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 sunlight, no longer excluded by the overgrown foliage, flooded the drawing-room, and from the long French windows, opening out on the well-kept lawn, you caught a charming glimpse of the river. The fire-place was decorated in white and gold, the polished floor was strewn with rugs. Amid the profusion of modern chairs and tables and bric-à-brac were old heirlooms which had mouldered in the attic for generations, un-thought of and despised, till Elizabeth routed them out and placed them, rather to her aunts' surprise, in a conspicuous position. The walls were hung with fine engravings, books and magazines were scattered here and there. Across one corner stood the much-coveted piano.
The improvement was not confined to the furniture. The Misses Van Vorst, too, seemed to have progressed and assumed a more modern air, in harmony with their present surroundings. They were old women now, and people of the present generation placed carefully the prefix "Miss" before their Christian names; but in many ways, they were younger and certainly far happier than they were twenty years before. It was Elizabeth who had made the change, it was she who had filled their narrow lives with a wonderful new interest. And yet, it was on her account that they felt just then the one anxiety which disturbed their satisfaction in the warmth of her youth and beauty, nay, was rather intensified because of it.
"We were saying, dear," Miss Cornelia could not help observing after a moment "just as you came in, that it is a pity the Neighborhood is so dull. There is so little amusement for a young girl."
"We used to think it quite gay when we were young," said Miss Joanna, her knitting-needles clicking cheerfully as she talked. "There was always a lawn-party at the Van Antwerps', and Mrs. Courtenay was at home every Saturday, and then the fair for the church."
"But Mrs. Courtenay doesn't stay at home any longer," said Miss Cornelia, dejectedly, "and the Van Antwerps haven't given a thing for ever so long, and as for the fair—the church has everything it needs now—steeple, font, everything, so there is no object in having a fair."
"And so few people to buy if there were," sighed Miss Joanna, becoming despondent in her turn. "I quite miss it—I used to enjoy making things for it. Really now, if it were not for knitting socks for Mrs. Anderton's new babies, I should be quite at a loss for something to do."
Elizabeth, who had turned and stared from one to the other, as if in surprise at the introduction of a new subject, here broke in with a soft little laugh. "Well, auntie, Mrs. Anderton certainly keeps you busy," she said, consolingly "and as for the fair—why, I don't know that it would be such wild dissipation." Insensibly at the last words, her mouth drooped at the corners, the eyes, which an instant before had sparkled with amusement, grew thoughtful. A slight cloud of discontent seemed to drift over the buoyant freshness of her mood.
Miss Cornelia observed it and continued to lament. "Well, at least, a fair would be something," she insisted "and then in old times there used to be dances. If you went out to tea—oftener, my dear—even that would be a diversion."