Part 2

The Misses Van Vorst again looked distressed. The aunt of whom Elizabeth spoke, Malvina's sister-in-law, kept a small dry-goods shop, much patronized by the Neighborhood, and had risen considerably above the original position of the family. Yet the older ladies of the Homestead could never be reminded of her existence without a sharp recollection of a painful chapter in the family history. Had they consulted only their wishes, Elizabeth would never have been informed of the connection. They were just women, however, and admitted the claims of Elizabeth's only relation on her mother's side, and one who had a daughter, too, of about the girl's own age.

"Of course, my dear," Miss Cornelia said at last, reluctantly, "we wouldn't have you neglect your aunt."

"No, poor thing," said Joanna "we wouldn't have you hurt her feelings for the world. So perhaps you would better stop there, my dear; and if you do, will you get me some sewing-silk from the store?"

This proved by no means the only commission with which Elizabeth was burdened when she started, half an hour later; for Miss Joanna had had time to remember several other things she wanted from the store, to say nothing of the beef-tea for the Rector's wife, and numerous messages of advice and sympathy, which the girl was earnestly charged not to forget. Miss Cornelia had no commissions, and merely asked Elizabeth to remember, when she came home, every one whom she had seen, to inquire of the Johnstons, if she met them, how their grandmother was, and to notice, if she saw the Van Antwerps, if they had their new carriage, and what Mrs. Bobby had on. At last Elizabeth drove off, in the old-fashioned pony-chaise, behind the fat white pony whose age was wrapped in obscurity, and who trod, with the leisurely indifference of a well-bred carriage-horse, the road which he knew by heart.

It was a pleasant, shady road, that ran between stone fences, across which you caught the scent of honey-suckle. Beyond were fine places, once the pride of the Neighborhood, now for the most part neglected, or turned into pasturage for cows. The trees interlacing, formed an arch over-head, through which the sunlight flickered in long, slanting rays; the air was very still, except for the soft hum of bees, and a gentle wind that occasionally rustled the foliage and caressed the petals of the wild-roses, which grew in careless profusion along the road-side. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, wild violets still lingered, and the fresh green grass in the fields was thickly strewn with buttercups and daisies. But for all this beauty of the early summer Elizabeth seemed to have no eyes. Her brows were knit and her face clouded, and now and then she gave a vicious pull to the white pony's reins more as a relief to her own feelings than from any hope of hastening the movements of that dignified animal.

Her thoughts matched the day as little as her looks. Her mind still reverted with remorse to the outburst of an hour before. Why had she displayed that childish petulance, and given audible expression to the discontent which had smouldered unsuspected for many months? To speak of it was useless and only distressed her aunts; it was not their fault if the place was dull. And then she could, as a rule, amuse herself well enough. There were always drives and walks, the garden and the flowers, her books and her music, a hundred resources in which she found unceasing pleasure. There was even to her warm vitality a delight just then in the mere physical fact of living. And yet the times were growing more frequent day by day, when all this would fail her, when she would long passionately for novelty, for excitement, for something--she hardly knew what. There were desperate moments when it seemed to her that she would welcome any change whatsoever, when she thought that even storm and stress might be preferable to dull monotony.

