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Eveleth went on again, "belong to that New York element which dates back to the time when the city was New Amsterdam, and the State, the New Netherlands. To you that means nothing, but in America it tells much. I was Naomi de Ruyter; my husband, on his mother's side, was a Van Tromp." "Really?" Diane murmured, feeling that Mrs. Eveleth's tone of pride required a response.
There was thus unrest, and a straining after new conditions, in that very family toward which Mrs. Eveleth's imagination turned from this dreary, leaden sea as to a possible haven.
I couldn't wait for the slow process of the mails. I cabled this morning to Grimston, one of my Paris partners, to wire me the cause of George Eveleth's death, as officially registered. This is his reply." He held up the envelope Diane had placed on the desk earlier in the evening. "Why don't you open it?" she asked, in a whisper of suspense. "I've been afraid to.
He's dead?" the mother cried, in frenzied questioning. But Diane, with glazed eyes and parted lips, could only nod her head in affirmation. During the days immediately following George Eveleth's death the two women who loved him found themselves separated by the very quality of their grief. While Diane's heart was clamorous with remorse, the mother's was poignantly calm.
My visit here is principally on her account." "You must give the rest of us a chance to see something of you during your visit, Mr. Lindsay. I hope you are invited to Miss Eveleth's to-morrow evening?" "Yes, I got a note this morning. Tell me, Mr. Bradshaw, who is there that I shall meet if I go?
During her long, speechless days of self-upbraiding certain thoughts had been slowly forming themselves into resolutions; but it was on impulse rather than reflection that, at last, she summoned up strength to knock at Mrs. Eveleth's door. She entered timidly, expecting to find some manifestation of grief similar to her own.
Lindsay's company to meet a few friends on the evening of the Feast of St. Ambrose, December 7th, Wednesday. THE PARSONAGE, December 6th. It was the luckiest thing in the world. They always made a little festival of that evening at the Rev. Ambrose Eveleth's, in honor of his canonized namesake, and because they liked to have a good time.
It echoed and re-echoed in Diane's ears like the boom of a cannon. While her outward vision took in such details as the despair in Mrs. Eveleth's face, the folds of crape on her gown, the Watteau picture on the panel of moss-green and gold that formed the background, all the realities of life seemed to be dissolving into chaos, as the glories of the sunset sink into a black and formless mass.
Grimston, with her pretentious snobbery, was a mystery he made no attempt to solve. It was enough for him that this proud creature was in the world, especially as her bearing toward him inspired the hope that he might win her. It was a pity that he should have turned aside from such high endeavor in a foolish dash to make himself the Hippomenes of Diane Eveleth's Atalanta.
I'm not blaming him. The worst of which he can be accused is a lack of judgment." "But there's this house!" Diane urged, "and all this furniture! and these pictures!" She glanced up at the Watteau, the Boucher, and the Fragonard, which gave the key to the decorations of the dainty boudoir. The faint smile still lingered on Mrs. Eveleth's lips, as it lingers on the face of the dead.
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