ADA.
She was now daily expected, the vessel in which she had sailed having
landed at New York, and numerous preparations in honor of her arrival
were in progress at Cedar Grove, where she was evidently regarded as a
person of consequence. The best chamber in the house was appropriated
for her use; Mr. Delafield himself taking much interest in the
arrangement of its furniture, and bringing over each morning fresh
bouquets of flowers, which, in costly vases, adorned the apartment.
Every one seemed anxious and expectant, save Jessie and Halbert, the
former of whom did not wish her to come, as she took up so much of
“Uncle Dick’s” time, while the latter openly avowed his dislike, saying,
he wished she’d stay in Europe always.
As for myself, though there was no particular reason why I should do so,
I dreaded her arrival, and when at last, word came to the schoolroom
that she was in the parlor, and the children must come down to see her,
I stole out into the garden, in order that I might put off the interview
with her as long as possible. I knew I must meet her at the supper
table, and so after a time I went up to my room to dress, donning a
plain white muslin, which I had often been told became me better than
aught else I could wear. Before my toilet was finished, little Jessie
came in and insisted upon twining among my curls a few simple buds,
which, she said, looked “mighty nice,” adding, as she stepped back a
pace or two to witness the effect, “I think you are a heap prettier than
Ada; but Uncle Dick don’t, ’cause I asked him, and he said ‘Of course Ad
was the handsomest.’ Hal says how he’s her beau, and I reckon he is, for
he kissed her like fury!”
“He kisses everybody, don’t he?” I asked; and she replied,—
“Mighty nigh everybody but _you_. I never seen him kiss _you_, and when
I asked him why, he said you wouldn’t let him—won’t you?”
“It wouldn’t be _proper_,” I said, smiling down upon the little fairy,
who, poised on one foot, was whirling in circles, and then looking up
into my face, with her soft dreamy eyes.
At that moment the supper bell rang, and bounding away, she left me
alone. For full five minutes I waited trying to summon sufficient
courage to go down, and at last chiding myself for my weakness, I
started for the dining-room. My footsteps were light, as they evidently
were not aware of my approach, for they were talking of me, and as I
reached the door, I heard Jessie, who was giving Ada a description of
her teacher, say, “Why she’s the properest person in the world, for she
won’t even let Uncle Dick kiss her.”
“Somewhat different from Miss Rawson,” said Ada, joining in the general
laugh; at the same time lifting her large, languid eyes, she saw me, and
started slightly, I fancied, as she recognized me.
She had changed since I saw her last, and her face now wore a weary,
jaded look, while the dark circle beneath her eyelids told of late hours
and heated rooms.
“Miss Lee—Miss Montrose,” said Mrs. Lansing, and the proud Ada bowed
haughtily to the humble governess, who with heightened color took her
accustomed seat at the table.
“You have seen each other before, I believe,” said Mr. Delafield,
looking curiously at both of us, while Mrs. Lansing, in much surprise,
exclaimed, “Seen each other! Where, pray?”
I waited for Ada to answer, and after staring at me a moment, she
replied, quite indifferently, “Miss Lee’s face does seem familiar, and
if I mistake not, I met her _once or twice_ in Boston”—and this was all
she said, if I except a glance, half entreating, half threatening, which
she threw at me from beneath her long, drooping eyelashes. This glance I
did not then understand, but I now know it to have been prompted by a
dread lest I should tell of her engagement with Herbert Langley, and
thus betray her to Mr. Delafield, to whom, it seems, she had positively
denied the whole, solemnly assuring him that there had never been
between them anything more serious than a mere friendly acquaintance.