After all, it was not the dullness of the place which lay at the root of her discontent. There was another trouble which went far deeper of which she never spoke; yet it affected her whole attitude towards the world, and more especially the Neighborhood. She did not feel at home in the small, charmed circle of those who knew each other so well, not even with the girls with whom she had played as a child. There had always been a tacit assumption of superiority on their part, which Elizabeth instinctively felt and resented. The most disagreeable episode in her life was a quarrel with one of her playmates, in which the latter had won the last word by an angry taunt against Elizabeth's mother, who was "a horrid, common woman, whom no one in the Neighborhood, would speak to--_her_ mother had said so." Elizabeth, paralyzed, could think of no retort, but walked home in silence, shedding bitter tears of rage and mortification. She did not repeat the remark to her aunts--it was too painful and she somehow suspected too true; but that night she cried herself to sleep and had consoling dreams of a time when she should be a great personage, and able to turn the tables on her tormentors. This was a long time ago; but the old wound still rankled, and she held herself proudly aloof from her former playmates. They, on their part pronounced her hard to get on with, and their mothers made no effort to encourage the intimacy. In the conservative society of the Neighborhood, Peter's marriage was still vividly remembered, and could not easily be forgiven. Elizabeth was pretty and to all appearance, well-bred, but still people thought of her antecedents and maintained towards her an attitude of doubt. It was the perception of this fact, the consciousness of having begun life at a disadvantage, which embittered Elizabeth's thoughts as she drove through the country lanes that June morning.

The sun was high in the heavens when she reached Bassett Mills, a nondescript place, neither town nor village, and much over-shadowed by the glories of Cranston, not ten miles away. "The Mills" is not very prosperous, but it has its factory, and the mill-stream, dashing precipitously through its midst, lends some picturesqueness to the squalid houses on its banks. There was a certain life and movement this morning about the steep High Street, down which the white pony took his leisurely way. A stream of factory people passed by to their noon-day dinner; the street was full of wagons and carriages from the Neighborhood. Elizabeth saw the Van Antwerp dog-cart standing in front of the hardware shop, and caught a smile and bow from Mrs. Bobby, which surprised her by their graciousness. Later on she met the Courtenays, whom she knew better, but who greeted her more coldly. Elizabeth's own bow was stiff, and the cloud which Mrs. Bobby's cordiality had dispelled, again darkened her face.

She went on to the Rectory, but here she found that the baby's illness had developed into measles, and she could deposit her beef-tea at the door and take her leave with a clear conscience. Outside she stood in the hot sun debating if she should or should not stop to see her aunt and cousin. It was a long time since she had been there, and her aunt would be sure to assail her with reproaches. Amanda, too, would feel injured, and look the spiteful things which she never actually said. But then Elizabeth could usually rise superior to any spitefulness that Amanda might display. She felt on the whole very kindly towards her cousin, she liked to show her pretty gowns, and her good-nature had even stood the test of several bungling attempts on Amanda's part to imitate them. There were moments when, in the dearth of society, Elizabeth would turn with a certain affection to this uncongenial cousin, who at other times jarred upon her greatly.

It was the remembrance of Miss Joanna's commissions that on this occasion turned the scale in favor of the intended visit. Elizabeth left the white pony, who would stand an indefinite time, and entered the small dry-goods shop, where her aunt or Amanda generally presided. It was empty. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then she crossed the hall that led to the living-rooms of the family. Here she paused in astonishment. From behind the closed door of the parlor came the sound of a man's voice; a rich, barytone voice singing from Tannhäuser the song of the Evening Star. Elizabeth waited till it was over; then she opened the door and went in.

_Chapter III_

The young man who had just sung was still at the piano, softly playing variations on the same air. She gave him one hurried glance. He was tall and fair, with blue eyes and a silky blonde moustache, and he wore a velveteen coat, much the worse for wear, and a turn-down collar that showed to advantage the fine outlines of his throat and the graceful poise of his head. These details Elizabeth grasped at once before her gaze wandered to her aunt and Amanda, who were sitting idle as she had never before seen them in the morning, with eyes intent on the young man at the piano. Elizabeth noticed that Amanda had on her Sunday frock and her hair very much frizzed.

The girl had entered so softly that the three people already in the room did not at first notice her presence. When they at last did so, it seemed to cause something of a shock. Her aunt and Amanda stared at her in silence, and Amanda turned a trifle pale. The young man rose from the piano and looked at her intently for a moment with his bright blue eyes; then he re-seated himself and went on playing, but much more softly, and as if hardly conscious of what he did.

