The charge that somebody must do something desperate to prevent her from throwing herself into Wilton’s arms in order to maintain her standing in Roseborough, set another match to Mrs. Mearely’s temper.
“Oh—it’s insufferable! How dare you and your aunt and such people slander me? The man who entered my house to-night is under arrest.”
This was said to wither Mabel. Mrs. Mearely did not think it necessary, therefore, to add that she had tried, by a dozen tricks, to let the prisoner escape. The effect of her dramatic coup was the reverse of what she had expected.
“Under arrest! I thought it was only men who were cowards in love. If you’ll send him to gaol, no wonder you’ll try to steal the man I love.”
Mrs. Mearely could not believe her ears.
“What? Oh! Oh-h!” She wrung her hands. “Do I have to bear this?” she asked of the twittering dawn.
“I came here—I hardly know what I hoped. I thought perhaps I could appeal to you, because you were brave. Yes, even if you were wicked, you were brave, I thought. To dare so much—but....” Mabel looked at Rosamond Mearely with the sly, shocked admiration the very correct feel for those who venture to be incorrect in the sphere of morals. Rosamond comprehended the look, and it put her into a fury.
“Oh! I know what you thought. You remembered that I was Rosamond Cort, of Poplars Vale—whose mother sold butter. It was to be expected that I should do something dreadful—and impolite. I suppose Roseborough does consider that amorous midnight escapades are impolite? But Roseborough isn’t surprised at me. Oh, no! All along Roseborough knew that, some time or other, I’d show the butter strain.”
Miss Crewe did not know what to make of this.
“Why, Mrs. Mearely!”