When, therefore, she saw me, her fears were awakened, and knowing that I
had her _secret_ in my possession, she looked upon me with suspicion and
dislike, while I, wholly unconscious of her feelings, had not the least
intention of ever speaking of the past, unless circumstances should
render it necessary. But of this she was not aware, and that night, in
the privacy of her room, she communed with herself as to the best means
of counteracting anything which I might say concerning her conduct in
Boston, deciding at last that the surest way of accomplishing her object
was to brand me as a person whose word could not be trusted! And this
she deemed an easy task, inasmuch as no one there had ever seen or heard
of me before. Strange, too, as it may seem, there was mingled with her
distrust of me a slight shade of jealously lest Mr. Delafield should in
any way notice me. True, I was a poor obscure girl, earning my daily
bread, and on no point could I compete with her save one, and that was
age, I being, as she well knew, eight or nine years her junior. To be
old and unmarried was with her almost a crime, and as year after year
passed on, leaving her still Ada Montrose, her horror of single
blessedness increased, while at the same time she seemed to look upon
those much younger than herself as almost her enemies, especially if
they came between her and Mr. Delafield, who, as the world goes, was at
the age of thirty-one more likely to choose a girl of eighteen than one
of twenty-seven. This, then, was my fault. I was young and had also in
my possession a secret which she did not wish to have divulged, for well
she knew that one as upright and honorable as Mr. Delafield would
despise a woman who could stoop to a falsehood as she had done.
“No, it shall not be!” said she, as she sat alone in her room with her
face resting upon her hands; “it shall not be! I will thwart her and she
shall never triumph over me, as did her pale-faced sister, but for whom
I might now have borne the title of Mrs. instead of trembling lest some
one should ask how old I am!” And the proud belle felt a pang of envy
towards my poor widowed sister whose heart was buried in the grave of
her unfortunate husband.
Not that she (Ada) had ever cared particularly for Herbert Langley, but
women of the world sometimes bestow their hand where the heart cannot be
given, and thus might she have done had not circumstances prevented, for
she had then no hope of ever winning her guardian.
Here, ere we proceed farther, it may be well to relate briefly her past
history, going back to the time when on his death-bed her father had not
only given her to the charge of Mr. Delafield, but had also made a
request that, if it were consistent with his feelings, Richard would one
day make her his wife. As we have said elsewhere, Mr. Delafield was a
great admirer of beauty, and when he looked upon the exceedingly lovely
face of the youthful Ada, and thought of her as a lonely orphan, his
heart was touched, and he found no difficulty in promising to protect
her, and also to make her his wife, if, upon a more intimate
acquaintance, he found her all he could wish her to be. That he did not
find her thus was proved by the fact that nearly ten years had elapsed
since her father’s death, and she was Ada Montrose still, while he, as
he grew older, seemed less likely to find any one who fully came up to
his standard of excellence, beauty, in reality, now being of minor
importance, notwithstanding his sister’s assertion that he would never
marry one who had not a pretty face.
Upon this point, however, Ada had some doubts; for if beauty were what
he desired, she still possessed it to an uncommon degree, and it did not
seem to move him in the least. Rumor, indeed, said they were on the eve
of marriage, but she knew better, for never yet had he really told her
in earnest that he loved her. It is true that years before, when she
first came a weeping orphan to Cedar Grove, he had devoted himself to
her entirely, feeling, perhaps, a little proud of his _ward_, to whom he
sometimes talked of _love_, or hinted vaguely of the time when she would
be his bride, as they wandered together beneath the whispering pines,
which grew around his home, and once, when she was in Boston, he had
actually made up his mind to offer himself immediately and take her to
Sunny Bank as its mistress. To this resolution he was urged by her
cousin, a strong-minded woman, who, in visiting at Cedar Grove, had
labored to impress upon him the sense of the duty he owed not only to
her father but to Ada herself, who was represented as loving him
devotedly, and who was said to have made a vow never to marry unless it
were her guardian. Very artfully, too, did Mrs. Johnson insinuate that
her illness, of which they had heard, had its origin in “hope deferred
which maketh the heart sick.”
The knowledge that a beautiful girl loves you—nay, is dying for you, is
sufficient, I suppose, to touch the feelings of men less susceptible to
female charms than Richard Delafield, and acting upon the impulse of the
moment, he started off without, however, leaving any word as to his
destination. Arrived in Boston, he went to the Revere House, where, as
we know, he casually heard of Ada’s engagement with Herbert Langley. To
say he was not disappointed would hardly be just, for his self-pride was
touched in knowing that Ada had given her affections to another, and
that other not a very worthy object, if the word of his gossiping
informer was to be trusted. Too much displeased even to see her, he had
left the city immediately, declaring that he would never again think of
marriage with any one.