Elizabeth's aunt was the first to recover herself, and upon second thought it occurred to her that her niece had arrived at an opportune moment--when she and Amanda had on their best clothes, and were entertaining company. This reflection tempered the usual austerity of her greeting. "Why, Elizabeth, is that you? You're quite a stranger. It isn't often you honor us with your company."

"You know," said Elizabeth, quite used to the formula of reproach and excuse, with which these visits invariably opened "the white pony has been lame, and I have driven out very little."

"And you couldn't come on your wheel, I suppose? Nothing short of a carriage would do for you. I wonder you don't insist on a groom in top-boots. But well, never mind," Aunt Rebecca went on, feeling that she had sufficiently maintained her dignity "you're very welcome now, I'm sure, and you're just in time to hear some music. This is Paul Halleck, who has been kind enough to sing for us. Mr. Halleck, this is Amanda's cousin Elizabeth, whom you've heard us speak of." There was an odd note of grudging satisfaction in her voice as she made the introduction. Mrs. Jones's feeling towards her niece was a complex one, characterized on the one hand, by an involuntary sense of resentment at the elevation of Malvina's girl, on the other, by an equally involuntary pride in the connection. The latter sensation predominated when she introduced Elizabeth to a stranger whom she wished to impress.

Elizabeth's chief feeling was one of annoyance, and it brought an angry flush to her cheek. Then she caught the look in the young man's eyes, as he rose and bowed with much deference; and her own eyes fell and again she blushed, but not with anger.

"I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Van Vorst before," said Paul Halleck, "though she has not, of course, noticed me."

"Why, yes, of course," said Elizabeth's aunt, still in high good humor, "you've seen her when you were out sketching. You see, Elizabeth, he's a painter as well as a singer; he's quite a genius, altogether. We find him a great acquisition to our parties here at The Mills. And to think that he was born here, and lived here part of his life! You remember the Hallecks that went West when you were a child? They settled in Chicago, you know. He only came to New York awhile ago, and thought he'd look up his folks in this place. But there, Elizabeth, sit down, and perhaps Mr. Halleck will give us another tune."

Elizabeth silently took the chair the young man placed for her, while her aunt still talked on volubly. The girl was bewildered by what she heard. She could not imagine this handsome young singer, with his air of picturesque Bohemia, as an acquisition to the parties of Bassett Mills; nor did he seem at home in her aunt's parlor. She glanced about the commonplace, gaudy little room, every detail of which impressed itself upon her with a new sense of its crudeness; the plush-covered furniture, staring wall-paper, the lace anti-macassars, the photographs of the family, the men in high hats, the women simpering in their Sunday clothes. It did not seem the fit atmosphere for an artist. And then, with a sudden, sharp misgiving, Elizabeth looked at Amanda, and asked herself for a moment if she could be the attraction. The doubt vanished instantly. Poor Amanda was not pretty at the best of times, and there was a sullen look on her face just then that made her appear at her worst. She had a dull, pasty skin and very light eyes. All the color seemed to be concentrated in her hair, which was a deep, dark red, all the more striking for the contrast to her pale face. The gown she wore, of a bright yellow, was peculiarly successful in bringing out the faded tints of her complexion and the jarring vividness of her hair.

Amanda at that moment felt to the full the unkindness of fate. She had not shared for an instant her mother's gratification at Elizabeth's entrance. It was hard, she thought, that, having arrayed herself in her best, and struggled long to look beautiful, she should be completely over-shadowed by Elizabeth in the cool white gown and shady hat, which had a provoking air of not being her best, but merely her natural and everyday attire. Amanda had seen, as well as Elizabeth, the look in Paul's eyes. Was it fair, she asked herself, that she should share her good things with Elizabeth, who had so many of her own? And so Amanda sat silent and sullen, while her mother talked on, and Halleck ran his fingers over the keys, as if he would fain be playing.

"What shall I sing?" he asked abruptly, in the first pause, and looking at Elizabeth as if her wishes alone were of any consequence.

