"The woman who deliberates is lost."—Addison.
"The woman who deliberates is lost."
—Addison.
"I wonder who that pretty girl is Sir Barry Traleigh is talking with so earnestly down by the gate?" Blondine saunters into Dolores' pretty room to wait for her cousin to go down to tea.
"Any one you know?" asks Dolores, from the mirror where she is busy twisting her back hair up and sticking silver pins here and there through it.
"They have just hailed a carriage, and are driving off," Miss Gray says excitedly, from the window where she has seen Sir Barry and his pretty companion disappear.
"I suppose he has the liberty to go driving with, or talk to whom he chooses," Dolores retorts crossly.
She wonders who this fair unknown can be, and wonders still more why Sir Barry should be so interested in her—for interested he must be, if he would leave his tea. Still she is relieved to know she will not have to meet him again to-day anyway. She would like to tell Blondine that she and Sir Barry were good friends; but a feeling comes that Blondine will only laugh triumphantly at her and say "I knew it would be so." She is wakened from any further wonderment by Blondine.
"Hurry, Dolores, uncle Dick won't wait all the evening for you to get that bang of yours just fixed without a hair out of place, so come quick. I am as hungry as, as—who was the hungriest person you ever heard or read of, Dolores?"
"I am afraid I cannot say, dear. You plunge too deep for me to follow you," is Dolores' quiet answer.
The second tea gong sounds; they hurry down, to find uncle Dick emerging from the gentlemen's parlor, and just in time to hear his loud jovial voice remark to his companion—"I wonder, in the name of Olympus if my girls intend to come to their supper to-night?"
It is morning—a bright, deliciously warm morning—with light yellowish white clouds floating in the sky, and a soft, light wind coming in, bringing the scent of the salt waves to heal the diseases, and warm or thaw out the cold English tourists who are here seeking the heat of a warmer climate than their own. Dolores and Blondine are sitting on the pretty green bank, in sight of the remains of what the peasants call the "Bath of the Fairies," a Roman amphitheatre. Blondine is supposed to be sketching this picturesque spot; at least it is for that purpose that they have walked two long miles to Cimella this delightful morning. But the sketching is not progressing very rapidly; Blondine loses herself in a day dream. Sitting there under the old elm tree, resting her dark head against its friendly trunk, Blondine forgets the Abbey, likewise all other things worldly. The white lids droop lower and lower over the dark eyes, the breeze whispers a soft, gentle lullaby, all is stillness around. Dolores looks up from her book to ask how the abbey is progressing under Blondine's skilled fingers; but Dolores may save herself the trouble of speaking, for Miss Blondine is asleep. Then a wandering fit seizes Dolores; she wonders what is down yonder; perhaps some pretty cottage hidden from view by those jealous hedges of hawthorn; she will go and see. On and on, over the narrow beaten track goes Dolores, charmed onward by she knew not what; up little hills and down little paths she goes, and yet the ideal cottage she is hunting for fails to present itself.
Suddenly voices make her pause to listen. She is startled, for surely the tones are familiar. Only a hedge of cedar divides her from them, and unintentionally she is forced to listen to a conversation not intended for her ears, or else betray her presence, and Dolores would sooner do anything than stir.
"Do go back, Jantie, do for my sake: you will never regret it. Do make up your mind, for you cannot think how you worry me. I promise you faithfully I will publish the marriage in all the leading journals as soon as I can do so discreetly. Now, dear, you will go back to Scotland, to please me, won't you?" Sir Barry Traleigh's voice is full of tender pleading.
"Never again shall the finger of scorn be pointed toward me. No! I refuse to return home until I am an acknowledged wife. I say no! I shall never be despised for a sin of which I am innocent."
The girl's clear voice is raised in a passionate flow of rage and sorrow. They pass out of hearing, leaving Dolores pale and trembling.