As the reader will remember, Ada heard of him through one of her
acquaintance, and from something her cousin had written, she half
guessed the nature of his visit. Accordingly on her return to Georgia
she several times in his presence laughingly referred to the gossiping
story, which, she said, some of the Bostonians got up concerning her and
a _millionaire_, positively denying it, and wishing people would let her
alone! But all this was to no purpose. Mr. Delafield’s impulse had
subsided, and though his manner towards her was always kind,
affectionate, and brotherly, he never spoke to her of love or marriage,
except sometimes to ask her teasingly if “if they were not both of them
almost old enough to get married.”
Still she did not despair, for of his own accord he had accompanied her
and her cousin to Europe, whither he had always intended to go, and
though he had left them some months before, Mrs. Johnson was willing to
leave Paris, where Ada’s beauty attracted much attention from the polite
Frenchmen, she would not believe he was at all weary of _her_, but
rather, as he had said, that his _business_ required his immediate
return to America.
Latterly Mrs. Lansing had in a measure espoused her cause, and knowing,
as she did, of the recent repairs at Sunny Bank, said by Richard to be
for the benefit of his bride, she began again to entertain sanguine
hopes of eventually becoming Mrs. Delafield, provided the _governess_
did not, by her foolish tattling, mar her prospects.
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.
“Oh, nothing much,” she answered, recovering her composure, and pressing
her hand upon her side, “nothing but an ugly pain, which is gone now. I
have felt it often lately,” and her face looked as unruffled and
innocent as if she really thought it was the truth she had uttered.
_I_ knew she told a falsehood, but Mr. Delafield did not, and leading
her to the summer-house, which was near, bade her sit down, while he
made minute inquiries concerning the pain, asking how long since she
first felt it, and saying he would speak to Dr. Matson the first time he
came to Cedar Grove, adding that a _blister_, he presumed, would help
it!
“Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed, again growing pale. “You make too serious a
matter of it.”
But he did not think so—he was very tender of her, as a brother would be
of his orphaned sister; and knowing that her mother had died of
consumption, he watched narrowly for the first indications of that
disease in her. Just then little Jessie came bounding down the walk,
saying that “breakfast was ready,” and leading her by the hand, I
returned to the house, followed by Mr. Delafield and Ada, the latter of
whom made some remark concerning my _gait_, which she pronounced “wholly
_Yankee_ and _countrified_.”
“And _graceful_,” rejoined Mr. Delafield, at the same time telling her
he did not like to hear one female speak disparagingly of another.
Ada bit her lip with vexation, and when she took her seat at the table,
she was evidently not in the best of humors. At Mrs. Lansing’s
invitation her brother remained to breakfast, and I could not perceive
that he was any more polite to the beautiful lady in elegant French
muslin on his right, than he was to the plain-looking girl in a shilling
calico on his left. Indeed, if there was a difference, it was in favor
of the latter, with whom he conversed the most, addressing her as if she
had at least _common sense_, while towards Ada he always assumed the
trifling, bantering manner which he seemed to think was suited to her
capacity.
Breakfast being over, I started for my room, accidentally dropping upon
the stairs a handkerchief, which had been given me by Anna, and which
had her name “Anna Lee” marked in the corner. In honor of Ada’s return,
there was no school that day, and as the morning advanced and the heat
in my chamber grew oppressive, I went with my book to the sitting-room,
and took a seat by an open window, where I soon became so absorbed in
reading as not to observe Mrs. Lansing and Ada, who came out upon the
piazza and sat down quite near me, but still in such a position that
neither of us could see the other. After a time they were joined by Mr.
Delafield, and then for a moment I thought of stealing quietly away, but
thinking my remaining there could do no harm, I resumed my book and
forgot my neighbors entirely, until my attention was roused by the sound
of my own name.
It was Mrs. Lansing who spoke, and she asked, “What kind of folks are
those relatives of Miss Lee?”
“Oh, about _so so_,” answered Ada, and Mrs. Lansing continued, “And she
was then at school? I believe.”
