TRYING TO BE ECONOMICAL.
"Check your passions, learn philosophy. When the wife of the
great Socrates threw a teapot at his erudite head, he was as
cool as a cucumber."
--Newell.
"Where is father? Is he sick?" It is breakfast hour, and the head of the
house was not in his usual seat at the head of the table. To Zoe's
knowledge this is the first morning she has failed to see the familiar
form sitting in his big chair, glasses on, reading the morning papers.
"Your father was called away suddenly on business," was the short reply
from aunt Adeline, who looks as if she had not closed her eyes all
night. Jet Glen, lazily reading down the columns of the paper, almost
springs from his seat, as his eye rests on a certain paragraph.
"Lend me the paper a moment, please." Zoe's voice awakens him from his
trance of surprise.
"In one minute," coolly taking the scissors from the window sill. "A
trifle here I want to cut out." Zoe looks curious.
"Let me see, won't you?" she persists.
"Really, Miss Curiosity, it would do you no good, and I am not going to
give you my reasons for everything I do," is the playful reply, as he
goes out the low French window.
"What is the trouble with this house anyway? Everything seems upside
down. Tell me, aunt Adeline, where has father gone?"
Miss Litchfield hesitates for a moment, then she says quickly,
"Perhaps, child, I had better tell you than strangers. There has been
some trouble about your father's business, and--and he has been obliged
to go." Aunt Adeline bows her head on her folded arms and weeps.
"Go where? I don't understand why that should make every one in the
house so horrid," Zoe says snappishly.
"Child," she cries, lifting her wretched face, "don't you hear what I
say? Your father is ruined, but not disgraced, thank Heaven. Though he
has gone, yet he deserves no blame; always keep that in your mind. Your
father never committed an action that would make us ashamed of him."
Zoe is utterly confounded; surely aunt Adeline is certainly losing her
senses. Then it all dawns upon the girl's mind. Her father--her dear
father--had been obliged, through the deceit of another, not his own
fault--she must always remember that--to leave them all, all whom he
loved on earth. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, and stared absently
through the clear, thin china saucer. Jet had seen the account of her
father's absence in the paper, and tried, by cutting it out, to spare
her feelings. She had heard that people in reverses of fortune had the
very roof sold over their heads. She looked around the pretty, quaint
oak dining room, opening into the very charming conservatory, and
wonders if it will be the case with them. Ah, she hopes not, for the
memories of the pretty, cosy home were very dear.
"I wish Dolores were here," she says gravely.
"Tut, child, Lady Streathmere has taken Dolores home with her; let the
child enjoy herself while she can."
Aunt Adeline has had her fit of low-spiritedness, now her own energetic
self asserts itself. She bustles around, and when Jet puts his head in
at the door to ask Zoe if she will ride over to the mill with him, aunt
Adeline insists upon her going. And never a word is mentioned about what
each knew the other to be thinking of. Down the shady lane the two
horses slowly walk; the wind blows soft and pleasant in the faces of the
riders, and tosses the manes helter skelter over the horses' pretty
arched necks.
"I am off to-morrow, little one." Jet Glen settles the fore-and-aft cap
on his head, and surveys the deep blue sky above, as if he is doubting
the settled state of the elements. Zoe takes her foot out of the
stirrup, then puts it in again, settles the folds in the skirt of her
riding habit, and says slowly,
"Are you?" She is not paying particular attention to anything going on
around; she is wondering what is to be done, in fact is learning that
life is not all sunshine, but full of a great many shadows. She wonders
vaguely if her friends will "cut" her, as she read last week in a story.
Well, it did not matter if they did; there were none she cared enough
for to regret, if they were civil or otherwise.
"You will be sure to know I will do all that lies in my power to sift
this--this dreadful matter."
This is sufficient to arouse the wandering Zoe to what he is talking
about.
"Thanks; you are very kind, I am sure," she says stiffly, and wonders if
this is what any one else in her position would have said.
"I am sure there is something behind it all," the young man goes on. "I
blame him for going; he should have remained, and made the man confess
to his guilt." Zoe blazes.
"How dare you speak so of him?" Then extending her pretty gauntleted
hand towards him, says gently, "Forgive me; I know you meant kindly when
you spoke, but I cannot bear to hear him spoken harshly of."
Jet takes the proffered hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. He admires
Zoe all the more for the faith she sustains in her father. The old mill
comes in sight, with the sound of rushing water and whizzing of
machinery. An old woman comes to the door of one of the cottages. Zoe
talks to her while Mr. Glen rides on to speak to some man. The villagers
whisper among themselves what a fine looking couple Miss Zoe, bless her
dear heart, and the strange, handsome young gentleman make.
Some two or three days later Mr. Glen goes away, with the promise to
search for good news to send back to them; and Miss Adeline is perfectly
confident if there is any way to manage, Jet will be the one to arrange
everything. Zoe has accepted the position of organist at the pretty
little Episcopal church; to be sure the salary is small, but as aunt
Adeline said, every little helped, so she took it. Rather dubious at
first was her attempt, not being accustomed to an organ, but a splendid
piano player. Mr. Vacine said there were two organs up at the house, and
no one touched them from one year's end to the other; so the largest and
best was sent down and placed in the corner of the cheery sitting room
at Mr. Litchfield's, where Zoe practiced to her heart's content. Very
kind and thoughtful was Mr. Vacine in those days. Not a single day
passed but what he sent over fruits, or game, or some choice vegetables;
and aunt Adeline fully appreciated his kindly goodness.
