YOUR SISTER DOLORES.
"Give your tongue more holiday than your hands or eyes."
--Rabbi Ben Azai..
"This is a splendid photo of your father, and this, yes this must be--"
Zoe, sketching busily away at a little landscape she is copying, answers
"Yes," vacantly. She is devoted to her work, and after giving Mr. Glen
the three large family photograph albums to look at, sincerely wishes he
will look at them quietly, and not disturb her. But the spirit moves the
young man in an opposite direction. He suddenly becomes intensely
interested in the members of the Litchfield family, past, present and
absent. She does not notice the stop he makes now.
"And this lady in the white dress. Who is she?"
"With a big white hat?" Zoe enquires, looking up for a moment. "That is
my sister."
"Your sister! So this is the peerless Dolores. Well, I will own she is
beautiful enough to command all your admiration." He studies the picture
before him intently.
"How angry Dolores would be if she heard you say that."
Mr. Glen looked up, inquiring so innocently, "Why?" that Zoe's heart
smote her with remorse.
"She rather objects to having strangers call her by her Christian name,
of course," the youngest Miss Litchfield goes on cautiously. "Perhaps
she would not mind your admiring her picture. I am sure there was
nothing but perfect truth in what you said, was there?"
Mr. Glen gazes across from his seat in the bay window, and regards Zoe
thoughtfully.
"I suppose your sister, Miss Litchfield, has told you many pleasant
stories regarding her trip abroad," he enquires, with strong emphasis on
the Miss Litchfield.
"Oh yes! Sometimes I almost think I am in the various places she has
been. Dolores describes persons and places so graphically."
Mr. Glen rather winces. In the enthusiasm of speaking of Dolores, Zoe's
work is for the time forgotten.
"Yes, she is more than clever in almost everything; she has certain
magnetic powers not possessed by us all."
Zoe looks at him in amazement. Had a bombshell suddenly gone off at her
feet in the pretty sitting room, her eyes would not have fairly popped
out of her head as they did now.
"Why, do you know my sister? You can't; at least she never mentioned
your name."
Mr. Glen laughs, toys with his watch chain, and, does his face become
just a trifle red?
"I am judging from the picture, my dear little girl."
Zoe resents being called his "dear little girl," so she says, "Oh,
indeed," very stiffly. She goes on with her sketching, but its charm has
gone. She has a strong, very strong impression that this young man and
Dolores have met. But why has Dolores never told her? Perfect confidence
has hitherto existed between them. Surely Dolores would not have any
secrets from her. She would love to question Mr. Glen about it, but
pride forbids. If there is anything to tell, Dolores will let her know
when she thinks proper. So Zoe works on, and Mr. Glen turns the leaves
of the books over listlessly. It is evident his thoughts are far away
from the pretty room he is in, and the young girl, who looks at him from
time to time, as some one has said, "out of the corner of her eye."
Mr. Glen had been an inmate of Mr. Litchfield's household for a week
now. Aunt Adeline was generally averse to having either small boys or
big boys around her house, but here she was wonderfully taken. Mr. Glen
was her ideal of all that a young gentleman should be. Mr. Litchfield
discussed the topics of the day with him; there was no subject but what
he was thoroughly versed in: a brilliant musician, with a fine tenor
voice, a capital hand at whist, and if there was one thing that
delighted Mr. Litchfield's heart more than another, it was to have some
one to sympathise with him in this his favorite after-tea game. And Zoe?
Well, he could paint, draw or sketch, and that with a true artist's eye
for the beautiful. One of Zoe's drawings was quite another article after
Mr. Glen had touched up and smoothed over the flaws. So in spite of
their first unfortunate introduction, Zoe has accepted his being there
as a thing to be tolerated. He lets her have her own way, and that is
all Zoe cares about.
The soft warm breeze floats in at the open doors and windows, laden with
the heavy perfume of flowers. The tall white and scarlet lilies in the
garden nod and bob their stately heads. A bird, just outside in a tree,
is pouring forth his joyous song of gladness; it is an ideal day in
summer. Jet Glen, as he sits over there in the window, is "having it
out" with his conscience. The reason he is here is to find out all he
can, and as much more as possible. It was an anxious moment, when he got
within thirty or forty miles of the place, how to proceed further; but
fortune is good as well as fickle. He had greatly ventured, and all must
do so who would greatly win. A former school mate was in the railway
carriage; he was down with the blues. He had been invited to join a
fishing party, with a number of other young friends. Suddenly, on the
very day before they were to start, his mother, who was a woman of many
minds, commanded him to give up his intended cruise and go down to the
country to stop with her old school friend, Miss Adeline Litchfield. So,
like an obedient son, he was on his way. This was just the chance for
Jet's attaining his desired haven. Within less than an hour Jet Barry
Traleigh was passing himself off as Jet Glen, the son of her school
friend, and Miss Litchfield was delighted. And yet there was nothing,
no, not a look, smile, gesture or tone of voice that recalled the
remembrance of his mother. Poor deluded aunt Adeline, if you could see
the real Jet Glen disporting himself with his holiday friends, what
would you say?
They had all received him so cordially Jet's conscience pricked him most
severely. But it was no use going back now; what he had done could not
be undone.
The sun suddenly flashes full upon Zoe's work; she rubs her eyes, and
wonders if Mr. Glen has gone to sleep, or why in the world is he sitting
there, staring so idiotically at a photo of herself and Dolores when
they were quite small children? But in all probability he is inwardly
dying of laughter, commenting on the two thin little pairs of legs
dangling from the high chair, in which they are seated, and criticising
the braided pig-tails under the little round straw hats. How many times
Dolores and herself have laughed over the closely shut lips, and
demurely folded hands and short frocks. But for this young man to commit
a like action was justly unpardonable. Then she thinks she is playing
the part of hostess rather lamely.
"Say, Mr. Glen," Zoe pushes her chair back, and proceeds briskly to
gather up her working implements. "Shall we go finish the game of tennis
we were playing yesterday?"
Mr. Glen starts, shuts the album, and assents.
"The sun looks like playing tennis, or any thing else; you both stop
just where you are, I am not anxious to have two cases of sun-stroke on
my hands, with all my other household cares. Another thing, you both
know the old maxim of "idle hands," so I have provided you with some
useful employment."
Aunt Adeline sinks on a lounge, unties, and takes off the large yellow
sun-bonnet, and fans herself energetically with a huge palm leaf. The
useful employment consists of a bushel basket nearly full of green peas
to be shelled for dinner. Jet laughingly declares he is ready to do
anything to escape the two evils, sun-stroke, and the fate of the "Idle
men and boys who were found."
And aunt Adeline replied admiringly, "Jet Glen, how much that sounds
like your mother."
Jet looks thoughtfully on the floor, his conscience giving an unusually
sharp twinge. This was rather much for him to make any reply. How easily
we poor, frail mortals in this world are deceived.