“_At school!_” repeated Ada, apparently in much surprise. “Mercy, no!
Why, she was a grown up woman, as much as twenty-two or twenty-three
years old.”
“There, I thought so,” answered Mrs. Lansing, who the reader will
remember had, at my first introduction, taken me to be twenty-five. “I
thought she must be more than eighteen, didn’t you, Richard?”
“_Eighteen!_” repeated Ada. “It isn’t possible she calls herself
eighteen. She dare not do it in my presence. Why, she had been a
teacher, I don’t know how long, and, besides that, ’twas said that she
had once been engaged to a Dr. Clayton, who, for some reason, jilted
her, and was then a married man as much as thirty years old. _Eighteen_,
indeed. I’d like to hear her say so.”
I was confounded, but supposing she had mistaken me for Anna, my first
impulse was to go out and tell her so, but fearing lest she should think
I had intentionally listened, my second thought was to go away where I
could hear nothing further, and then, when Mrs. Lansing questioned me,
as I felt sure she would, I fancied it would be an easy matter to
exonerate myself from the falsehood Ada had put upon me. I had reached
the hall, and was half-way up the stairs, when Mr. Delafield, who had
arisen and was walking back and forth on the piazza, espied me, and
called me back.
There was a troubled look on his face, and fixing his piercing black
eyes upon me as if he would read my inmost thoughts, he said with
something of bitterness in the tones of his voice, “I _did_ think I had
found _one_ female who, on all occasions, spoke the truth; but if what
Ada has said is true, I am mistaken; though why _you_ (and his hand
involuntarily clutched my arm) or any other woman should stoop to a
falsehood, or seek to deny her age, be she a hundred or less, is a
secret which Heaven knows, perhaps, but I do not.”
I felt my face flush with indignation, and turning towards Ada, who, not
having expected a scene like this, was very pale, I said, “It is not
necessary, Miss Montrose, for you to repeat what you have asserted
concerning me, for I accidentally overheard it, and I thank Mr.
Delafield for giving me an opportunity to exonerate myself from the
charge you are pleased to bring against me.”
“Been listening,” muttered Mrs. Lansing.
“Silence, Angeline. Go on, Rose,” interrupted Mr. Delafield, in a voice
which we both obeyed, she resuming her needlework, while I continued, “I
had taken my seat by the open window ere you and Miss Montrose came out
here, and not thinking it necessary to leave, I remained, without,
however, hearing a word of your conversation until I caught the sound of
my name. Then, indeed, my senses were sharpened, and I heard Miss
Montrose’s statement, which I am sure she would never have made were she
not laboring under a mistake.”
Here Ada, who was not in the least prepared for the occasion, began to
stammer out something about “letting the matter drop—she did not wish to
harm me, and had said what she did inadvertently, without ever dreaming
of making trouble. She didn’t see why Richard wished to make it such a
serious matter, for she was sure _she_ didn’t care whether I were
_forty_ or _eighteen_.”
“But _I_ care,” he said, grasping my arm still tighter, “_I_ care to
have justice done. I have supposed Miss Lee to be frank, ingenuous and
truthful, and if what you assert is true, she is the reverse, and should
suffer accordingly, while on the contrary if she be innocent, she shall
have an opportunity of proving herself so.”
By this time Ada had collected her scattered senses, and resolving to
brave the storm she had raised, replied, “Certainly, Miss Lee has a
right to clear herself if she can, and prove that she _is_ really _Rose_
instead of _Anna_ Lee.”
“_Rose_ instead of _Anna_! What do you mean?” thundered Mr. Delafield,
while _I_ was too much astonished to speak.
Ada was not very _deep_, and in all her plotting she had never thought
how easy it would be for me to prove the falsity of her assertion by
writing home; so with the utmost coolness she replied, “I mean
this:—there were _two Lee girls_ living at the house of their uncle
where I occasionally visited: one was _Anna_, a young lady of twenty-two
or twenty-three, the other was _Rose_, a school-girl of fourteen or
fifteen. The oldest of these two I have every reason to believe stands
before us—at least _this_, which I found upon the stairs, would indicate
as much,” and she held to view the handkerchief which I had dropped and
had not missed.
