BITTER JEALOUSY.
Miss Spicer was not given to much ceremony at the Lambert mansion. In an
hour after she went down those broad steps with Ivon Lambert, her
high-heeled boots pattered up them again; for the young man had lifted
his hat politely to her, when they came opposite a fashionable
club-house, and sought refuge there.
The young lady had stood on the side-walk long enough to get up a laugh,
and clench her parasol, which she shook at him, to the edification and
amusement of half a dozen young men gathered in the club-house windows.
Then she retraced her steps, and, much to her disgust, walked up the
Avenue alone, making keen observations as she went.
All at once the young lady started off into a quick walk, and, having
obtained admittance at the front door, ran up stairs. Without waiting
for an answer to her knock, she darted into the boudoir, and found Mrs.
Lambert lying on the couch.
“Do get up, this minute, Mrs. Lambert; they are going by—that girl and
the gentleman we were talking of. What an awful flirt she must be—first
one man and then another. It’s just abominable! Oh, how I wish Ivon
could see her now!”
Mrs. Lambert started from her couch, and hurried to the window, urged
forward by an impulse that swept away her usual slow grace of movement.
Miss Spicer was astonished at the impetuosity with which that delicate
hand dashed the lace curtains from before the glass.
Quick as lightning, those jealous eyes took in the two figures moving
along the opposite side-walk. Both were tall and of commanding presence.
The man’s head was slightly bent; the girl’s face was uplifted, and she
was listening to him, with a smile on her lip. Truly, she was beautiful.
The face, too, seemed familiar; something she remembered afar off, came
back to her, as she looked upon it; something lost and vaguely
regretted; but what, or when known, she could not tell—the attempt was
like groping through a dream.
“Is that the man Ross you were speaking of?”
Mrs. Lambert’s voice was low and forced. The lace which she grasped
shook in her hand so violently, that Lucy Spicer must have seen it, if
she had not been crouching on the floor, and watching the two people
through the lower sash. As it was, she only answered,
“Yes, that’s the man! Splendid, isn’t he? but old enough to be her
father, though’. Oh, I hope she’ll catch him, if it’s only to spite
Ivon! for he treats me shamefully; indeed he does. If I could only give
myself time, I’m sure it would break my heart, the way he goes on.”
Mrs. Lambert heard nothing of this. She was only conscious of a quick,
darting pain, which settled down into leaden heaviness, through which
she could hardly breathe. Those two people went slowly out of sight, the
lace dropped from her hand and fluttered down, softly, as snow-flakes
fall, under the warm amber of the curtains. In this rich twilight the
woman hid her pallor, and the red flush about her eyes, from the curious
girl, who still sat watching on the carpet, and went back to her couch,
hearing the clatter of that ceaseless tongue as men listen to a far-off
wind.
“Mrs. Lambert, now remember, you saw this girl flirting like wild-fire
with a man she never saw before half a dozen times in her life; that’s
certain, for I’ve taken pains to find out all about him. There never was
so great an artist born as he has been. Gets thousands and thousands for
a picture; so that he don’t trouble himself to paint for common people.
Besides all that, he’s the only brother that rich Mrs. Carter has got;
and her husband says he don’t want a better heir to his property; so
he’ll be an awful catch, everyway; quite too good for that creature. If
it wasn’t for getting into a scrape with Ivon, I’d cut in there. I have
a mind to do it now. It would serve Ivon right for daring to walk with
her and own it to my face. Couldn’t even take the trouble to cheat me
with a fib. I hope you’ll give it to him, Mrs. Lambert; he don’t care a
cent for what I say. Won’t you, now?”
Here the young heiress gathered her plump little person from the carpet,
and knelt down by the prostrate woman, who lay with her face turned to
the cushions, which her hands grasped nervously.
“You will talk with him, Mrs. Lambert, alone, and earnestly.”
“Talk with him! No, that can never be again!” cried the woman, in her
passionate grief, lifting herself from the couch. “Why should we two be
alone? I am nothing to him. That day has gone with my youth and beauty;
these it was that he loved. How much of them is left?”
The unhappy lady threw out her arms, as if appealing to her own image.
In a great mirror opposite her couch, the pale, anxious, disturbed
shadow of a woman flung out her arms also, as if repelling her appeal.
Miss Spicer was astonished; she had been speaking of young Lambert, and
found this burst of feeling incomprehensible.
“How I’m sure you are mistaken,” she said. “Men don’t care a bit about
their mother’s beauty, and can’t, in reason, expect them to be young.
I’m sure Ivon loves you a great deal better than most sons love their
own parents. So do think of it, and give him a good talking to; for one
thing is certain, I’m not going to take up with a shop-girl’s leavings.”
In a confused, weary way, Mrs. Lambert comprehended that the girl was
speaking of her own affairs, and had no idea of the anguish which had
made her so reckless of exposure. She seldom lost her proud
self-possession so thoroughly, and made a strong effort to recover
herself before that sharp girl could observe how disproportioned her
agitation was to the ostensible subject in question.
“Excuse me, Lucy, my head is aching fearfully.”
“Poor dear! I know how to pity you; only mine is the heart, which your
cruel son is just breaking,” answered Miss Spicer, pressing both hands
to her right side, just where the organ she spoke of was not, and
shaking her head woefully.
This attempt at the sentimental did more toward restoring Mrs. Lambert’s
composure than any amount of reasoning could have done. A keen sense of
ridicule broke up the tumult of feeling that had almost prostrated her,
and, spite of it all, she smiled.
“How am I expected to help you, Lucy?” she said, with something of her
usual sweet manner.
“Why, Mrs. Lambert, I have just been telling you.”
“But that was while my head ached so badly.”
“Well, if people won’t listen, it’s of no use to ask advice; but, if I
must say it all over again, I want you, in short, to give that son of
yours a good, hard scolding.”
“I never scold,” answered Mrs. Lambert, with a grave smile, for there
was trouble at her heart yet, not the less keen because pride held it in
abeyance.
“Well, then, stop giving him money.”
“Oh! but I rather think he would like that, Lucy.”
“Like it! Like it! No he wouldn’t!”
“I don’t know; he’s getting restless, of late.”
“Ever since he saw this girl—I wish that shawl had been in the bottom of
the Red Sea! Oh! if I had her within reach of my cane-parasol for ten
minutes! Did you ever see such a great, tall thing as she is? Sweeps
along like a peacock. Oh, mercy! There he is coming! Don’t tell him that
I’ve been here. I’ll run down the back stairs, and out through the
garden!”