Cornelia looked up in glad surprise. "Why, Peter," she said, "I had no idea that you would care"—
"Care!" said Peter, importantly. "Of course I care. I've always meant to have the place fixed up when—well, she couldn't live for ever, you know" he broke off half apologetically, as he caught the look of mute protest on his sisters' faces. "It did all very well for her and for you," he went on, coolly, "but it's not the sort of place I can bring my wife to." The last words came out with an air of indifference, that might have befitted the most commonplace announcement.
Upon Peter's hearers, however, they fell like a thunderbolt. It was several minutes before Cornelia repeated, in a very low voice:
"Your—your wife, Peter?"
"Yes, my wife." Peter rose and faced his sisters squarely, his hands in his pockets. He thrust out his under lip, and his florid Dutch face wore an expression of mingled defiance, exultation and embarrassment. "Why, I've been married some time," he said. "You didn't suppose I was going to stay single all my life, did you?"
"But who—who"—Cornelia's mind, moving with unusual rapidity, had already passed in review and rejected as improbable all the eligible young women of the Neighborhood, with none of whom she had ever seen Peter exchange two words. "Who can it be, Peter?" she concluded, lamely.
"Is it—any one we know?" chimed in Joanna, hopefully.
Peter looked them full in the face; he had always held his sisters in some contempt. "You know her well enough," he said, deliberately "or if you don't—you ought to. She's a young lady who lives near here, and her name is Malvina Jones."
There was a dead silence. The old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece, which had kept its place undisturbed through the trials and changes of several generations, seemed to beat in the stillness loudly and fiercely, almost as if it shared the consternation of Peter's sisters, who stared at him aghast. Cornelia was the first to speak. "Malvina Jones!" she repeated, slowly. "You don't mean the—the girl whose father keeps the bar?"
Peter flushed angrily. "There's only one Malvina Jones that I know of" he declared, "and she's my wife and will be the mistress of this house. And so, if you don't like it, you can leave—that's all I have to say."
With this conclusive remark Peter betook himself to his usual avocations, and his sisters were left to resign themselves to the situation as best they might.
"Malvina Jones!" Joanna repeated, still lost in astonishment.
"One of the village girls!" said Cornelia, bitterly, "a—a bar-keeper's daughter."
Joanna seemed to hesitate. "That isn't the worst of it," she said at last. "There are some very nice girls in the village, you know, but Malvina Jones is not—I'm afraid she really is not a very nice girl."
Cornelia was silent. She knew enough of the petty gossip of the village to be aware that Joanna was stating the case mildly. Before her mental vision there rose a picture of Malvina as she had often seen her on Sunday, with her glaring red hair, her smart attire and her look of bold assurance, undisturbed by the disapproving eyes of the congregation. Then she thought of her mother, the stately old dame whom they had been so proud of, even while they feared her. She looked at the breakfast-table, at the quaint, old-fashioned shapes of the glistening silver and the Dutch willow-ware which had been in the family since time immemorial; she thought with affection even of the old horsehair furniture, which must surely be preferable to such improvements as Malvina might suggest, and she pictured the bar-keeper's daughter entertaining her friends in the room where Madam Van Vorst had received with old-world stateliness the visits of the Neighborhood. To poor Cornelia the family dignity—what little there was left of it—seemed to be crumbling to ashes.
"I don't think we need to bother now about—about the piano," she said, and the words died away in a sob.
Chapter II
It was a June morning twenty years later, and Elizabeth's hands were full of June roses.
"Look," she said, holding them out "how beautiful!" She placed them in a flat china dish and proceeded to arrange them, humming, as she did so, a gay little tune from some favorite opera of the day. The Misses Van Vorst, her aunts, who had been talking rather seriously before the girl entered, broke off in their conversation and brightened as they watched her.
There had been times in Elizabeth's childhood when the heart of each sister had been contracted by a secret fear, which they concealed even from one another, when they had offered up in seclusion fervent prayers that certain hereditary characteristics might not be revived in this treasure which fortune had unexpectedly bestowed upon them. These prayers had been to all appearance more than answered. Elizabeth did not look like her mother. It was true that the beautiful, wavy hair, which grew in soft ripples on her forehead, showed in the full glare of the sunshine or the firelight a trace, a suspicion of the deep red which in her mother's locks had been unpleasantly vivid; but with Elizabeth, it was a warm Titian shade which would delight an artist. In other respects, it was her grandmother whom she resembled, as very old people in the Neighborhood would sometimes inform you, wondering to see the beauty and distinction which had perversely skipped one generation, reproduced in this bar-maid's daughter. Certainly it was from Madam Van Vorst that the girl inherited the haughty turn of the head and the instinctive pride of carriage. The older woman's beauty may have been more perfect. Elizabeth's features were admittedly far from classical. Her nose tilted slightly, the chin was too square, the red, pouting lips were perhaps a trifle too full. But her skin was dazzlingly fair and fresh, and there was a glow of color and wealth of outline about her which disarmed criticism. The eyes, under their long lashes, were large and lustrous. Like her hair, they varied in different lights, or perhaps it was in different moods. They seemed a clear gray when she was thoughtful, blue when she smiled, and they grew, in moments of grief or acute emotion, singularly deep and dark. But such moments had, at this period of her life, been rare.
To her aunts, as they watched her that morning, she was the visible embodiment of all those stifled aspirations, to which Peter's marriage had apparently given a fatal blow. They could think now without bitterness of that great humiliation, and if they spoke of their brother's wife, it was with due propriety as "poor Malvina." They owed her after all, a debt of gratitude, since she was Elizabeth's mother, who had died most opportunely when Elizabeth was a baby.
The girl had been their sole charge from the first, for Peter concerned himself little about his motherless child. His death, when she was still very young, could hardly be considered an unmitigated affliction. As for Elizabeth, it was chiefly remarkable in being the occasion of her first black frock, on the strength of which she gave herself airs towards her less afflicted playmates.
Thus the Misses Van Vorst were free to carry out certain cherished plans in regard to their niece's future, which they had formed when, hanging over her cradle, they had fondly traced a resemblance to the grandmother after whom she had been named, through some odd, remorseful freak of Peter's. Impelled, as she grew older, by a wistful consciousness of all that they had missed, they heroically resigned themselves to part with her for a while that she might enjoy the advantages of a very select and extremely expensive school in town. And after five years she returned to them, not over-burdened by much abstruse knowledge, but with a graceful carriage, a charming intonation, a considerable stock of accomplishments, and the prettiest gowns of any girl in the Neighborhood.
Her return was the signal for the changes at the Homestead, which now made the old house a cheerful place to live in. The
