[CHAPTER I]
A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF
"THE girls are late to-day."
"You mean that Hannah is late, mother; for there is no saying when Juliet will choose to appear, and they never come together. It is a strange thing for Hannah to be behind her time."
Mrs. Tracy sighed as she looked anxiously between the flower-pots which adorned the window-ledge, and rather obscured the view from where she sat in her low easy-chair.
The window looked into a grassy enclosure, too small to be dignified by the name of garden, though there was a fine show of primroses and wallflowers in the narrow bed beside the gravel path, and ferns were growing tall and strong in the rockery below the windows. On the farther side of the strip of grass, just within the iron railing that enclosed it from the road, stood three tall, leafy poplars, screening the house from the busy suburban thoroughfare in which it stood, and giving it its name.
As Mrs. Tracy looked forth, she caught glimpses through the trees of passing omnibuses and tramcars. The din of the traffic made itself heard, though the window was closed. Some of her acquaintance had tried to persuade Mrs. Tracy that the trees shut out air from the house, and it would be wiser to cut them down; but she always felt that it would be unendurable to live so near the high road without the slight shelter which their thick trunks and soaring boughs afforded. And the comparatively low rent asked for that old-fashioned residence, known as The Poplars, suited her narrow purse, and constrained her to endure its inconveniences as best she could.
Mrs. Tracy was a frail-looking little woman, with a face which had once been pretty and was still pleasant to look upon. It wore a somewhat careworn, anxious expression, but without a trace of fretfulness. As she rested in her low easy-chair, with her knitting lying in her lap, she had the air of one to whom exertion of any kind is distasteful. She was dressed in a manner perfectly becoming her fifty years, but the lace falling so prettily about her neck, and her dainty little lace head-dress with its cunning knot of pink ribbon, showed that she was by no means indifferent to the appearance she presented. Her small, soft, white hands glittered with handsome rings; the little feet outstretched on hassock were clothed with neat velvet slippers with bright jet buckles. At fifty Mrs. Tracy had not outlived her love for pretty things.
The daughter who stood near, and who was engaged in putting sundry finishing touches to the table which was prepared for their midday dinner, did not in the least resemble her mother. Salome Grant was a tall, well-grown young woman of seven-and-twenty. She had sandy hair, pale blue eyes with very light lashes, and a rather high complexion. Her abundant hair was brushed very smooth, and arranged in the neatest fashion. Her whole appearance, indeed, was severely neat. Her serge gown fitted her well, but it entirely lacked what dressmakers term "style," and no touch of colour relieved its sombre hue. One might have credited Salome with excellent qualities, but assuredly no one at first sight could have found her interesting, or felt eager to pursue her acquaintance.