Sir Barry here; and of course it is the girl Blondine had seen with him the previous afternoon; his wife, of whom he was ashamed. Of course she is his wife, and he is persuading her to go home, and promises to acknowledge her before the world some day. Ah! some day! And meanwhile he has been winning her—Dolores—heart; he, the husband of another woman. May Heaven forgive him; she never can. The sun dazzles her eyes, the day has lost its charm; she gets back somehow, to find Blondine awake, and wondering what had happened to her. Blondine's careless laugh is hushed at sight of the utterly wretched, hopeless look on Dolores' face.
"My dear! what is it?" she cries, springing to her feet, and taking Dolores' cold hands in both her warm ones. But Dolores turns her miserable face away from Blondine's enquiring glance.
"Oh, Blondine, Blondine; would to Heaven we had never seen this place. If I were only home—home, where there is no treachery or deception. Oh, Blondine, Blondine!"
Nothing can be more perplexed than Blondine's mind, as she has often thought there was no accounting for Dolores' conduct lately. Blondine hurries her sketch book into the little willow-basket.
"I suppose we had better get back," she says as calmly as her confused feelings will allow, and Dolores wearily assents. Certainly the bright day which promised so much pleasure is falling most woefully short of its fulfillment.
"Tell me what ails you, dear; are you ill? Come, tell me all about it, won't you, Dolores." But Dolores shakes her pretty head; she does not seem inclined to tell any one anything. Blondine gives her up in despair. She is beginning to think herself, perhaps it would have been better not to have come here; and yet what was there, here in bright, pleasant, sunny Nice, that the most fastidious could object to? Poor Blondine gives this second problem up as hopeless as the first.
"I suppose you are pretty well packed. You know we start by the five-fifteen coach this afternoon; so look lively, my dears."
Uncle Dick's pompous figure is standing in the gateway, and uncle Dick's merry grey eyes look enquiringly at Dolores' pale face.
"What's up now? Too much high jinks seems to use you up soon, young lady."
Major Gray goes in for pink cheeks and red lips, like blooming Blondine's, for instance. He admires Dolores immensely, but she might have been a marble statue now, for all the pink there is in her face; she looks positively 'chalky.'
"Uncle Dick, we are surely not off so soon?" Blondine exclaims.
"Yes, my dear, but we are; we have been gone a good round year now. See, we have done Marseilles, Naples, Cannes, Monaco, Mentone, San Remo, Pegli, Genoa, Spezia, Lucca, Pisa, Leghorn, Serrento, Capri and Nice, and I feel as if I should enjoy the sight of home faces again. So hurry now, so we won't be late."
Uncle Dick rolls off down street at a dashing pace, full of glee at having got over the question of departure. He had expected to be assailed by an avalanche of refusals at leaving Italy for a long while yet. It has all been gotten over with so smoothly, that Major Gray could at this moment have shaken hands with his greatest enemy—if such a being existed, which was doubtful—and said "hope you're well," with genuine warmth.
Passing through the hall Blondine sees Mrs. St. James seated in her parlor, the doors open, with dear Florrie, dear Bessie, dear Nattie, and all the other dears, sitting about consoling the bereaved lady. Arial looks exceedingly handsome in her dress of deep crape. An interesting looking woman at all times, just now she is doubly so, receiving the sympathy of endless numbers of friends over her recent loss. Blondine steps in the room to tell Mrs. St. James of their going, and to say farewell. Not so Dolores; she hurries to her rooms, gives her maid all due instructions concerning luggage, and then speeds away to the pretty burying ground, to pause beside a tiny grave; a broken pillar of granite, with the simple words "My son Roy," marking the resting place of her little lost friend.
Dolores gathers a few forget-me-nots from around the mound—flowers that in after years will remind her of this tiny grave in Italy. Here her resolution is taken to forgive—she cannot forget—two persons whom she firmly believes are at war against her; then with a long, last, lingering glance around, she goes.