Glancing at the name, Mrs. Lansing said, “I have observed a similar mark
upon several of her garments, and rather wondered at it.”
This was true, for Anna had dealt generously with me, giving me many of
her clothes, some of which bore her full name, while others had merely
the initials. I was about to tell of this, when Mr. Delafield prevented
me by asking if I could prove that I was what I represented myself to
be, and that I was a mere school-girl when I saw Miss Montrose in
Boston.
“Yes, sir, I can,” I answered firmly; “by writing home, I can prove it,
if in no other way. But Miss Montrose knows better than to confound me
with _Anna_, whom she surely has reason for remembering.”
Fearful lest her darling secret was about to be divulged, Ada roused up
and in a tone of angry defiance, answered, “Yes, I have reason for
remembering you, for you did me good service by taking off my hands a
worthless, drunken fellow, about whom the Bostonians were annoying me. I
thank you for it, Miss Lee, and only wonder how you could suppose I
would forget you. I recognized you the moment we met at the table, but I
did not then dream of your calling yourself _eighteen_ when you are
certainly _twenty-six_!”
I was confounded and remained speechless, while with renewed strength my
accuser continued, “Perhaps you will deny having been a teacher at that
time, when according to your statement you were only fourteen.”
“No,” I answered, “I do not deny that; I _had_ taught, but I was only
_thirteen_ when I did so, as any one at home will testify.”
“Thirteen! how improbable!” exclaimed Mrs. Lansing, while Ada continued,
“And what of your engagement with Dr. Clayton. I heard it from the lips
of your aunt; but perhaps she told me a falsehood?” and she looked
maliciously at me, while with a stamp of his foot Mr. Delafield said
sternly, “Ada, you have no right to question her of that.”
“But I am glad she did,” I said, “for as I live, I have never been
engaged to any man.”
“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.”
This gave Ada courage, and crossing over to me, she took my hand,
begging my forgiveness and saying “she _had_ been mistaken—she certainly
did not mean to do me so great a wrong, and she hoped I would forget it
and try to look upon her as my friend, for such she would henceforth
be.”
I was not quite verdant enough to credit _all_ that Ada said; but I
replied I was willing to forgive her, and when she asked permission to
_kiss_ me, so that the reconciliation might be perfect, I offered no
resistance, though I did not return the compliment, for which I think
Mr. Delafield felt gratified—at least I read as much in his face. During
the progress of my story Ada had alternately turned red and white,
particularly at the points where I touched upon Herbert. This did not
escape the observation of Mr. Delafield, and suspecting more than Ada
thought he did, he half seriously, half playfully asked her “why she had
evinced so much feeling whenever Mr. Langley’s name was mentioned.”
Instantly the color left her face, which wore a livid hue, and her hand
went up to her side as if the cause of her agitation were there, while
with a half stifled moan, she said, “Oh, oh!—the pain!”
Of course Mrs. Lansing asked what she meant, and Ada, in answering her,
managed to dwell so long upon “the horrid pain, which she feared would
become chronic,” that Mr. Delafield could not reasonably expect an
answer to his question. Still, I think, he was not satisfied, and when I
saw the mischievous look in his eye, as he told her “she must
_certainly_ be _blistered_,” I fancied that he, too, understood her as I
did.
That afternoon we were again assembled upon the piazza, Mrs. Lansing,
Ada, and myself, the former nodding in her large willow chair, while the
latter sat upon a little stool at my feet, and with her elbow upon my
lap was looking up into my face with the childish simplicity she knew so
well how to assume. She was just asking me to assure her again of my
forgiveness when Mr. Delafield joined us, and coming up behind me leaned
over my chair, while he handed to Ada a little oblong package, saying,
“I was in the village just after dinner, and seeing the Dr. I asked him
about _your pain_. As I expected, he prescribed a _blister_, and at my
request he prepared one, which you are to apply at night when you go to
bed!”
I could not see him, but I absolutely pitied poor Ada, who began to
realize that the way of the transgressor is hard. The tears started to
her eyes, while with a look of dismay, she exclaimed, “Oh, Richard, how
could you? I never was blistered in my life. It will kill me. I can’t do
it,”—and she cried aloud.
