The cloud on Elizabeth's face deepened. She bent down with elaborate care to place the last rose in position. "Oh, I don't know that it matters much," she said, and there was a sudden hardness in her tone. "There are no men for a dance, and as for the tea-parties—they don't amuse me very much. There are always the Andertons, or Johnstons, or both; and they talk about Mrs. Anderton's babies, of Mrs. Johnston's rheumatism, or the way the village girls dress; and the Rector asks me to take a class in Sunday-school, and looks shocked when I refuse; and—and it is all stupid and tiresome. I—I s-sometimes—I hate this place, and all the people in it," Elizabeth broke off, with a sound not unlike a sob.
Her aunts were paralyzed. This outburst of revolt was to them an entirely new phase in the girl's development. They did not attempt any response, or rebuke, and Elizabeth, after a moment, went over and kissed them each remorsefully. "There, don't mind me," she said. "I'm a horrid, discontented wretch." Then, as if to put an end to the subject, she added quickly: "I'm going to drive to Bassett Mills. Is there anything I can do for you?"
Her aunts gladly accepted the change of mood.
"It's a lovely morning for a drive, dear," said Miss Joanna, "and will do you good. But I wish, if you go, you would stop at the Rectory—the baby is ill, so the butcher tells me, and I have some beef-tea I'd like you to take."
Elizabeth's smile again lit up her face into its former brilliance. "What would you do without the butcher, Aunt Joanna?" she asked. "He's a perfect mine of information. Did he have any other news this morning?"
"Only that he had just come from the Van Antwerps'—they are up at last for the summer."
"Are they," said Elizabeth, carelessly. "Ah, well, they don't make much difference, one way or the other." She seemed to reflect a moment, while again her face clouded. "If I go to the Rectory," she said abruptly, "I suppose I must stop to see Aunt Rebecca. She will see me pass, and she is always complaining that I neglect her."
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?"