The Ordeal of Elizabeth Part 2

"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, Tannhauser 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 Tannhauser. "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 p.r.o.nounce 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 a.s.sented, 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 Ba.s.sett 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 Ba.s.sett 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 pus.h.i.+ng," 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 a.n.a.lyze 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.

But she did not put all this into words. Her aunts would not have understood. She did not understand herself. She rose from the tea-table presently, with a murmured excuse, leaving the food on her plate untasted, to Miss Joanna's great distress, and wandered into the drawing-room and sat down at the piano. The keys seemed to respond with unusual readiness to her touch, the music expressed in some vague way what she could not put into words. She played on restlessly, feverishly, for more than an hour, pa.s.sing from one thing to another; Chopin nocturnes, waltzes, Hungarian dances, fragments from Wagner; anything she could remember.

The drawing-room remained dim for the sake of coolness; it was unlighted except for a lamp at a corner-table, beside which Miss Joanna sat with her knitting. As Elizabeth played she nodded comfortably and presently fell asleep. This was always the effect of Elizabeth's playing; she said she found it very soothing. Miss Cornelia sat upright in an old-fas.h.i.+oned, high-backed chair close to the piano. She moved her head in time to the music, and the thin little silvery curls that framed in her worn, delicate face seemed to sway in unison with the melody. She wore a black gown, a trifle antiquated in fas.h.i.+on but falling about her in graceful folds, and some rich old lace softened the outlines of her throat. There was a gentle, tremulous dignity about her nowadays. Miss Cornelia was very happy in moments like these. It was touching to see the pride she took in Elizabeth's music. But after awhile this evening the girl let her hands drop on the keys, and said impatiently: "Oh, it's no use, I can't say what I want to say. The music's in me, but it won't come out. If you could have heard that man to-day at Aunt Rebecca's."

"Do you mean that young Halleck, my dear?" said Miss Cornelia in surprise, and p.r.o.nouncing his name with evident distaste. "I didn't know that he played."

"He can do anything," Elizabeth declared. "He paints, he can improvise by the hour, he sings as well as any opera-singer, and--he is very handsome. He would make a superb Lohengrin or Tristan," she added, thoughtfully "only, unfortunately, his voice is barytone. I wonder why Wagner showed such partiality to tenors."

"But he is not--going on the stage, is he, my dear?" asked Miss Cornelia, tentatively. She felt more anxiety than pleasure at hearing of this paragon.

"I don't know," said Elizabeth, "and it doesn't much matter. I am not to know him, you see, because his people used to live in the village years ago, and Aunt Joanna saw him playing on the road." She spoke bitterly.

"But, my dear, I--we never meant anything of the kind," protested Miss Cornelia. But Elizabeth went on without heeding her.

"Of course I know the rules of the Neighborhood. They would no more think of knowing a young man from Ba.s.sett Mills than they would a convict. But I don't really belong to the Neighborhood; I'm only on the outskirts, as it were--tolerated for your sake and for Grandmamma's. I'm tired of being a sort of nondescript--neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." The girl's face was hard, but she spoke quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if stating inevitable truths.

Miss Cornelia sat mute, bewildered, her whole soul wrung by a powerless resentment against fate. If by any sacrifice on her part she could have provided for Elizabeth congenial society--the charming young girls and attractive young men of whom she and her sister had often dreamed--she would have made it thankfully; but with all her love, there was nothing--or there seemed to her nothing that she could do. They had given Elizabeth every advantage, she was beautiful and charming; and the result of it all was that she felt herself to be "a sort of nondescript, neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." It was a very bitter thought for Miss Cornelia.

Elizabeth, seeing this, felt remorseful for the second time that day.