Now this was a painful question to one of her history. Indeed, she showed it to be so by the flush which rose to her cheek and by the decided trembling of her proud lip. But she did not seek to evade it.
“Sir,” she said, “I cannot answer you. I never heard any of the particulars of my birth. I was a foundling.”
The mingled gentleness and dignity with which she made this acknowledgment won for her the instantaneous sympathy of all present. Mr. Orcutt saw this, and the flash of indignation that had involuntarily passed between him and the prisoner subsided as quickly as it arose.
Mr. Ferris went on.
“Where do you live?”
“In this town?”
“With whom do you live?”
“I am boarding at present with a woman of the name of Kennedy. I support myself by my needle,” she hurriedly added, as though anxious to forestall his next question.
Seeing the prisoner start at this, Imogene lifted her head still higher. Evidently this former lover of hers knew little of her movements since they parted so many weeks ago.
“And how long is it since you supported yourself in this way?” asked the District Attorney.
“For a few weeks only. Formerly,” she said, making a slight inclination in the direction of the prisoner’s counsel, “I lived in the household of Mr. Orcutt, where I occupied the position of assistant to the lady who looks after his domestic affairs.” And her eye met the lawyer’s with a look of pride that made him inwardly cringe, though not even the jealous glance of the prisoner could detect that an eyelash quivered or a flicker disturbed the studied serenity of his gaze.
The District Attorney opened his lips as if to pursue this topic, but, meeting his opponent’s eye, concluded to waive further preliminaries and proceed at once to the more serious part of the examination.
“Miss Dare,” said he, “will you look at the prisoner and tell us if you have any acquaintance with him?”
Slowly she prepared to reply; slowly she turned her head and let her glance traverse that vast crowd till it settled upon her former lover. The look which passed like lightning across her face as she encountered his gaze fixed for the first time steadily upon her own, no one in that assemblage ever forgot.
“Yes,” she returned, quietly, but in a tone that made Mansell quiver and look away, despite his iron self-command; “I know him.”
“Will you be kind enough to say how long you have known him and where it was you first made his acquaintance?”
“I met him first in Buffalo some four months since,” was the steady reply. “He was calling at a friend’s house where I was staying.”
“Did you at that time know of his relation to your townswoman, Mrs. Clemmens?”
“No, sir. It was not till I had seen him several times that I learned he had any connections in Sibley.”
“Miss Dare, you will excuse me, but it is highly desirable for the court to know if the prisoner ever paid his addresses to you?”
The deep, almost agonizing blush that colored her white cheek answered as truly as the slow “Yes,” that struggled painfully to her lips.
“And—excuse me again, Miss Dare—did he propose marriage to you?”
“He did.”
“Did you accept him?”
“I did not.”
“Did you refuse him?”
“I refused to engage myself to him.”
“Miss Dare, will you tell us when you left Buffalo?”
“On the nineteenth day of August last.”
“Did the prisoner accompany you?”
“He did not.”
“Upon what sort of terms did you part?”
“Good terms, sir.”
“Do you mean friendly terms, or such as are held by a man and a woman between whom an attachment exists which, under favorable circumstances, may culminate in marriage?”
“The latter, sir, I think.”
“Did you receive any letters from the prisoner after your return to Sibley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you answer them?”
“I did.”
“Miss Dare, may I now ask what reasons you gave the prisoner for declining his offer—that is, if my friend does not object to the question?” added the District Attorney, turning with courtesy toward Mr. Orcutt.
The latter, who had started to his feet, bowed composedly and prepared to resume his seat.
“I desire to put nothing in the way of your eliciting the whole truth concerning this matter,” was his quiet, if somewhat constrained, response.
Mr. Ferris at once turned back to Miss Dare.
“You will, then, answer,” he said.
Imogene lifted her head and complied.
“I told him,” she declared, with thrilling distinctness, “that he was in no condition to marry. I am by nature an ambitious woman, and, not having suffered at that time, thought more of my position before the world than of what constitutes the worth and dignity of a man.”
No one who heard these words could doubt they were addressed to the prisoner. Haughtily as she held herself, there was a deprecatory humility in her tone that neither judge nor jury could have elicited from her. Naturally many eyes turned in the direction of the prisoner. They saw two white faces before them, that of the accused and that of his counsel, who sat near him. But the pallor of the one was of scorn, and that of the other—Well, no one who knew the relations of Mr. Orcutt to the witness could wonder that the renowned lawyer shrank from hearing the woman he loved confess her partiality for another man.
Mr. Ferris, who understood the situation as well as anyone, but who had passed the point where sympathy could interfere with his action, showed a disposition to press his advantage.
“Miss Dare,” he inquired, “in declining the proposals of the prisoner, did you state to him in so many words these objections you have here mentioned?”
“I did.”
“And what answer did he give you?”
“He replied that he was also ambitious, and hoped and intended to make a success in life.”
“And did he tell you how he hoped and intended to make a success?”
“He did.”
“Miss Dare, were these letters written by you?”
She looked at the packet he held toward her, started as she saw the broad black ribbon that encircled it, and bowed her head.
“I