Blondine hails the sight of Dolores with joy. Will she just lend a hand for a minute, to see if all is ready? Poor Blondine would never get over the world with doing her own packing is very evident, from the sight that meets Dolores' eyes. Things always contrived to get mixed up so queerly; her best bonnets and boots, the desk with the ink and mucilage bottles, generally reposed calmly upon her most dainty pair of gloves. Now she cannot find her pearl-handled knife, the ivory opera glasses, or her silver nut crackers. Dolores searches around with the eyes of a professional detective, and at length discovers the missing articles in the pocket of Blondine's riding habit; the knife was found in the window sash, where it had been put to keep it from rattling the night before when the wind blew.
The last trunk is strapped, the hasty search around for farewell words to friends (of which there are shoals); the coach is at the door; they are off, going by the famous Cornice route for the last time. Its many scenic beauties will scarcely ever fade from Blondine's admiring eyes; her memory will never fail on that score. Much disgusted is uncle Dick at not having seen "that boy Traleigh," and wonders if he will "turn up," ere they leave; but Traleigh fails to "turn up," greatly to Dolores satisfaction.
Uncle Dick is in high glee, to find that a steamer sails the following morning, and Blondine turns pale when some one suggests to Major Gray that they may look forward to a pretty "tumbly" voyage, as gales seem the proper thing during the past week.
Dolores cheers up at the mention of home, becomes absorbed in purchasing numerous foreign trifles for Zoe, talks learnedly on the wretchedness of foreign cooking, and altogether appears the cheerful, but not gushing Dolores of old.
The passage across was, as predicted, rather inclined to be "tumbly," indeed, at times most uncomfortably so. Blondine declares if Heaven will ever spare her to get on land once more, never would human persuasion entice her across old Atlantic again. Uncle Dick was delighted with the pitch and toss and knock down of the angry waters, and Dolores laughingly declares, "uncle Dick you were born for a sailor but became spoilt in the drilling."
"He is miserable once who feels it,But twice who fears it before it comes."—Eastern Proverb.
"He is miserable once who feels it,But twice who fears it before it comes."
—Eastern Proverb.
"Well, Edward, what in the world are you going to do? Why, I never heard of such actions in all my forty years of life. A man of your honorable principles to be in league with such men as you have just described; why it just takes my breath away with astonishment, it certainly does."
Aunt Adeline gives the white head-dress on top of her head such an excited rap that its position lent to her face a peculiarly fierce expression quite foreign to her general air of amiability.
"Perhaps some means may present itself that will tide us over safely, but it is very dark looking just now, very dark indeed."
"Well, they cannot do anything with you, can they?" aunt Adeline inquires excitedly.
"No, my dear sister; only to have an old firm like ours go down seems a pity. And, Adeline, I hope you will not be very much displeased at what I did to-day." Mr. Litchfield speaks nervously.
"Now Edward, what have you been about again? You know how many imprudent actions you commit. Tell me what is the thing now you think I won't approve of?"
"This morning young Fanchon asked me to sign his note for three months." Aunt Adeline stiffens visibly in her chair.
"What was the amount?" she asks coldly.
"Only three hundred dollars; and he said it would oblige him, as at the end of three months he would get some money owing him. Of course it will be all right you know," replied her brother in an off-hand tone, which he is far from feeling, for the man Fanchon has long been losing ground in public favor; and rumor said, if it were not for the senior partner, Litchfield, the business would be done.
Miss Litchfield looks out the window, as she says slowly:
"You may be sorry, some day, that you did not take my advice. You know I warned you about your marriage; you scorned my advice then; you know now how it has turned out. All I can say is, it will be your own fault either way, good or otherwise."
Mr. Litchfield gets up from his seat at the table.
"Adeline,"—his face is very pale as he stands before his sister—"let what has passed rest. You have been a most faithful, affectionate sister to me, and aunt to my girls, but from you, nor no one else living, shall I take a word of disrespect about my wife." Then Miss Adeline hears the door close, and she is alone.
"Well," she says, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in her apron, "I am terribly afraid Edward is getting a softness in the head; any man that could feel no reproach against a woman who has wronged any one, as Estelle Litchfield has wronged my poor brother, beats me more than words can express."
