CHAPTER   14.

AFTERNOON SHADOWS FILLED THE bowl of the canyon early, and deepened, flooding upward to engulf the lower part of the house first and then rise, story by story, until by five o’clock only the topmost floor caught a little last sunlight, although on the other rim of the canyon and on the mountaintops the land was yet warm and bright.

Mandy crept in at the lowest point of the house. Her room was dim and chilly. She washed, she fixed her face. She felt numb and calm. The energy of fear had left her. She felt that she had been meddling feverishly and ignorantly, indeed, and now the consequences would have to be met. Somehow, she would have to endure the rest of this week-long visit, endure Thone’s stirred-up agonies of doubt, hold herself steady, and without giving anything away, let emotions storm about her and fall of their own falseness to nothing.

She went up through the house. Thone’s door was closed. She could hear voices behind it. Feeling outcast, accepting the feeling, she went by.

Up in the studio, Ione sat alone. “Oh, Amanda. How is my car?” She amended this quickly. “Did it behave?”

“It behaved beautifully.” Mandy gave her the keys. Ione’s hand closed greedily over the key case. It was plain that she hadn’t liked lending her car. Her car … her own … It crossed Amanda’s mind to wonder why, then, she had been so obliging. But the thought was fleeting.

On the round table, between two fat chairs, were tall glasses. Ione herself had been sipping something. “Sit down, Amanda.” She put a finger on the tabletop and turned it a quarter of a circle. The used glasses moved as the tabletop revolved. “Fanny’s here. Thone was worn out and we felt he should be in bed. Burt helped him down. Now Toby’s taken Fanny to see him. We’ve had a wee nip. My dear, you do look tired. You must have something, too.”

She wiggled forward to bring her dangling little feet to the floor. She rose. “I’m afraid Thone’s accident upset you.”

“I guess it did.” Amanda let her head fall against the chair. She looked up passively, contritely. “I wonder if I’d better stay,” she said, eyes smoky with self-blame.

Something stiffened on the jolly round-cheeked little face. “Now, now,” chided Ione, “of course you’ll stay.” She pattered the length of the room to the bar in the corner. “Come here, my dear.” Mandy got up obediently and walked after her. “See what there is here that strikes your fancy.” Ione’s voice was chipper and a little false, as if she poked up a mood of gaiety. “Something to cheer you up a little.”

To cheer me up, thought Mandy. She felt on her head the coals of fire. She was seeing Ione from another angle, as if she were perfectly innocent. If it were so, Amanda was ashamed.

Ione held open the doors of the liquor cabinet, revealing bottles. “I don’t much care about drinking …” Amanda began. She was offering, in some way, her apologies. She was feeling there was much to be paid for, wrong done that must be undone. And since it had never been directly stated to this woman’s face, it could not be denied, except in an attitude, an inner difference.

The little brisk right hand darted among the bottles and pulled one forth. One certain bottle. “Some of this, perhaps?” she asked brightly.

Amanda read the label. “Legendre … Herb-saint …” Her skin pricked. Her face, she knew, was giving away her recognition. This was Belle’s drink. The very stuff! The drink she’d been so fond of—Belle’s firewater! Her breath drew in, making a sound. Dark eyes were on her. Ione knew what she offered. She had a purpose.

Why? Why? What was the purpose? The whole structure of apology collapsed in Mandy’s mind. Wild speculations rushed in and filled its place. Could this be the very bottle? Was chloral in there? Now? Still? Was it possible? Had the bottle itself been doped? Was that how Belle got it?

Oh, no, no, no. Impossible! Surely El Kelly would have checked such a simple, obvious thought. It could not be that Ione was offering, here, now, after six years, a dose of chloral! Giving the trick away! Or didn’t she know? Was it an innocent choice?

No, not innocent, no accident. She offered Herbsaint and she watched. But why did she offer it and what was she watching for? What was in her mind? What was she up to? Mandy braced herself. Whatever it meant, she knew she must play out the part, all the way. Belle’s favorite, was it? Very well.

“That I love!” said Mandy boldly. “That I adore!”

“Then you shall have some.” The white head seemed to tremble, as if it wanted to nod, “I thought so,” and was trying not to nod. The face twinkled. The hands were brisk, quick, unhesitating. “And there you are!” said Ione, almost triumphantly.

Amanda went back and sat down. She sipped. It was firewater, all right. She struggled not to gasp and choke. It was horrid, she thought. Resolutely she sipped it. Eyes staring ahead, she seemed to be dreaming, brooding.… Ione was quiet as a mouse. She was picking at the bit of string on the workshop key.

Amanda thought, If there is any of that stuff in here, I shall pass out, presently. She followed the burning warmth down her throat, down to where it might slowly, mysteriously enter her blood, rise to her brain, perhaps … touch, alter, destroy the conscious self. She thought, how frail we are in our ignorance! What potions there are in the world whose magic we so little understand!

Ione thought, It’s true, after all. She does dramatize. Look at her, look at her now. So it will be quite plausible, when she follows Belle.

Fanny came up alone. “Ah, there you are, my dearie! Hi, Amanda Garth. How is it going?”

“F-fine,” said Amanda. She got up, wondering if she’d fall.

Fanny’s quick eye took in the tiny glass in her hand. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

“Herbsaint,” said Amanda, stammering.

“God’s grief!” said Fanny softly. The bright friendship in her face went glimmering. Cold disappointment took its place. The change of her expression was as sharp as a slap. Amanda staggered.

“Cab’s coming,” said Fanny. “Good-by, Ione.” She put her arm affectionately across that little lady’s shoulder. They moved off toward the hall. Mandy, abandoned, stared after them. Fanny turned her head and-looked-baek—as if it were the prick of her manners that made her fling it over her shoulder. “Oh, good-by.”

“Ione, why don’t you kick her out!” In the hall, Fanny took her arm away.

Ione said softly, “Oh, now, Fan. She’s thinking of herself all glamorous, like poor dead Belle.”

“I would kick her out,” said Fanny viciously, “for just that reason. By the way, I’m coming to dinner Thursday. They said to ask you. I’m telling you, of course.”

“Thursday?” said Ione doubtfully.

“Cook’s night out. I would. But it’s all I’ve got. Potluck, Ione. You won’t mind me. I won’t make any difference.”

“I won’t mind, of course not,” said Ione pleasantly. “You won’t make any difference, Fanny. On the contrary,” she twinkled archly, “perhaps you’ll help.”

“Not with the dishes. Don’t bank on that.” Fanny pinched her and grinned and went away.

Ione stood, hands lightly clasped, and over her lip she slowly ran her tongue. She hadn’t been thinking of the dishes.