Читать книгу Zoe; Or, Some Day - May Leonard - Страница 6

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"Dark is her hair, her hand is white,

Her voice is exquisitely tender;

Her eyes are full of a liquid light,

I never saw a waist so slender."

—Praed.

"Dolores, will he ever come?"

The hammock, slung between the two sturdy old apple trees, swings gently to and fro, the scorching rays of an August sun beat fiercely down, the bees hum lazily in the dense heat, the flowers droop their pretty heads, as if inviting a refreshing shower to brighten their fainting spirits.

"Dolores, I believe you are asleep. Do you think he will soon be here?"

"Who?" comes the lazy enquiry from the young lady of the hammock.

"Why, the postman, of course. How stupid of you not to remember. I never saw any one so indifferent in my life."

Zoe's red lips form themselves into as near a pout as her ever ready smiling mouth will allow.

"Who could be anything else than indifferent on a day such as this?" is the half sleepy reply.

"Dolores, like my own sweet sister, sit up and talk to me."

The bees hum on, the butterflies light here and there, now on this flower, now on that. Then sweet, gentle, pretty Dolores Litchfield stretches her white arms over her pretty head, yawns, and slips from the hammock.

"Now Zoe, you little worry, what is the trouble?"

Dropping into a garden chair, Dolores folds her white hands, to await further developments from her wilful, impulsive, harum-scarum sister Zoe.

"How handsome you are, Dolores. Do you think I shall ever be as beautiful as you, do you, Dolores?" the girl cries eagerly.

Dolores brushes a fly off her white dress and laughs softly.

"Ah, Zoe, what a little flatterer. One of those days I will be no comparison to my little sister; you will eclipse me in every respect." And Miss Litchfield smiles fondly at the troubled, eager face before her.

"Oh, I could never be like you, Dolores. I have a wicked temper, and a quick tongue; were I not to speak out what I think, why I should choke to death. I may have a pretty face and nice figure, but I can never be good, unselfish, forgiving, like you, never."

The girl shakes her head; she feels herself far from perfect. Since Dolores has come home from her foreign tour she has been her sister's ideal of all women.

"How I do wish he would come," the youngest Miss Litchfield says impatiently. "He is like the policemen in town, never around when they are wanted. Well," defiantly, "I don't care a snap of my finger if he comes or stays."

Dolores smiled in her lazy fashion; she is too much accustomed to Zoe's "ways," to say anything.

"Dolores, talk to me; tell me a story, anything to put in the time, something you saw on your visit abroad; it must be an Italian story; dear, beautiful, sunny Italy! Oh, Dolores! what would I not give to be there! What pictures I could paint! I did not for one moment begrudge your going, but if I could have had the chance, I would have painted pictures which would have made me famous. Oh, Dolores, think what it is to be famous. Some day, it may be far off or it may be near, but the time will surely come, when you will be proud to own me as your sister. I want—my ambition is—to be great, grand, noble."

Dolores laughs. "And good, my sister; that is better than all," she says, smiling. "My ambitious little one, do not be too eager, you have all your life before you yet; fame will not be caught easily; she demands much chasing, and those who pursue her have many slips and tumbles before they achieve their end, so be patient. And now for the story."

"Well, once upon a time there was a castle in Italy, a beautiful, costly, grand structure. The lord of the castle was a brave, generous gentleman, honorable and true. His lady was lovely, proud, and intensely jealous of her very charming husband; she had a gentle serving maid, Christina, a girl as pure in thought and deed as the lily; they had grown up as playfellows. The Countess was very fond of her, for she was not like her other friends. The Countess would quarrel with any and every one, on account of her fiery temper; with Christina she never quarreled. The maid was fond of solitude, and passed her spare time in wandering alone among a grove of beautiful trees, her white dress could often be seen as she paced back and forth among the dark trees, and gained for her, among the people, the name of the White Lady. The Countess' room was costly and elegant, the toilet table was of massive silver, covered with a profusion of everything handsome. Her chair was placed in front of the glass, and one day, so the legend runs, she was sitting there, while Christina was combing her mistress's golden hair; the Count was called away on urgent business, and as he passed through the door she saw, as she believed, a smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, that turned her heart almost to stone. That night, ere the moon was up, Christina was led forth; no instrument of death was used, not one hair of her head was harmed. In all the full glow of life and health, fair, gentle, good Christina was walled up within the castle walls, in a vault under the chapel. And now, every night, at the same hour, a figure stands, with eyes uplifted, and hands clasped in prayer, then it vanishes, and the hunter meets her on his hunting track, and the shepherd on the heath starts and exclaims, 'It is the White Lady!'"

Dolores' voice sinks to a whisper; there are tears in her dusky eyes. Surely one would think the sad story of poor Christina awakened more than a passing feeling of sadness for her in Dolores' kind heart. Zoe was too much interested to notice her sister's silence.

"And you really walked in the Countess' own room, saw the grove where Christina walked and spent her lonely hours of solitude, and the vault which she never came out of?"

"Yes, dear, it was all very lovely, sad and beautiful," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "But look! your patience is rewarded; there comes the postman in at the gate."

Zoe darts off in quest of the daily post. Before many minutes she is back again, her face wreathed in smiles, for there actually was a letter addressed to Miss Zoe Litchfield, from an affectionate girl friend; and soon Zoe is deep in its contents. Dolores languidly scans the handwriting on the large square envelope addressed to herself, then breaks the seal, and reads; and as she reads a gleam of satisfaction, quickly followed by one of sorrow, passes over her ever changing face.

"What's in yours, Dolores?" Zoe asks, putting her own epistle in the pocket of her white frilled apron.

"There is to be a yachting party, and I have been invited to join it," Dolores answers, absently gazing at a rose bush stirred by the breeze.

"Oh!" Zoe ejaculates. "Will you go? Who asked you? Won't it be sublime?"

Zoe's eyes dilate, and a wish, not altogether unnatural in a girl fifteen years old, arises in her mind, to be Dolores. Now, however, Dolores smiles faintly, and says slowly,

"I shall think it over. The Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins sent the invitation, and as to its being sublime, I suppose so."

Then Dolores arises and goes across the lawn towards the house, with her white dress trailing over the green grass behind her. Pretty, graceful, sweet Dolores. What was the reason no one cared to be seen talking to her? And in crowded parlors or assemblies, if her name happened to be mentioned, why did virtuous mammas look at the person who spoke her name with such a shocked expression? Surely gentle Dolores could not have wronged any one by word or deed. A gentleman once said, speaking of Miss Litchfield, "That if ever a true, pure woman lived, a woman on whom any man might stake his life and honor, it was a woman like Dolores Litchfield whom he might trust." And it is quite safe to say, that this praise did not make Dolores any more of a favourite with the roomful of ladies of all ages, where the remark was made.