The white curtains flap idly in and out at the windows; a white and yellow butterfly comes in to light among the pink roses and white lilies in the glass dish on the table. Zoe's voice comes from somewhere in the garden, scolding her pet kitten for disgracing himself by persisting in chasing imaginary flies over the flower beds. Jet Glen is whistling "The girl I left behind me," somewhere near. Aunt Adeline hears the happy young voices and sighs. Her brother's business has not gone altogether straight lately; she does her best to keep his spirits up, but sometimes her own heart nearly fails with anxious forebodings for the future.
"Edward seems to lose the use of all his faculties," Miss Litchfield soliloquises. "There was that wealthy Mrs.—I won't say her name—but any one could see with half an eye—was only waiting to change her name to ours. Her money would have done wonders for Edward, but no one knew what had become of Estelle, and so for the sake of her my poor brother must needs lose all the chances that appear, and lose his health worrying over his business affairs, seems too bad entirely."
An enquiring fly lights on the tip of Miss Litchfield's aristocratic Roman nose. Now this is something appalling; never does she allow a single poor stray fly to remain in those cool, shady rooms. The next half hour is spent in ousting the enemy, and after that length of time the viper is finally vanquished.
"Auntie, do you notice how very pale father looks?"
The dim shadows lie in long dark lines across the quaint old room. Zoe, curled up by the window, is trying to catch the last faint rays of daylight; but the dim light grows dimmer, and the words on the page are no longer discernable.
"Yes, child, of course I've noticed it; who would not? and what the end of it will be is more than my knowledge of the future can penetrate; I have not the least idea."
Dolores' pretty grey kitten jumps up in Miss Adeline's lap.
"Get down, you nuisance," she says crossly.
"Come here, Moody, you dear, pretty thing, to Zoe."
Moody obediently goes sedately, with a look of injured dignity; she rubs her glossy head against Zoe's arm, and plays with the tassels on the window curtains.
"I will have to marry old Mr. Vacine after all, and his money bags will restore the house of Litchfield to its former glory."
Miss Adeline is quick to take offence when one of her old friends are being spoken lightly of.
"Mr. Vacine is too old for a child like you to jest about. Youth should always respect old age," she says severely.
"Well, I never could see any sense in him living up there all alone in that great gloomy mansion, when other people—any quantity of them—would be willing to share the goods the gods have given him."
The little silver and marble clock on the bracket ticks the minutes hastily away.
"I am glad to hear that; would you, my dear little friend, be 'one' of the 'any quantity' you just spoke of?"
Both Zoe and Aunt Adeline are startled by the grave voice behind them. Mr. Blois Vacine, past sixty years of age, and owner of the finest properties in the town, seldom leaves his home of gloomy grandeur; and Zoe mentally calculates, as Miss Litchfield goes forward to greet the visitor, that something more wonderful than usual is about to take place after this.
"Father home?" Mr. Vacine inquires, coming over to the window where Zoe is standing. Evidently the power of speech has deserted the ever ready-tongued young lady.
"No sir; yes—that is—I don't know," she stammers. She feels horribly ashamed of herself for having spoken as she had done; and yet it was in her own house, and if people can't say what they wish in their own house, pray where would they? and another thing, it was decidedly mean to come into a house without first ringing the bell to announce one's coming.
"Oh well, probably he will not be gone long, and meanwhile you and I can have a little friendly chat," Mr. Vacine says cheerfully.
Zoe politely asks if he will not take the easy chair aunt Adeline has just vacated.
"And so you don't believe in people being mean and stingy with their worldly gifts. But even wealth, after a time, grows monotonous; we very seldom find the pleasure we expect, even in the success of our highest ambitions. I am a lonely old man, my dear; once I had a dear nephew, of whom I was too fond; I said something passionate; he took offence at his old uncle, and left me. But never mind, I would be only too glad if you would look upon my house and grounds as your own, to come and go in at your pleasure."
Zoe's eyes dance, and her heart beats with delightful anticipation. The dream of her life has been to be allowed to pass beyond the heavy iron gates, with their fantastic guardians of lions' heads, and wander at will in the dim, unknown depths of the paradise of flowers beyond; and the house, the dear old rambling castle of which she has heard so much. Poor Zoe, for some minutes she is unable to speak.
