"It is Amanda, of course," thought Elizabeth, with a terrible sinking of the heart. She had forgotten, until that moment, the meeting in the studio. She glanced at the clock. "I have fifteen minutes, Celeste," she said. "Show her up. She may want to see me about something important." The maid departed, and Elizabeth bent down nervously to sort out gloves and handkerchief, wondering as she did now at each unexpected incident, what danger it might portend.
"I thought," said Amanda, "I might come up—seeing we're first cousins." She stood in the door-way, her eyes roaming about the room, taking in every detail—the soft prevailing harmonies of pale blue and rose, the firelight flickering on the tiled hearth, the shining silver ornaments on the dressing-table, the profusion of bric-à-brac, of cotillion favors, the roses in the china bowl, the general air of luxury—all a fit setting to the proud young beauty, standing before the mirror in her shimmering white satin and laces.
"My, but you look fine!" said Amanda, under her breath. A slightly awed expression crossed her face, modifying the assurance of her entrance. "You're going out?" she asked, looking almost ready to retreat.
"To dinner—yes; but not just yet. Won't you sit down, Amanda?" Elizabeth said, trying to speak easily. "I—I'm glad to see you. How is Aunt Rebecca, and—every one at Bassett Mills?"
Amanda sat down, her eyes still wandering eagerly around the room. Elizabeth, looking at her, saw the unfavorable change that a few months had made. True, she was smartly dressed, with the cheap, tawdry smartness that can be bought ready-made at the shops, and her hat was tilted carefully at the fashionable angle; her hair, growing low about her forehead, had still the pretty, natural wave to it, which was a legacy from the fever, and the general effect at a first glance was striking. But the face, under the jaunty, be-feathered hat, was white and haggard, the eyes had a wild restless look, there were hard, vindictive lines about the mouth. Her hands moved incessantly, plucking at the fringe on her gown.
"Glad? Well, I guess you're not very glad to see me," she said, with a strange, mocking smile, ignoring the latter part of Elizabeth's speech. "There never was much love lost between us, and now—but still I thought I'd pay you a visit. I'm staying with Uncle Ben's folks, and they told me I ought to look up my swell cousin—since you were so sure to want to see me"—she gave a short, jarring laugh. "That stuck-up maid wouldn't believe me—thought I was crazy, when I said we were first cousins. I don't see why—I'm sure I don't look so—so different as all that." Her voice sank into rather a wistful key, and she stole a glance at the long pier-glass that stood opposite her. "I got my suit at a bargain sale," she said. "The girls said it was—real stylish."
"It's very pretty," said Elizabeth, gently. She glanced at Amanda with a sudden pity that overpowered her first annoyance and alarm at the inopportune visit. What had brought her to town? Some vague, irrational hope of winning back Paul's admiration, perhaps, with this gown that was "real stylish," and the new hat, and the general, tawdry attempt at smartness. It was that, probably, which had taken her to the studio, and no doubt Paul had been disgusted with this attempt to revive an old flirtation, and in his irritation, had convinced her somewhat rudely of his indifference. Poor Amanda! Really she had not seemed quite right in the head since the fever.
"Were you surprised to see me this morning?" said Amanda, watching her and seeming to read her thoughts. "I went to call on another old friend, and—I wasn't welcome"—she gave another jarring laugh, which ended this time in a sob. "He—he didn't seem glad to see me, considering how well he used to know me—once." Her voice broke piteously, she paused for a moment, and then: "I hate him, I hate him!" she broke out, fiercely. "I'd give anything in this world if I'd never known him."
"So would I," said Elizabeth, low and bitterly, and then stopped, frightened at what she had said. But Amanda showed no surprise.
"Ah, you think that now," she said, slowly, "but you didn't use to. You've got so many rich beaux now that you don't care about him any longer. But I wonder what they'd think—these rich beaux of yours—if they knew how wild you used to be about him, how you went wandering about the country with him, if they knew"—Amanda leaned forward and spoke in an impressive whisper—"if they knew that you have to do what he wants now, that you're afraid of him."