Elinor gazes speechless for a moment. Then she recognizes the dress of her cousin, and the expression not her own which she knows so well. It all rushes upon her perception at once—the cruel mistake—Lizzie’s clandestine correspondence, of which she disapproved so much—the well-known resemblance between them—the picture more like herself than Lizzie—she sees it all, and she sees
Mr. Schuyler’s triumph in her discomfiture. Guilty Lizzie would not look so guilty as innocent Elinor looks now.
“Checkmate!” says Mr. Schuyler. His tone stings her.
“Mr. Schuyler, this is not my picture. I never sat for it.”
“Miss Lloyd!”
“I repeat, sir! This is not my picture, and I wear no mask.”
“But you are ‘E. L.,’” he says, showing her his last missive with that signature, “and you acknowledge receiving one like this,” and he confronts her with a duplicate of his own picture.
“My name is Elinor Lloyd, and I have never written to you, and this is the first time I have seen either of these pictures,” she replies, glancing disdainfully at each of them.
“Do you know whose this is?” he asks.
At this point-blank question, Elinor bursts into tears. The cruelty of the position in which she finds herself is too much for her. She will not betray her cousin, and she knows that on her own denial alone, against overwhelming evidence, rests her defence of herself. And in tears, distressed beyond measure, she rushes from the room. Mr. Schuyler gives a long, low whistle. He is inclined to believe she has told him the truth, in spite of all he knows and has seen. For why does she wish to deny it? What girl who could do this thing would so spurn the accusation? Her proud assertion, “My name is Elinor Lloyd, and I have never written to you,” rings in his ears. He believes it, as we will all of us sometimes believe, apparently against reason. He knows that he wishes to believe in her truth, despite his vanity.