"Ah, you have thought differently since you first spoke. Well, it is all right; there is not so much to interest one, perhaps, as I imagine." There is a ring of disappointment in the old man's voice, and Zoe hastens to say,
"My dear Mr. Vacine, believe me, I am not ungrateful to you for your goodness, and will take much pleasure in your kind offer," the girl says, with a choking in her throat.
Aunt Adeline comes in with lights, saying Mr. Litchfield was feeling so unwell, that he had retired. So Zoe accompanies Mr. Vacine to the door, watches him walk down the little path to the gate with a step as firm and elastic as a boy of twenty.
"Well little one, is this the latest victim your charming self has brought down?" Jet Glen's tall figure stands before her, and Jet's brown eyes are full of lazy laughter, as he stands and watches Zoe straighten her slim figure in virtuous indignation.
"You are like a toad, Mr. Glen, always cropping up when least expected," she says, with what is intended to be withering sarcasm.
"Allow me to offer a thousand thanks for your kind sentiments on my appearance, Miss Litchfield." The young man doffs his white straw hat gallantly.
"No need for thanks; it is the simple, unvarnished truth; it is nothing to me if you get offended." The little foot, clad in its dainty wigwam slipper, taps the door step impatiently.
"Never mind, dear, don't get angry; you and I should understand each other by now. You are such a little wildfire, I like to see you get excited. But come, tell me what the old gentleman said."
Zoe's anger is never very long lived; now, under Jet's conciliatory tones, it vanishes and fades like the mist in the morn.
"Of course I'll tell you, you old goose," Zoe exclaims, coming down toward him.
"Well, let us walk around the paths, and we can talk better," suggests the 'old goose,' persuasively.
"He asked me over so nicely, to come and go in his beautiful house and grounds, and make myself at home there. Ah, I felt like hugging the old dear." Mr. Glen pokes the grass thoughtfully with his cane.
"Indeed," he says drily. "It is a pity you could not expend your surplus affection on a younger man."
Zoe stops short in her walk. "You are very impolite, to say the very least; in fact I am rather surprised at you," the youngest Miss Litchfield says loftily. The wind blows in chilly gusts, suggestive of rain; it is very cold for a night in August.
"Shall I run in and fetch a shawl for you?" Jet asks in a protective sort of way.
"No thanks, I shall never accept any service from your hands sir, or in fact from any one who would dare speak disrespectfully of my friends."
But Zoe forgot the old but true proverb about "pride having a fall." Suddenly the young lady seems to be seized with a panic of despair.
"Oh! oh! oh!" she cries, in frantic tones.
"What in the name of the stars is the matter now?" inquires the young man, looking about him to the right and left.
"Oh, kill it; kill it, quick." White dresses are a great magnetiser for June bugs; caught in the lace of her sleeve is an immense—as Zoe calls it—'horny bug.'
"He's dead; come look at him," Jet adds; but Zoe retreats to the front door in haste.
"Come in, come in, quick, till I shut the door; surely the wretches won't chase us in the house."
The door shuts to with a defiant bang, while the agitated young lady once more recovers her tranquility of mind.
"I never judge from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever met with."—Lord Byron.
"I never judge from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever met with."
—Lord Byron.
The bright sunlight played coyly through the half-closed shutter, and fell across the table, brightening up the dusty old books, slates, and every other article which helped to make up the furnishing of the private office of Fanchon, Litchfield & Co.
"The note falls due to-morrow at the bank, for the three hundred you accommodated me with; but no matter, that will be all right; you go and transact the business abroad for the firm, and I will attend to lifting your note."
Mr. Litchfield looks steadily at the young man sitting opposite, and says quietly, "I shall be thankful, yes, more than thankful, when it is lifted, for never again will I put my name on any man's paper. However, some one will have to go, and I had better be the one."
