“Nor in love with one either? Will you say you were never in love with Dr. Clayton?” persisted Ada.
It was a cruel question, but I could not deny it, and I remained silent, while I cowered beneath the burning gaze of Mr. Delafield, who still held me fast, but who now loosened his hold, and slightly pushing me from him, leaned against the pillar, with folded arms, and dark, lowering brow, while Mrs. Lansing and Ada exchanged glances of triumph. They had by my silence gained a partial advantage over me, but as long as I felt the clasp of Mr. Delafield’s hand, I was strong to defy them. Now, however, that had failed me, and girl-like I began to cry, telling them “they could easily test the whole matter by writing either to Boston or Meadow Brook.”
This alternative had not occurred to Ada before, but now she readily saw how easily I could prove my innocence, and as she met Mr. Delafield’s inquiring glance, she turned very pale and laid her hand upon her side as if the pain had returned.
“Rose,” said Mr. Delafield, “you would hardly wish for me to write to Meadow Brook were you guilty, and as you seem willing that we should do so, I am inclined to hope that Ada may be mistaken. Come, stand by me (and reaching out his hand he drew me to his side) and tell me all the particulars of your acquaintance with Miss Montrose, and also about that sister with whom you are confounded, and you (turning to the other ladies) are not to speak, until she is through, when Ada can make any correction or explanation necessary.”
It was an act of justice which I owed to myself, I knew, and wiping my eyes, I was about to commence, when Ada, rising up, said mockingly, “With the Hon. Judge’s permission I will leave, as I do not wish to hear the falsehoods which I am sure will be uttered.”
Again Mr. Delafield’s long arm was extended, and catching Ada, as she was passing, he drew her to his side, where he held her firmly, saying, “It looks suspicious, Ada, that you are not willing to hear Miss Lee’s defence. You have, either by mistake or design (the former, I hope), preferred against her serious charges, and you must listen to her explanation. Commence,” he added, looking down upon me, and in a firm, unfaltering manner I told both my story and that of Anna, who, I said, had eloped with Herbert Langley and was now a broken-hearted widow, living with his mother in Boston.
At this part of my narrative Ada’s hand was pressed convulsively on her side, while with parted lips and pale cheeks she leaned forward, looking at me anxiously; but when she saw that I did not speak of her ever having been engaged to Herbert, the color came back to her face, and with a sigh of relief she listened more composedly, nodding assent when I referred her to our meeting at the dépôt at Canandaigua, and faintly admitting that “she might have been mistaken. I looked so much like Anna that ’twas not impossible.”
This I knew was false, but I did not contradict her, and proceeded with my story, until suddenly recollecting the incident at the theatre, I turned to Mr. Delafield and asked “if he remembered it?”
He thought a moment, and then the arm, which had gradually been winding itself about my waist, clasped me to his side, while he exclaimed, “Remember it? Perfectly, and you are that little girl. They called you Rose;—and this is why your face has puzzled me so much. I see it all now. You are innocent, thank Heaven,” and the hand, which, heretofore, had held Ada fast, now rested caressingly upon my head and parted back my curls, as he said, more to himself than to me, “and you have remembered me all this time.” Then, turning towards Ada, he said sternly, “We will hear you now.”
Ada was caught in her own snare. She had thought to prevent me from doing her injury by branding me as a liar, and now that I was proved innocent, it filled her with confusion, and she remained silent until Mrs. Lansing came to her aid by saying, “I do not think Ada meant to do wrong; she probably mistook Rose for her sister, hence the blunder.”