Very gently, Mr. Delafield soothed her, telling her that so far from
“killing her,” it would certainly “cure her,” he knew it would, and he
insisted upon her trying it. At last, as an idea, perfectly natural,
under the circumstances, dawned upon her mind, she looked up very
submissively at him and said, “To please you, I’ll try it; though the
remedy, I think, is worse than the disease.”
I hardly know whether he had any faith in her words—_I_ certainly had
not, and when next morning she came down to breakfast in a loose
wrapper, with a very languid look, I could not bring myself to ask her
concerning the _blister_, which the livelong night had drawn nicely—on
the back of the _fire-board_, in her room! As I expected, Mr. Delafield
soon made his appearance, and after inquiring how his prescription
worked, and if it had pained her much, he said, looking towards neither
of us, “How would you like to ride on horseback with me out to Mr.
Parker’s plantation? I have business there, and do not wish to go
alone.”
“Oh, charming!” exclaimed Ada, jumping up and clapping her hands in a
manner but little suited to a blistered side; “that will be grand, and I
can wear my new riding-dress, which fits so nicely.”
“Why, Ada, what do you mean?” said Mr. Delafield, with great gravity.
“My invitation was intended for _Miss Lee_. _You_ can’t, of course,
think of riding on horseback with a _blister_. You must have forgotten
it!” and his keen eyes rested upon her face with a deeper meaning than
she could fathom.
She turned very red, and for an instant, I think, half resolved to
acknowledge the deception she was practising. But Richard Delafield was
one who despised a falsehood, and she dared not confess to him her
error, so she turned away, saying with a feigned indifference which illy
accorded with the expression of her face, “Surely, I forgot all about
it.”
Alone in her room, however, she shed tears of anger and mortification as
she saw us ride off together, and thought of the happiness from which
she was debarred by a fancied blister, which had never come in contact
with her flesh. But whether it drew upon her side or the fire-board, it
in a measure wrought the desired cure, for seldom again did Ada attempt
to deceive her guardian. Would it not be well if more of our modern
young ladies should be blistered for the same disease that afflicted Ada
Montrose.
* * * * *
It was nearly dark when we returned, and Mrs. Lansing and Ada were in
their accustomed places upon the piazza, the latter holding an open
letter which she had that afternoon received from her cousin Mrs.
Johnson, who was spending some time in Mobile, and who wished Ada to
join her there, before going on to New Orleans. They were evidently
discussing the matter, and when we came up, Ada handed the letter to Mr.
Delafield, bidding him read it and tell her what to do. Hastily running
it over, he said, “Go, by all means: you have never seen Mobile, and it
will be a good opportunity.”
“But I have been thinking of giving up my visit to New Orleans,” she
continued in a kind of beseeching tone; “Mrs. Lansing had rather I’d
remain with her this winter.”
It was not so dark as to prevent me from seeing the expression of Mr.
Delafield’s face, and I fancied the proposition did not altogether
please him. She evidently thought so too, for rather pettishly she
added, “but if you wish to be rid of me, of course I’ll go.”
“Ada! How foolish!” he said, sternly. “I’ve often heard you express a
desire to spend a winter in New Orleans, and now that an opportunity is
presented, I think you had better accept it. I shall be there a part of
the time, perhaps all,” he added; and then _I_ turned away lest _my_
face should betray what was passing within.
“And will you go with me to Mobile?” Ada asked of him, as a child would
ask her father.
“Certainly,” he answered; “I do not propose letting you go alone. But
how is that side? I’d almost forgotten to ask.”
“It has pained me a good deal,” said she, “but Martha dressed it nicely
this afternoon, and it feels much better. I’m so glad you made me apply
it, now the worst is over, for I believe it will do me good!”
She spoke with every appearance of candor, and much as it surprised him,
Mr. Delafield was, I thought, partially, if not wholly, convinced that
what she said was true, and that he had suspected her of more than she
deserved; for his manner towards her changed, and as if trying to make
amends, he devoted himself to her entirely for the remainder of the
evening, telling her where they would go when they were in New Orleans,
and laying many plans for her pleasure. Once in his zeal he
thoughtlessly threw his arm around her waist, but she instantly shrank
back, saying, “don’t—don’t—you hurt!”