Cyrel Fanchon laughed lightly. "Every business firm is obliged to run on paper; why feel worried that ours should do the same?"
The little alarm clock on the shelf struck two. Mr. Litchfield pushes back his chair.
"It will be nearly three weeks before I can return, so you can write me if anything new arises," he says, taking his hat from the peg.
Cyrel Fanchon takes a slip of paper from the desk, writes a few lines to a leading daily paper, and slips it in his coat pocket. If Edward Litchfield could have seen those few words, so hastily written, he would not have gone home to prepare for his journey on the morrow with so much freedom from coming care. The next day found Mr. Litchfield still in his office, a paper in his hand, his face like ashes. Before him is a notice from the Bank, to lift a note, bearing his signature, for thirty thousand dollars—money he had never had. Where was Fanchon? He would of course explain the meaning of this strange business. To be sure he never thought to notice the amount when he hastily signed his name to the note, for he had no glasses with him at the time, but trusted to Fanchon's honesty when he said three hundred. Of course it would be all right, but his sister's warning words come back to him with double distinctness, that does not help to relieve his feelings. Adeline could always discern further than he. If he had only heeded her words this trouble would not have to be faced. But Fanchon was nowhere to be found; he told some one he intended going away for a few days. What was to be done? He dared not stay; he could, but would not, borrow money, to repay those with whom he had never had any dealings. He would leave the country, his home and family, of whom he was so fond. The drops of agony stood deep on his face. Cyril Fanchon had deceived his old friend, the man who had put him in the position he held to-day, and in return had ruined him. Yes, he would go to-night, and to-morrow the city would ring with the news of the sudden departure of him, whom all respected and trusted. Oh, it was bitter to think of, but more bitter to remain. "Ah, Estelle, Estelle, thank Heaven you are not here to-day to share my disgrace." Edward Litchfield bowed his head and wept bitter tears of self-reproach. He went, and no one knew but Aunt Adeline, and the blow almost broke her heart.
The boat had just come in; the passengers crossing the ferry hurried ashore. A girl, lonely and tired looking, came slowly, feebly up the floats. She was neatly dressed, and had a look of refinement, that prevented the men lounging along the railing from passing the usual slang remarks so common to their idle profession. Well may she look tired and weary, for many a mile has she travelled over land and sea.
"Can you tell me where I can get a night's lodging?" she asked of a neat old woman who kept a tidy little grocery store at the corner. The woman was kind hearted; she pitied the girl's desolate look, and kept her for the night. The old woman questioned her with motherly solicitude. Was she married? "Yes, there was the ring on her finger." "Was she a widow?" "No," the girl said; "she was searching for her husband." The woman saw her go the next day, with a lunch and a blessing. All day she walked up one street, down another, looking keenly at each passer by, but always with the same hopeful look. Toward nightfall, when she was again seeking a place to lay her weary head, a mist, almost rain, began to fall. She turned her lagging steps up a street lined by beautiful, costly houses. One especially caught her fancy. The windows were open, lights streamed out on the dreary wet road. She crept up and looked in. She saw a room with everything lovely and costly; a lady sat at the table, two pretty children at her side.
"Here comes papa to kiss us good night, mamma," the eldest girl cried.
A gentleman came in, and hastily kissing the children, turned to the lady.
"My dear wife, what nonsense; no one could be looking in the window; you are whimsical. A woman's face! what next will you see?" Then he goes out smiling and down the road. He sees not the strange, wild figure flying after him, nor hears the faint voice calling his name.
"Cyril! Cyril Fanchon! Ah me! Husband! speak to me, your wife—your Jantie!"
The wind sweeps down the street in chilly gusts; the woman wraps her jacket around her; she stumbles on, on, blindly. A railing, enclosing a dark, grim building, comes in sight and looms up in the darkness; she struggles with the weakness that overtakes her; she falls, but she is conscious, only unable to move. All her weary journey has ended here; to find the man she believes to be her husband, with a wife and family. She loves him too well to expose his crime; for the gentle looking wife's sake she will give him up; she will lie here and die, and he will never know of the sacrifice she made. Ah yes, she has only her poor old mother, and by now she no doubt would think her better off if she were dead. Then a deadly faintness takes possession of her; she must be dying; then all is blank. A policeman, passing, does not notice the figure lying almost at his very feet. He buttons his waterproof coat up tighter and shivers, as he thinks of his comfortable home, and pities all who are so unfortunate as himself, to be out in the cold.