"Oh, the Evening Star again," she responded eagerly. "I only heard the end of it, and it brought up so many delightful memories."

So Halleck sang the song again. A voice, artistically modulated, filled the little room, which vanished for Elizabeth. She saw pilgrims filing past in slow procession, Tannhäuser struggling against the power of the Venusberg, Elizabeth kneeling in her penitent's dress before the cross. The whole Wagnerian drama unrolled itself before her eyes while the song lasted. And then, as the last note died away, she came back to the present with a start, and realized that the young man who had just afforded her this pleasure was handsomer far than any Wolfram she had ever seen before.

"Ah, thank you," she said, drawing a long breath. "That is so beautiful. It is so long since I have heard any music."

"You are fond of it?" said Halleck, eagerly.

"Yes," she responded, earnestly.

"Ah, I saw it--I was sure of it," he declared. "You have the artistic temperament. I saw it in your face at once."

Elizabeth blushed for the third time that morning, and now with a distinct sense of pleasure. Amanda, too, flushed a dull red. She was not quite certain what the artistic temperament might be, but it was clearly one of those good things of which Elizabeth had an unfair monopoly.

"You play or sing yourself, of course?" Halleck went on.

"Oh, I play a little," Elizabeth pouted out her full under-lip, in charming deprecation of her own powers. "I am ashamed, before a real musician, to say that I play at all."

"I am not a real musician, alas!" said Halleck, "only a dabbler in music, as I am in art." A thoughtful look came into his blue eyes, and he went on absently playing fragments from Tannhäuser. "I am glad you like that," he said, abruptly. "You remember the heroine was called Elizabeth."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember." It gave her an odd little thrill of pleasure to hear him pronounce her name, and yet she wondered if his remark were not too personal to be in good taste. "But I don't think I am at all like that Elizabeth," she added, after a moment, following out his suggestion in spite of this doubt.

"No, perhaps not," said Halleck, regarding her with a calm scrutiny, in which he seemed to appraise her no longer as a woman, but purely from an artistic point of view. "You are not exactly that type; you have more life and color, less spirituality, perhaps; but you are fair, and your hair would do admirably. You would make a beautiful picture with your hair unbound, kneeling before the cross."

"I have never had my picture painted," Elizabeth murmured, trying to imagine herself in a penitent's garb.

"Will you let me try it?"

Elizabeth smiled and assented, deciding that no long acquaintance was necessary, when it was a question of having her picture painted, in a costume which she was quite determined should be becoming. She sat mentally reviewing the resources of her wardrobe, while Halleck struck sonorous chords on the piano, and asked if she recognized this or that Wagnerian theme, upon which he proceeded to extemporize. Amanda and her mother were distinctly left out, and the latter began to repent of her first satisfaction in her niece's visit. She broke in at last, brusquely, upon the very midst of the love-music from "Tristan and Isolde." "Well, I don't think much of this Wagner," she said. "His music all sounds the same--a lot of queer noises, with no tune to them. What I like now is 'Home, Sweet Home,' or 'Nancy Lee'--something real nice and catchy."

"I can play those, too," said Halleck, good-humoredly, and immediately played the first mentioned air, with variations of his own improvisation. At the end of it he rose from the piano. "Won't you play for me now," he said to Elizabeth.

"Oh, no, not after you." Elizabeth shook her head and rose to her feet, with a sudden recollection of the white pony and her aunt's dinner-hour. "Some other day," she said, "I'll be very glad to play for you, but really now I have not the time--or the courage." She spoke with a pretty, smiling deference, and she held out her hand, which he took in a long, lingering grasp. There was a soft glow of color in her cheeks, her eyes were cast down till he could see only her long lashes. "Thank you so much," she said "for the music." Then she drew her hand away from his and kissed her aunt and Amanda, with an unwonted display of affection. She felt an odd sense of excitement, a wish to be friendly with all the world.

