It did not make him unduly proud, because there was
nothing uncommon about it. It was his habit to succeed, and all the
rest of us were hardened to it.
When he married Cornelia Cochrane, we were consoled for our partial
loss by the apparent fitness and brilliancy of the match. If
Beekman was a masterful man, Cornelia was certainly what you might
call a mistressful woman. She had been the head of her house since
she was eighteen years old. She carried her good looks like the
family plate; and when she came into the breakfast-room and said
good-morning, it was with an air as if she presented every one with
a check for a thousand dollars. Her tastes were accepted as
judgments, and her preferences had the force of laws. Wherever she
wanted to go in the summer-time, there the finger of household
destiny pointed. At Newport, at Bar Harbour, at Lenox, at
Southampton, she made a record. When she was joined in holy wedlock
to Beekman De Peyster, her father and mother heaved a sigh of
satisfaction, and settled down for a quiet vacation in Cherry
Valley.
It was in the second summer after the wedding that Beekman admitted
to a few of his ancient Petrine cronies, in moments of confidence
(unjustifiable, but natural), that his wife had one fault.
"It is not exactly a fault," he said, "not a positive fault, you
know.
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