NED CRANE. THE ONE AND THE SAME.
"Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer;
Stolen look are nice in Chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples."
--Leigh Hunt.
It is Sunday morning, a bright, beautiful, peaceful Sabbath. The pretty
church is warm and comfortable. The sunlight, creeping in through the
gaily painted stained glass windows, tinge those sitting in its
brilliant rays, with every vivid hue of the rainbow. The service has
begun when Mr. Vacine enters, and with him a tall, pleasant looking
young fellow, who, as he takes his seat, looks eagerly up to the choir.
Dolores, sitting up there in her own special corner, starts and looks a
second time at the stranger, who is regarding her fixedly.
"How in the name of sense has Ned Crane come here? And with Mr. Vacine,
too--Mr. Vacine, who never entertains, from one year's end to the
other." This is what Dolores is saying in her mind. "And then just
look at Mr. Vacine's face. How wonderfully happy he looks; surely
something very unusual has happened that Mr. Vacine should wear such a
very beatific expression." A little boy in the next seat dropped his
cent on the floor, then he looked at the elderly gentleman and by him in
awe; all the small children stood in great dread of old Mr. Vacine. The
child expected either a stern look of disapproval, or else a poke from
Mr. Vacine's gold-headed cane. Contrary to the youngster's expectations,
he saw Mr. Vacine actually smiling at him--smiling after he had let his
cent drop on the floor with such a click. The little boy was so
astonished that he was quiet during the remainder of the service.
Dolores has only arrived home this morning from her visit to Blondine.
She had got ready as soon as she arrived, and gone to morning service,
for the parson was anxious that she should take her place again in the
choir. She has not seen Sister Jean yet, and Dolores is very anxious to
do so. Zoe, from her high seat at the organ, is "taking in" the young
man with Mr. Vacine. He is quite nice in Zoe's sight, and the youngest
Miss Litchfield listens to the sermon and determines that she thinks she
will like him very much. At the door, Mr. Vacine invites Zoe and her
sister up to take dinner. Dolores demurs, but Zoe says promptly, "Of
course they will;" so Dolores goes. Over the prettily arranged dinner
table Mr. Vacine tells the two astonished girls all about the dear
nephew who had left his uncle's home in a passion, vowing never to
return. But something happened that made him feel remorseful for having
deserted the kind old uncle, who had always been as a father to him. So
the prodigal had returned, and Mr. Vacine cannot disguise his gladness.
"I never imagined we should meet here, Ned," Dolores says, as they
saunter through the warm, pleasant drawing-rooms.
Zoe has gone up stairs to play some hymns for Mr. Vacine; in the cosy
music room.
"It is queer now, when you think of it, and, by jove, what an awfully
pretty girl your sister is," Ned says. He has always admired Dolores
immensely, but Zoe--Zoe was so entirely different. In fact Ned is sure
he will grow to be awfully fond of Mr. Litchfield's pretty wilful
daughter Zoe.
The sun shines brightly on the clear, white, glistening road, covered
with snow; the icicles glitter in the limbs of the leafless trees like
crystal; everything is bright, cold, and sparkling. The bells are
ringing for Sunday-school, and the little and big children troop along
in response to the bell's call.
"I was awfully glad you found your mother. How was it you did not know
where she was before?" Ned asks, as they stand at the window, watching
the passers by.
Dolores silently contemplates the gold fish swimming around and around
in the huge glass globe.
"She said a feeling she could not resist, made her think it her duty to
leave home and found a safe, calm retreat, by which much good could be
done for the sick, poor or suffering, of a large city like Montreal. She
knew aunt Adeline would take excellent care of the house, and my sister
and I, so she went. You know the rest, how she has instituted a convent,
that all declare had done more good than any other institution of a like
kind. Now she has consented to give up the name of Mother St.
Marguerite, and come back to us all at home. You cannot fancy, Ned, how
too good it seems, after all those years, to have my mother again. Just
think of Rea Severn taking mother's place. What strange things happen."
"I guess she felt pretty cut up about Gordon Aubrey's marriage," Ned
says, his heart beginning to beat, as light footsteps are heard running
down stairs, and a clear girlish voice calling Dolores' name.
