Juliet's head swam as she read the newspaper report. Algernon Chalcombe a gambler and a forger! Was it to such a one that she had been ready to entrust her future? Was it for the sake of such a man that she had left her home and the mother who loved her so tenderly? No, not for his sake. She could not so deceive herself. It was for her own sake, for the sake of the future he had painted to her in such brilliant hues. He himself had counted for little with her. Amongst the many strangely mingled sensations Juliet experienced at this moment, came a conviction that she had never truly loved this man, whom she had dared to think of marrying.
Had she loved him, she would not have at once concluded that he was guilty of the crime of which he was accused. But she felt instinctively that the worst was true. With preternatural quickness, her mind gathered evidence from the past that seemed to confirm its truth.
Had not Algernon often spoken to her of his being "desperately hard up"? Had he not said jokingly, yet with an appearance of grim earnest beneath his joke, that he was ready to do anything to obtain money? Did she not know how cleverly he had once imitated his sister's handwriting, and how she had spoken of his skill in this respect? Had she not been struck with the gleam in his eyes when she had handed him the money with which he was to purchase their marriage licence? She doubted now if the money had been so spent. She knew the name of Joseph Barham. He was the manager of the large music hall at which Algernon most often sang. She remembered hearing Algernon say that Mr. Barham was about to go to America. She believed he was to sail on the day before they left London. Had Algernon then trusted to his absence to prevent the discovery of the fraud, and had his artfully laid plan somehow miscarried?
She remembered how freely she had told Algernon every particular with respect to her own property, and a new misgiving assailed her. Had he wooed her for the sake of her money? Would he have been faithful to the promise he had given, when he had her in his power? Would he have been content to play the secondary part she had assigned him in her life?
Poor Juliet! She was beginning to perceive that she had been like the poor silly fly whom the artful spider entangles in his glistening web, or like the foolish moth she had seen fall with singed wings on the drawing-room table on that evening which now seemed so long, long ago.
The pressure of mental pain brought a sense of physical discomfort that made her go to the window, and lean far out, to catch all the air she could. As she gazed over the dreary roofs, she felt as if she had suddenly grown quite old. The happy, careless, childish self of the past was for ever gone. She knew now what life really was, with its pitfalls and perils, at which she had often heard her elders darkly hint; but she had bought her experience at a high price.
Presently she took up the newspaper, and read again that brief paragraph. The sentence concerning herself struck her painfully, filling her with a terrible sense of shame. How could she bear it, if it ever became known that she was the young lady who had accompanied Chalcombe on his flight? She would feel for ever branded with ignominy, if she met the glance of eyes which said that they knew. Ah, she could never risk it. She could never go home now. She had placed an impassable barrier between herself and the old home, which she loved now as she had never loved it before. And what was to become of her in the future she could not tell.
With the thought came such a painful yearning for her mother's gentle presence, and for the love which had never failed her in any trouble yet,—though which of the slight vexations of her past could be truly called a trouble?—That Juliet could control herself no longer, and threw herself on the couch in a passion of weeping, which lasted till she was too exhausted to weep more.
The next morning, Juliet felt too ill to rise. She lay in her bed with her head throbbing wildly, and with sick, dizzy sensations overpowering her, whenever she attempted to raise herself from her pillow. She so seldom had a day's illness, that these symptoms were sufficient to alarm her, and she felt more miserable and forsaken than before. She thought that perhaps she was going to die, and tried to persuade herself that this was the best thing that could happen to her. But life was strong in her young frame, and she shrunk with horror from the thought of death.
She lay there feeling utterly comfortless, and filled with a vague wonder at the misery which had overwhelmed her. Could it be herself, Juliet Tracy, in whose good fortune she had always so firmly believed, to whom such sorrow and loneliness had come? Did she, who had dreamed of such a brilliant future, lie here in the dreary, close, foreign room beneath the baked roof? How she loathed the crimson velvet chairs, the gilding, the glare of everything about her! Oh, to feel a breeze, or quaff a draught of iced water!