"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly, "and her mother came down to be near her—but dear me, that girl always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see you, or sending messages, or anything."
"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants me to come and see her, and I think"—she hesitated a moment—"I think I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met with some faint opposition.
Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.
"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips of each.
"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"—she stopped.
"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"—she faltered as a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you—you must see him. He has been so unhappy. He—he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away her hand.
"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it—it would be more painful than seeing Amanda. And—if he loves me, why, so much the worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest thing I can do for him is—not to see him?" And then the tears sprang to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.
When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out, in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied a black veil over her face.
"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if—if anything happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both affectionately. "You—you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.
"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said, feebly.