The Maid of Maiden Lane | Page 7

avoiding it.
"Poor George!" she sighed, and then, looking up, was a trifle dismayed
at the expression upon Cornelia's face. For Cornelia was as reticent, as
Arenta was garrulous; and the girls were incomprehensible to each
other in their deepest natures, though, superficially, they were much on
the same plane, and really thought themselves to be distinctly
sympathetic friends.
"Why do you look so strangely at me, Cornelia?" asked Arenta. "Am I
not properly dressed?"
"You are perfectly dressed, Arenta. Women as fair as you are, know
instinctively how to dress." And then Arenta stood up before the mirror
and put her hand upon Cornelia's shoulder, and they both looked at the
reflection in it.
A very pretty reflection it was!--a slender girl with a round, fair face,
and a long, white throat, and sloping shoulders. Her pale brown hair

fell in ripples and curls around her until they touched a robe of
heavenly blue, and half hid a singular necklace of large pearls:--pearls
taken from some Spanish ship and strung in old Zierikzee, and worn for
centuries by the maids and dames of the house of Van Ariens.
"It is the necklace!" said Cornelia after a pause, "It is the pearl necklace,
which gives you such an air of mystery and romance, and changes you
from an everyday maiden into an old-time princess."
"No doubt, it is the necklace," answered Arenta. "It is my Aunt
Angelica's, but she permits me to wear it. When she was young, she
called every pearl after one of her lovers; and she had a lover for every
pearl. She was near to forty years old when she married; and she had
many lovers, even then."
"It would have been better if she had married before she was near to
forty years old--that is, if she had taken a good husband."
"Perhaps that; but good husbands come not on every day in the week. I
have three beads named already--one for George Van Berckel--one for
Fred De Lancey--and one for Willie Nichols. What do you think of
that?"
"I think, if you copy your Aunt Angelica, you will not marry any of
your lovers till you are forty years old. Come, let us go downstairs."
She spoke a little peremptorily--indeed, she was in the habit, quite
unconsciously of using this tone with her companion, consequently it
was not noticed by her. And it was further remarkable, that the girls did
not walk down the broad stairs together, but Cornelia went first, and
Arenta followed her. There was no intention or consideration in this
procedure; it was the natural expression of underlying qualities, as yet
not realized.
Cornelia's self-contained, independent nature was further revealed by
the erect dignity of her carriage down the centre of the stairway, one
hand slightly lifting her silk robe, the other laid against the daffodils at
her breast. Her face was happy and serene, her steps light, and without

hesitation or hurry. Arenta was a little behind her friend. She stepped
idly and irresolutely, with one hand slipping along the baluster, and the
other restlessly busy with her curls, her ribbons, the lace that partially
hid her bosom, and the pearls that made a moonlight radiance on her
snowy throat. At the foot of the staircase Cornelia had to wait for her,
and they went into the parlour together.
Doctor Moran, Rem Van Ariens, and Lieutenant Hyde were present.
The girls had a momentary glance at the latter ere he assumed the
manner he thought suitable for youth and beauty. He was talking
seriously to the Doctor and playing with an ivory paper knife as he did
so, but whatever remark he was making he cut it in two, and stood up,
pleased and expectant, to receive Beauty so fresh and so conspicuous.
He was handsomely dressed in a dark-blue velvet coat, silver-laced, a
long white satin vest and black satin breeches. His hair was thrown
backwards and tied with the customary black ribbon, and his linen and
laces were of the finest quality. He met Cornelia as he might have met a
princess; and he flashed into Arenta's eyes a glance of admiration
which turned her senses upside down, and made her feel, for a moment
or two, as if she could hardly breathe.
Upon Arenta's brother he had not produced a pleasant impression.
Without intention, he had treated young Van Ariens with that negative
politeness which dashes a sensitive man and makes him resentfully
conscious that he has been rendered incapable of doing himself justice.
And Rem could neither define the sense of humiliation he felt, nor yet
ruffle the courteous urbanity of Hyde; though he tried in various ways
to introduce some conversation which would afford him the pleasure of
contradiction. Equally he failed to consider that his barely