovely, so clear and pure. And she asked me if it had not been
very carefully trained. Of course I said that you had had good lessons,
and were at one time very fond of singing, but of late you had quite
given it up."
Juliet had turned her head aside, and Mrs. Tracy could not see her
pained expression and heightened colour; but she could guess that her
words were unwelcome, and she went on, rather nervously—
"She thought it such a pity you should give up singing, and she begged
me to tell you how much she wished you would help them by joining
the church choir. She says that it is most difficult to get good
cultured singing in a place like this. Such a voice as yours would be
an invaluable addition. She thinks it is a talent which you ought to
employ in God's service."
"Oh, I know—I know just what she said," exclaimed Juliet impatiently.
"I met Mr. Staines as I came from the station, and he said the very
same thing to me. Oh dear! If I had known what would come of it, I
would not have sung a note on Thursday night. Surely I can sufficiently
aid the singing from our pew."
She spoke with strong excitement, as she stood by the mantelpiece, her
hands playing with the little ornaments upon it, lifting and replacing
them, she the while without consciousness of what she was doing.
"Oh, I don't know about that, my dear," said her mother. "I can't help
thinking that you would be of more assistance if you sang with the
choir. But do not let it trouble you, Juliet. There is no reason why
you should join the choir if you would rather not."
"Was that all that Mrs. Staines said?" asked Juliet.
"Why, no, dear. She was full of talk about the bazaar they propose
having, in order to clear off the debt on the new schoolroom. She is
very anxious you should help with that, Juliet. She wants you to take a
stall with the Misses Brown."
"Oh, I daresay! What next?" demanded Juliet. "I do wish Mr. and
Mrs. Staines would leave us alone. And I hate bazaars. Why cannot
people give their money freely to defray the debt without wanting
antimacassars and pin-cushions in exchange for their guineas and
half-crowns?"
"I don't know, I am sure. Somehow a bazaar generally realises more
money, and it gives so many people an opportunity of helping. I have
promised to supply a stock of knitted goods for babies. If I were you,
I would give them your help, Juliet. I think you would come to take an
interest in the thing. It would be a change for you. And those Misses
Brown seem to be nice girls."
"Nice girls, mother! The younger one must be ten years older than I am."
"She can hardly be thirty yet, dear," replied Mrs. Tracy. "But there
are few nice girls of your age here. That is why Mrs. Staines is
anxious to secure your services. She said you would be quite an
acquisition."
"Very flattering, I am sure," said Juliet, feeling more and more
dislike to the idea as it was unfolded to her, "but don't you try to
bamboozle me, mother dear."
"My dear child, I would not for the world persuade you into anything
that you would not like," protested Mrs. Tracy. "The bazaar will not
be held till the end of June or some time in July. They hope Lady
Ernestine Whitehouse will consent to open it. And Mrs. Staines expects
to have many friends staying in the neighbourhood then who will come to
it. It promises to be a lively affair."
"Oh, too lively by half!" groaned Juliet. "Well, I must think about it
before I decide."
She turned and went slowly from the room and upstairs to her pretty
bedroom, with windows looking both south and west. The westward one
commanded a charming view of the sea. As Juliet looked through it now,
she saw the sun sinking in golden glory towards the waves. She went
nearer, and stood leaning against the sash as she fixed her eyes on the
glowing vision.
She gave it but a divided attention. Her mind was full of troubled
thought. She saw that her mother was desirous that she should interest
herself in the bazaar, but she had no inclination to do so. She was
equally reluctant to become a recognised singer in the little church.
She shrank from putting herself forward in any way. She did not want
people to notice her. She hated the idea of producing a sensation
now as much as she had formerly loved it. She had set herself so
strenuously to seek the opposite of her former aim that the very
idea of self-exaltation had grown hateful to her, and she could have
sincerely uttered the quaint prayer, "From the unhappy desire of
becoming great, good Lord, deliver me!"
Yet she could not truly have said that she was satisfied with the life
she now led. She had begun to yearn for a wider outlook on life, a
closer link of mutual service and sympathy with her day and generation.
She had doubts whether it were right to continue the narrow, isolated
existence which she had fervently embraced as the best means of
mortifying her baser, clamorous self.
She suspected it was cowardice which made her so shrink from society.
What did she fear? Must the mistake which had caused her such keen
remorse stain and cloud all her future? She could never forget it; but
might she not hope that for others it had sunk beneath the waters of
oblivion? Was its shadow likely to overwhelm her in a new circle of
acquaintance? Need she fear that in this remote place she would meet
anyone acquainted with that dark episode of her past? Surely, should
she meet with such, they might forgive her now.
If she accepted Mrs. Staines' invitations, she must come out of the
shell in which she had sought to hide herself; she must perforce be
friendly with these people whom she had been trying to hold at arm's
length. What should she do? As she debated the question with herself, a
voice from out of the past seemed to sound in her ear—
"Desire to do the will of another rather than your own. Strive to
get out of yourself."
That voice decided the matter. She had been looking at the question
entirely from her own point of view. Her fears and doubts and
misgivings had all circled around herself. It was certainly not her
will to do these things; it was the will of others. Therefore she
argued that it was her duty to deny herself, and do that which others
asked of her.
Later that evening, Juliet astonished her mother by opening the piano
and trying with uncertain, stumbling fingers to play some of her old
music. It was the first time she had touched the piano since they came
to St. Anne's. She had even said it was useless to have one, since she
never meant to touch the instrument again. It was only when her mother
suggested that Salome would like to find a piano there when she visited
them, that Juliet had consented to their bringing one.
Her mother listened now with surprise and pleasure, scarcely daring to
say a word, lest she should do more harm than good. Presently Juliet
struck a few chords, and then, with her clear, pure voice vibrating
with emotion, sang the well-known lines—
"Let thy gold be cast in the furnace,
Thy red gold precious and bright;
Do not fear the hungry fire,
With its caverns of burning light.
And thy gold shall return more precious,
Free from every spot and stain;
For gold must be tried by fire,
As the heart must be tried by pain."
Juliet sang but the one verse ere she swung herself round on the
music-stool, saying to her mother with a melancholy smile—
"Well, mother, what do you say? Have I still a voice?"
"Indeed you have—a beautiful one, dear. It seems to me sweeter than
ever."
"I never meant to sing again," said Juliet; "I wanted to forget that I
had a voice—to put the thought of it away from me as a temptation, a
snare, a cause of evil."
"Was not that rather like the man who hid his talent in a napkin?"
asked her mother.
"Perhaps it was," said Juliet, with a faint smile; "I never thought
of it somehow as a gift that might be turned to good account; but
now—now, mother, I will sing in the choir and sell at the bazaar, and
do whatever Mr. and Mrs. Staines want me to do."
"That is right, dear," said her mother heartily; "I am sure you will be
happier if you make yourself useful to others."
"Oh, I am happier now than I deserve to be," replied Juliet, "and I
dread doing anything to disturb the old order of things. But thus it
must be."
Having so decided, Juliet carried out her resolve in no half-hearted
fashion. She practised diligently for the church services, and proved
even a greater support to the psalmody than the clergyman and his wife
had anticipated.
She threw herself with zeal and energy into the plans for the bazaar,
and soon became thoroughly interested in them. As a thousand important
trifles occupied her attention, and her days grew busier and busier,
her spirits grew increasingly bright. Her sunny, mirthful smile, and
gay, defiant words reminded her mother of the Juliet of earlier days.
Mrs. Tracy rejoiced in the change, and looked forward to the rapidly
approaching day of the bazaar almost as gleefully as her child, not
foreseeing that, like many another eagerly anticipated day, it would
fail to fulfil its promise.