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."