"Paradise is always where love dwells."—Richter.
"Paradise is always where love dwells."
—Richter.
Tingle, tingle, tingle, chimes the tiny silver bell, and down the pretty newly swept gravel path file the pupils, two and two; the plain black dresses, and black hoods looking strangely quaint on the smiling faces of the girls going to early service. The sisters, with folded hands and devout downcast eyes, follow. Suddenly a moan or gasping sound makes sister Christine pause in her silent march behind the others. She looks about, then her eyes take a startled, anxious expression; she steps hurriedly forward to kneel beside a woman lying among the fragrant mignonette. With sister Christine to think is to act. She felt the faintly beating pulse; her first anxiety is over; the woman has but fainted. At first the sister, glancing at the set, white face, feared she could render no assistance on earth to this creature flung on her path. A tiny silver whistle hangs at her side; lifting it to her lips she blows a shrill toot; a mulatto boy, in a coat bright with silver buttons, runs down to her.
"Oh massey," exclaims this little black diamond, standing off, with his mouth open so wide that sister Christine fears he will have the lock-jaw.
"Woolly, run quickly to the house and ask the Mother Superior to come here to me. Now hurry; and Woolly! shut your mouth." There was a sudden scamper, a vision of bright shining buttons, and Woolly was gone.
A few minutes later the still unconscious figure was borne into the house, tenderly attended by the mother and good sisters.
The first face Jantie Mackeith saw when she awoke was the tender, pitiful face of Mother St. Marguerite.
"Where am I? Who are you? Ah, yes, I remember, they told me this was a convent, where there was rest for all who were weary. I crept in by the gate, to ask if I might stay here—stay where my heart would find peace; then I grew dizzy, everything seemed black; I tried to call some one, then all was dark. May I stay here—may I?"
Mother St. Marguerite's eyes are full of tears; she takes the pretty small white hand, stretched out so imploringly, into hers. Sister Christine, just entering, has never seen the mother so moved before.
"Yes, poor lamb, stay—stay; no questions will be asked you. If evil has come, no doubt punishment has followed; if you are wronged, Heaven will give you a free, light conscience to know that you are doing what your God would approve. Heaven bless you! We are all weak, erring sheep."
The school was dull that bright, cheery morning; rumors have got afloat about the strange lady; the pupils wanted to know all about it. The sisters' lips were sealed; the only speakable person on the premises was Woolly. He was bribed by every imaginable luxury, all the way from a bright yellow handkerchief—the color which was dear to Woolly's eyes—to a lump of barley candy—dear to the lad's mouth. He drove enough bargains that morning, during recreation, to last a boy of his age a whole year. Meanwhile the patient up stairs, in sister Christine's room, was improving. As was promised, she was asked no questions, and she gave no information. The name Sister Jean was given her. No one ever regretted the care bestowed upon the stranger, so eagerly did she strive to please. The school was large; many pupils occupied the attention of the sisters sister Jean was given charge of the smaller girls, and right loyally did they love the pale, quiet, gentle teacher. Mother St. Marguerite, a wonderful woman herself, took a particular interest in the new found sister. The sick were visited, the poor watched over, by the mother's watchful eye and helpful hand. Many homes learned to bless the good, angelic work of sister Jean.
Over a month after sister Jean's admission into the convent of St. Marguerite, a note was received by Sir Barry Traleigh, at Castle Racquette, Scotland.
"I have given up ambition for the future. Do not try to find me; I am leading a peaceful, useful, happy life. My heart, though broken, is as peaceful as is possible again in this world.Jantie."
"I have given up ambition for the future. Do not try to find me; I am leading a peaceful, useful, happy life. My heart, though broken, is as peaceful as is possible again in this world.Jantie."
