"I will try," said Juliet again.
There was another brief pause of silence, and then he rose and held out his hand.
"You will help me; you do help me," said Juliet suddenly, in her ardent, impetuous way as they clasped hands; "this talk with you has helped me. I shall remember all that you have said. And it will always help me to remember that you think kindly—that you do not despair of me."
With these, her last words, ringing in his ears, he went away. Yet he was sad as he thought of her. Her young, fair face, as he had seen it clouded with sorrow and shame, haunted his memory. He had a keen perception of how hard she had made her life, and of the trials that must beset her in the future from friction within her own home circle, from the coldness of so-called friends, and from the hard, censorious judgment of the world. He was a man of large and tender heart, and he yearned to save her from these troubles. But it might not be. She must bear her own burden, a burden surely none the lighter that it was the fruit of her own self-will.
Yet, as he thought of her thus sadly, the gloom of Juliet's inner life was broken by the first ray of light and hope which had entered it since she awoke to the horror of her wrong-doing and its results. The knowledge that this good and noble man, whom she had always secretly revered, had such hope for her, such belief in her future, made it possible for her self-despising, self-despairing soul to look heavenward, and with new faith and hope struggle upward from the slough into which it had fallen.
[CHAPTER XXIII]
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.