This convinced him thoroughly, and I slept and woke twice that night ere
the sound of their voices ceased upon the piazza, where their long
interview was kept in countenance by Mrs. Lansing, who sat up until he
left, and then patting Ada’s cheek, told her she thought “her prospects
were brightening.”
I thought so, too, and there was a shadow on my heart, when I saw how
much they were together during the few weeks which elapsed before her
departure for Mobile. It is true he was still kind to me as of old; and
whenever he found that Ada, by word or look, had slighted me, he always
managed to let her know how much he disapproved her conduct, so that in
his presence she was usually polite, though she could not quite conceal
the fact that I was to her an object of dislike.
It was nearly the middle of October, when Ada finally left us for
Mobile, accompanied by Mr. Delafield, who, in bidding us good-bye, said
we need not be surprised if he did not return in several weeks. I
consider it to be my misfortune that my face generally betrays all I
feel, and with his physiognomic powers he could not fail to see the
effect which his words produced upon me, for well I knew how lonely
Cedar Grove would be without him; and when after he was gone, little
Jessie climbed into my lap, and laying her head upon my shoulder wished
“Uncle Dick never would go away,” I mentally responded to the wish. The
whole household seemed more or less affected; Mrs. Lansing was cross;
Lina careless; Halbert fretful; and Jessie unhappy—while I began to be
haunted with my old project of returning home; and I should, perhaps,
have proposed it to Mrs. Lansing, had it not been that, at the close of
the fifth day, we were greatly surprised at Mr. Delafield’s unexpected
return. He didn’t like Mobile, he said, and would much rather be at
home.
Numerous were the questions asked by Mrs. Lansing concerning Ada and the
pain in her side, which last, Mr. Delafield said, had left her entirely,
owing, he believed, to the timely application of the blister. He was
deceived, I thought, and I must confess to a slight feeling of
gratification at an occurrence which thoroughly convinced him of his
mistake. One night, a few days after his return, old Hagar, his head
cook, came over to Cedar Grove, groaning with rheumatism, which she
termed “a misery in her back.” Lina, to whom her complaints were made,
listened a while, and then opening an old paper-box which stood under
the table, drew forth a _plaster_, which she said she “had done found in
Miss Ada’s room, on t’other side the fire-board, oncet when she was
clarin’ the fire-place.”
As Ada was gone she thought there was no harm in appropriating it to
herself, which she accordingly did, laying it carefully away until it
should be needed. The recital of Hagar’s aches and pains reminded her of
it, so she urged it upon the old negress, assuring her it must be good,
or white folks would never use it! With many thanks Hagar hobbled home,
applied her plaster, and went to bed! But, alas! for the expected
relief, which came only in burning sensations and stinging pains,
eliciting many a groan from the poor old lady, who heroically bore it
until morning, when she found herself unable to perform her accustomed
duties.
For a long time Mr. Delafield waited for his breakfast, which was at
last served up by Hagar’s daughter, who gave such a deplorable account
of her mother’s condition that the moment breakfast was over he went
himself to the cabin, where he found the old lady moaning over her
blistered back, which she said, “was a heap harder to bar than the
rheumatics.”
A few words explained the whole, for Hagar never concealed aught from
her master, and so she gave the history of her _plaster_, which now lay
upon the hearth in the ashes, where she had thrown it. Quick as thought
the truth burst upon Mr. Delafield, who laughed so long and loud, that
Aunt Hagar, thinking that he was making light of her misfortunes, began
to cry, saying she “never thought Mars’r Richard would poke fun at her
misery.”
“Neither am I making fun of you,” said he, adding further, by way of
atoning for his error, that for the remainder of the week she should be
freed from all household service, and devote her whole time, if she
liked, to her aching back.
This had the effect of restoring Aunt Hagar to good humor, and in the
midst of her thanks, Mr. Delafield returned slowly to the house,
thinking that when a habit of deception is once firmly fixed, it
required more to cure it than a blister applied to the fire-board!