Neither her aunt nor Amanda seemed to share it. They did not try to detain her, and Halleck, though he looked disappointed, said nothing. They all three escorted her to the door of the shop, where the white pony stood patiently enduring the heat and the flies. Elizabeth lingered over her farewells. She wished to ask her new acquaintance to come to see her, but disliked doing so before her aunt and cousin. It was he who finally said, leaning over her as he placed the reins in her hand: "And--a--how about that picture? May I come to see you about it?"

Elizabeth's eyes were still hidden as she answered demurely: "I am sure I--we shall be very glad to see you at the Homestead."

And then she drove off, and the others stood for a moment and looked after her in silence.

"She--she's pretty--isn't she," said Amanda, suddenly speaking for the first time since Elizabeth had appeared. Her voice, even to herself, sounded harsh and grating. Her lips were very dry.

Halleck started and looked at her as if reminded of her existence. Then a smile stole over his face and sparkled in his handsome blue eyes.

"Yes, she's rather pretty," he answered, carelessly "but--a little disappointing on a close view. However, she'll do very well as a model--she's picturesque, at least."

Amanda drew a long breath of sudden and intense relief.

_Chapter V_

"And so you say this young man lives at The Mills, my dear?" Miss Cornelia paused, the heavy, elaborately chased tea-pot suspended in her hand. Her gentle, near-sighted eyes looked anxiously across the table at Elizabeth.

It was the first time that the girl had spoken of her new acquaintance, though it was now some time since her return from Bassett Mills, and she had told at once of the measles at the Rectory. This piece of news, however, had lasted them well through dinner, and in the country it is improvident to use up all one's information at once. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of this; or it might be that the other item did not strike her as of any special importance. She only mentioned it very casually at tea-time; but her aunts' anxiety was easily aroused at any suggestion of new acquaintances at Bassett Mills.

"I don't think he lives at The Mills," Elizabeth made answer now reluctantly to Miss Cornelia's question. "I think he--he is just staying there--I believe Aunt Rebecca said something about his coming from Chicago. But his family used to live at The Mills."

"You don't mean those Hallecks who went West a long time ago?" exclaimed Miss Joanna. "Do you remember, sister?--the man was in jail the most of the time. The children used to play on the road behind the church--poor little neglected things, I was quite worried about them. It was a relief, I remember, when they all went away."

Elizabeth found this piece of ancient history peculiarly inopportune.

"Well, that was a long time ago, Aunt Joanna," she said. "It doesn't matter, I suppose, so much what people's parents were like. Mr. Halleck is very nice himself. He is an artist, and he wants to paint my picture." She brought out this last information, which she had been longing to tell for some time, with a certain triumph; but it fell unexpectedly flat.

"An artist!" Miss Joanna repeated. "Dear me! One of those little Hallecks who used to play in the road."

"To paint your picture, my dear?" repeated Miss Cornelia still more doubtfully. "When he has only met you once! I am afraid he is rather a pushing young man. But of course, dear, you won't encourage him."

Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her plate; her cheeks were painfully flushed and she bit her lips to keep back the scalding tears that rose to her eyes. "I don't think he is pushing," she murmured, but she said no more. How could she explain to her aunts the vast difference that existed between this young man and any other friend of Amanda's? They were dear, good women, but so hopelessly narrow and antiquated, with their little old-fashioned ideas of propriety, their distinctions founded on the conventional laws of the Neighborhood. Elizabeth, too, was not without an involuntary respect for these distinctions. She had her full share of the pride of birth which was instinctive in every Van Vorst, even in the most ignorant country lout that had ever borne the family name and lowered the family credit. With Elizabeth it was only intensified, perhaps, by a doubt of her own position. But then she belonged to the new generation; and there was a side of her nature that recognized the futility of these old traditions. Elizabeth did not analyze her feelings; she was only conscious of a vague sense of revolt, a desire to beat her wings as it were, against the cages of conventional distinctions, and test her powers of flight.