But in her haste she forgot the name of the convent was stamped on the paper. However, Sir Barry's mind was set at rest by those few words; he knew the more than headstrong, pretty daughter of one of his tenants was safe. Pretty, foolish Jantie Mackeith had been persuaded into a secret marriage with a young man, a stranger to Scotland—Cyril Fanchon. He was a nice, gentlemanly looking fellow; and Jantie—silly child—her head was turned by his attentions. However, the deed was done, and a week later Cyril Fanchon suddenly left Scotland, without a word of leave-taking. In a fit of remorse the girl confessed her marriage to Sir Barry, and Sir Barry, who had teased and petted the pretty child since she was out of her baby frocks, was shocked and surprised.
"You should not have done it, Jantie; you know anything secret is bad, child. What will your mother say?"
Sir Barry feels almost a paternal interest in this girl, and her own father, were he alive, could feel no deeper pity for her than he does now.
"Oh sir, mother must never know. You, who know her, can see it would be madness to say anything to her about it. I expert he grew tired of me, and yet he used to tell me he would never tire of his pretty Jantie. Oh yes, my punishment has quickly fallen."
The girl, standing by Sir Barry, folds her white hands behind her back, and the honest, truthful brown eyes look vacantly into the distance. The warm breeze lifts the curly locks from her low white forehead; the sunbeams kiss the cheeks once so blooming, now pale with anxiety.
"But, Sir Barry, mark what I say. I shall move all creation but what I shall find him. Stay here and be talked to death by mother, and mocked by all? No, I won't! Heaven help me to make him endure just the anguish that is tormenting me to death. Can you blame me, Sir Barry, can you?" And Sir Barry, leaning against the arched gateway, looking at the pale, drooping face, from out of which all the pretty rose bloom has fled, cannot blame Jantie for what she says.
Mrs. Mackeith loved this, her only daughter, passionately—the only one she had to love; mother and daughter were inseparable. As passionately as she loved, so could she hate; if her love turned to displeasure it was bitter as death. Her own husband, to whom she was devotedly attached, displeased her by selling a farm without her consent. He took cold one morning, while swimming across a swollen ford where the bridge had been swept away; she took excellent care of him, did all in her power to save his life, and failed; he died; but she never forgave him. Sir Barry knew, and so did Jantie, only too well, that her mother's reproaches would be more bitter than anything else to bear. So Mrs. Mackeith never knew what had taken place. She wondered, even grieved with motherly anxiety, over Jantie's pale face and strange freaks of listlessness. But one morning it all broke upon her unawares. Without a word of farewell, Jantie left her safe, quiet home among the Scottish hills, to seek for him who had left her so basely. Cyril Fanchon had gone; Jantie was gone. Mrs. Mackeith put two and two together, and it slowly but surely dawned upon her mind that Jantie—her Jantie, of whom she was so proud—had run away with that fellow Fanchon. The neighbors thought it a just judgment upon her, for her hard words to her husband on his death bed. But they offered their consolation with warm, hearty sympathy. Every one was fond of cheerful Jantie, whose pretty lips always had a pleasant word and smile for everybody. Her daughter's conduct, to all outward appearances, seemed to make no difference whatever to the tall, bony, hardy Scotch woman. Her step was just as elastic, her eye as keen, as though no trouble had crossed her path in life. She went about her daily duties the same as when Jantie blithely sang and cheerfully worked about the house. Mrs. Mackeith showed herself to be a woman of well-controlled feelings; she told her sorrow to none, and none knew how nearly broken her faithful, loving heart was.
Had Sir Barry been home, things might have been different; she trusted him implicitly; why would she not? She had known the lad all his life; had she not nursed him in her arms when he was a tiny infant, and watched the little bonnie laddie grow up to be the fine, good, generous gentleman she was proud to see he had become? Ah, no; there were few men who could come as near perfection in Mrs. Mackeith's eyes as brave Sir Barry Traleigh.
"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.
"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."