The Ordeal of Elizabeth. Anonymous

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      "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.

      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, passing 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-fashioned, 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 fashion 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 pronouncing 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 Bassett 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. "Don't look so unhappy, auntie," she said, quickly. "It's not your fault—no, nor mine either; and, I suppose, it's not the fault of the Neighborhood. People can't help being narrow and conservative; they were born so. But then, Aunt Cornelia, when—when I don't have so many friends, you can't expect me to draw the line so awfully closely." Something like a sob crept into the girl's voice, but she went on with hardly a pause: "You mustn't think that I would want to know—any one. This man isn't like the rest of Amanda's friends. Only wait till you hear him sing—you would lose your heart, I'm sure, on the spot. And now, confess, auntie, you would like me to have my picture painted. The girls at school used to say that I would make a glorious picture. Do you think I would make a pretty picture, auntie?" She went over to Miss Cornelia and put her arms around her, looking up into her face with laughing, brilliant eyes, from which all bitterness had disappeared.

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