She paused, her aunts made no reply. She went over to the piano and began absently turning over sheets of music.
"Do you remember, auntie," she said, abruptly—Miss Joanna had left the room in response to a summons from the maid, and Elizabeth and Miss Cornelia were alone—"do you remember that I told you once that I felt myself a sort of nondescript—neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring? But now I seem to be considered a very fine fowl indeed—the ugly duckling, probably, that turned into a swan."
"You never were an ugly duckling, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not help protesting, in spite of her principles. "It certainly wasn't that."
"Perhaps not," said Elizabeth, "at all events, I'm no better-looking than I was—let us say, last year. I heard a woman at The Mills say the other day that I had "gone off terrible," in my looks. But that doesn't prevent Frank Courtenay from coming here day after day, boring me to death, since he has discovered as his mother tells me, that I am "just the style that he admires"—it doesn't prevent the Johnston girls from going into raptures over my beautiful hair, and asking if I mind their copying my lovely gowns. They have copied my new spring hat, if you notice. Oh, it would be amusing, if it wasn't—so very petty!" She put out her hand with a weary, contemptuous gesture. "And then the funny part of it all is that I am not really so nice, if they only knew it, as I was last year, when they all treated me as if I had committed some sort of crime, merely in existing."
"My dear," remonstrated Miss Cornelia, "how can you talk like that? I'm sure you're not a bit spoiled—every one says so."
"Ah, they think so," said Elizabeth, quickly, "they think me nice, because I've acquired a society manner, and say the correct thing, but if they knew—everything"—she stopped suddenly and stood for a moment staring steadily before her, with knit brows. "Do you know, Aunt Cornelia," she said abruptly "what I think I am?—a sort of moral nondescript, neither good nor bad. I see the right way—oh, I see it so very plainly, and I want to take it; and then I choose the wrong—always and inevitably I choose the wrong, and shall all my life, until the end. It's not my fault, really—I can't do right, no matter how hard I try."
"My dear!" Miss Cornelia looked at her, puzzled and shocked. "There's no one," she said, putting into trite words her own simple conviction "there's no one, Elizabeth, who can't do right, if they try hard enough."
"Do you think so, auntie?" said Elizabeth, very gently. "Then probably I don't try—hard enough." She went over to Miss Cornelia and kissed her on the cheek. "If I were like you," she said, "I should." Then without further words, she sat down at the piano and began to play, as she did every day for hours at a time. Such restless, passionate, brilliant playing! A vague uneasiness mingled in Miss Cornelia's mind with her pride in the girl's talent, as she listened to it. Something was troubling Elizabeth, evidently; something which had brought her home so unexpectedly, which had changed her in looks and manner beyond what could be accounted for by excitement and late hours. Yet innate delicacy and timidity prevented Miss Cornelia from forcing in any way the confidence which seemed to tremble, now and again, upon the girl's lips. She had a vague idea that the difficulty, whatever it was, would soon be decided one way or another, that the Van Antwerps' arrival, which Elizabeth seemed at once to dread and look forward to, would bring matters to a crisis, and the whole thing would be explained.
Elizabeth was still playing when Mrs. Bobby interrupted her. That she had not allowed a day to elapse before hastening to the Homestead was a fact noted with jealous care by the Misses Courtenay, who met her at the gate.
"He is desperate." Mrs. Bobby's visit had not lasted many minutes before she murmured this, holding Elizabeth's hand, and scanning eagerly her averted face. At Mrs. Bobby's words it quivered, the color flushed into her cheek; but otherwise she made no sign.