"We must really go, Dolores, I have brought your coat and hat," Zoe
announces, dropping the articles on a chair, as she speaks.
"Mr. Crane, what a good time you must have, if you are fond of pictures;
why this house is a paradise," says this precocious child, going over to
one of the mirrors to put on her hat.
"Sir Barry Traleigh is a beautiful painter," announces the youngest Miss
Litchfield proudly. It has occasioned her much pride to tell her girl
acquaintances, how a real, live "Sir" had initiated her into the
mysteries of painting.
Ned looks deeply amused, the girl is so original, so different from any
other girl of her years. The corners of his mouth twitch in a highly
suspicious way; he would enjoy vastly to laugh, but politeness forbids,
and he turns to Dolores.
"When did you say this very beautiful cousin of yours, Miss Gray, was
expected?"
Dolores laughs, her sweet, silvery tones filling the handsome old room
with sweet music.
"It is doubtful what day. I shall expect you to fall in love with
Blondine the first time you meet," she says archly.
"Perhaps," Ned answers, watching Zoe fastening up her roll of music.
"Have the girls gone?" asks Mr. Vacine, coming in from a brisk walk
around the snow covered garden.
"No, but just going," Dolores says, smiling.
"Give my love to mother and father, and be good girls, both of you," and
Mr. Vacine goes into the library and shuts the door. Ned puts on his
overcoat and walks down with the girls to the gate. He offers to escort
them home, but Dolores will not listen to such an arrangement, much to
the youngest Miss Litchfield's disgust. It is a bitterly cold afternoon;
the sun looks out sullenly from behind dull, grey clouds.
"The days are certainly very changeable," Zoe declares as they hurry
home, the snow creaking beneath their feet. "This morning has been so
bright, and now just see how dull it has become."
Dolores removes her seal jacket and hat by the stove in the hall, and
Zoe says she will carry them up-stairs, as she is going up. Dolores
pushes open the drawing-room door and goes in. The cosy fire looks very
cheerful and inviting. Drawing up an arm chair, Dolores sits down to
enjoy the warmth. The folding doors are on a jar. Presently someone
comes in.
"Ah, Sister Jean, you are reading yet? Your Bible chapter has been
rather lengthy, if it is not yet finished." Mrs. Litchfield's pleasant
voice says.
"I had finished reading some time ago, and was indulging in a day dream
when you came," is the reply. Dolores sits upright in her chair. Surely
she has heard that peculiar voice before.
"I have not seen your other daughter yet. I wonder if she will be very
angry with me for asking her a question? Sir Barry Traleigh, the last
words he spoke to me were to find out, if I could, why Miss Dolores
treated him so unkindly. Sir Barry is very fond of your eldest daughter,
and he feels her unkind conduct to him very keenly."
Dolores springs from her seat to the door and looks through the opening
into the next room. Oh! Why was I so quick to jump to conclusions, might
I not have known I could have trusted him? Sister Jean is, yes, the same
girl I saw talking to him that wretched day in Italy. She looks again.
Yes, she has snubbed Sir Barry all this time, and now will he, will he
forgive her? Dolores is dreadfully put about. Sister Jean's next words
almost finish her anguish of mind.
"I understand he proposes returning to his home in Scotland, almost
immediately. He says there is no excuse for his remaining away any
longer. If Miss Dolores would only consider what a wrong she is doing
herself by throwing away the love of a good man like Sir Barry, she
would be lifting a weight off more than one mind."
There is a silence for a space, then Mrs. Litchfield says, quietly:
"I am sure my Dolores would have told me if there had been any trouble.
She certainly cannot know that he cares for her in the way you mean,
or--"
The curtains are thrown unceremoniously aside.
"Mother, I did, I do know. What if he has gone before he knows
differently? Will he ever forgive my coldness toward him? What shall I
do? What am I to do?" Sister Jean's face is bright with gladness. At
last she has done something for Sir Barry in return for all his goodness
to her. She, or, at least, her words have done more to turn Dolores'
wilful, yet loving heart, than anything else could do.