Such, then, was the state of affairs when I was the burden of Ada’s thoughts, as she sat alone in her room on the first night after her return home. For a time she mused with her face in her hands, then lifting up her head and throwing back the silken tresses, which fell over her brow, she gazed long and earnestly at herself in the opposite mirror.
“Yes, I am fading,” she said at last, “and each year my chance for winning him grows less, and if this Lee girl should tell, it would take from me every shadow of hope—but it shall not be. I can prevent her foolish tattling from doing me harm, and I will.”
Then the better nature of Ada Montrose whispered to her of the great wrong she was meditating against a poor, defenceless girl, who as yet had never injured her, and for a moment she wavered.
“If I only knew she would never tell,” said she; “but she will, accidentally if not intentionally. Low-bred people like her are always bold, and as she becomes better acquainted with me, she may possibly say something to me about Herbert in the presence of Mr. Delafield, who will question her, perhaps, and thus learn the whole. So I’ll be prepared. She’s nothing but a poor governess, and my word will be preferred to hers, provided I first give her the character of a deceiver.”
On awaking next morning her resolution was partially shaken, and might, perhaps, have been given up entirely, if, in looking from her window, she had not seen a sight which awoke within her the demon jealousy, by whose aid she could do almost anything. The governess had arisen early, as was her usual custom, and gone forth into the garden, where she came unexpectedly upon Mr. Delafield, who, after expressing his pleasure at meeting her, very quietly drew her arm within his own, and then walked with her several times through the garden, casting often admiring glances towards the drooping figure at his side, who, trembling lest the Argus eyes of Mrs. Lansing were upon her, would fain have been left alone. All this Ada saw, and as she thought how different was his manner towards Rose from what it had ever been towards her, a sudden light flashed upon her. She had not lived twenty-seven years for nothing, and like Dicken’s woman with the “mortified bonnet,” she knew the signs, and with a sinking heart, she exclaimed, “Is it possible that he loves her?”
The thought was maddening, and now strengthened tenfold in her purpose of working the young girl evil, she went forth into the garden to meet them, nodding coldly to Rosa, and bestowing her sweetest smile upon her guardian, who wound his arm around her waist and playfully kissed her forehead—a liberty he would not dare to have taken with Rose, who, thinking that of course she was not wanted, made an effort to withdraw her hand. But Mr. Delafield’s arm was strong, and he pressed it closely to his side, at the same time giving her a look which bade her stay, notwithstanding that Ada two or three times hinted to her the propriety of going.
“Why don’t you ask Miss Lee about your Boston friends?” said Mr. Delafield, when they had taken a few turns in silence.
Ada tossed her head scornfully, and replied, “I don’t think I had any acquaintances in common with Miss Lee, unless, indeed, it were her old aunty;” and with a little hateful laugh she leaned across Mr. Delafield, and asked, “How is she? Richard, you would like to know.”
I was provoked at her manner, but I answered civilly that my aunt was well, adding, as one would naturally do, “Herbert Langley, I suppose you know, is dead.”
The news was unexpected, and coming as it did, it produced upon her a singular effect, blanching her cheek to a marble whiteness, while her lips quivered spasmodically. Mr. Delafield was startled, and stopping short, demanded of her what was the matter.