"You see there is more than we know what to do with," he said, when aunt
Adeline expostulated with him for his generosity.
It was about this time that Mr. Vacine first awoke to the fact that Zoe
was fond of pictures. He found her one morning standing before a picture
in the gallery, lost in admiration; it was then that he declared she
must take some lessons, if it was only to please him. So it happened
that the youngest Miss Litchfield attended the classes held in the Art
Gallery twice in the week, and Mr. Vacine smilingly footed the bills.
Zoe has gone down to the church this lovely afternoon, to practice over
the hymns and chants for the services on Sunday. She opens the grand old
organ and plays piece after piece, hymn after hymn; then the parson
comes up the cool dim aisle; he shakes hands with the pretty young
organist; he is very fond of Zoe, but still more so of her charming
sister Dolores. A very romantic affair had happened last summer. A party
had gone on a fishing excursion. Dolores somehow or other missed her
footing and slipped into the water. The parson gallantly came to the
rescue, while the other members stood spell-bound. Ever since they had
kept it for a standing joke, and Dolores would laugh, and blush, but
took all the banter in good part.
"When do you expect your sister home Miss Zoe?"
The sun comes in slanting rays through the stained glass of the chancel
window, and fell in a myriad of colored shapes, lighting up the bright
trimmings of reading desk and pulpit, and softening the sombre darkness
of the heavily carved doors and window frames.
"We had a letter day before yesterday; she said they were invited to
join another yachting party, but did not know if she would accept. But
we never can tell anything about what she intends to do. Sometimes she
comes home when we least expect her."
Zoe rolls up her music, and smiles as the parson says with poorly
disguised unconcern:
"It would be very beneficial to me, if she would return. When one loses
such an excellent voice as your sister's out of the choir, it makes the
rest sound flat."
Mr. Wimbleton proceeds to close the organ, and Zoe goes on down the
choir steps; she is obliged to turn away for fear the smile she cannot
conceal will offend Mr. Wimbleton, and she is certainly far from wishing
to commit an offence so great as that. Zoe goes home, and in the hall,
three big trunks meet her surprised eyes; she hears a musical voice
talking to Aunt Adeline in the dining-room.
"It must be, it is Dolores!" she exclaims delightedly.
Yes, Dolores has returned more beautiful than ever, with a quiet, grave
look, befitting the trouble for which she thought it her duty to come
home and share with Zoe and aunt Adeline. Dolores was deeply pained, she
put so much confidence in her father; she thought his discernment
incomparable, he always stood so high in her estimation, far beyond
reproach.
"My poor darling, how you must have suffered, and I enjoying myself; how
utterly selfish I am." There is a mingling of tenderness and reproach in
Dolores' tones.
"You foolish child, how could you do differently, when you did not know
how often we wished for you? Don't blame yourself child, we will all
bear it together." Aunt Adeline hates to see the pretty faces of her
darlings clouded by care, and she strives to bear all the cares on her
own willing shoulders.
"I play the church organ," Zoe announces with well pleased promptness.
"And I like it very much, and I am getting quite fond of Mr. Wimbleton;
if he is a little bashful, I like him just the same," the youngest Miss
Litchfield says between the bites of currant cake she is helping hungry
Dolores make way with. Dolores raises her eyebrows, but says nothing and
her sister rattles on.
"I suppose you will stay home now for the remainder of the summer, will
you?" She thinks she might have a chance to visit around once in a
while, and feels rather inclined to be crabbish.
"Yes, dear; my finery is so far exhausted, I am afraid it will be
necessary for me to refuse any more invitations. Have you heard from
Blondine while I was away?"
Zoe puts the last bite of cake in her mouth before she replies.
"No, she never writes to me. Did you see my latest sketch Dolores?"
"Why, my dear, how you have improved. I am so glad." Dolores looks
admiringly at the pretty drawing.
"Oh, yes, Jet Glen helped me fix my scenes up finely." Dolores never
bothers to inquire who "Jet Glen" is; someone probably Zoe has picked
up, because he had a mania like herself for pictures. Zoe sees the
peacock eating the buds off her pet fuschias out by the door, and she
darts off to chase the offender. Dolores saunters through the hall, and
into the pretty, cool, sitting-room. She looks around, at the things
there, thinking how nice it is to be home again. "Ah, a strange picture;
who are you, sir?" She takes the panel photo, in its green plush frame,
from the table.
"Heavens! how like the eyes, features, all but the whiskers." The face
looking at her so steadily from out the pretty frame, was the face of
the man whom she loved better than her very life. Only a heavy moustache
shaded the grave, tender mouth, but evidently he had shaved his beard.
But how came his picture here in their own pretty room at home? Zoe
finds her gazing intently at the photo.
"Where did you get Sir Barry Traleigh's picture?" she asks, and Zoe,
with all the plainness, which was one of her chief characteristics,
replies with a groan for her sister's ignorance. "Sir Barry Traleigh!
your grandmother's ducks! that's Jet Glen, who I told you helped me with
all my precious sketches, and who is the best and dearest fellow in the
world."