MISS SPICER RECEIVES HER DISMISSAL.
A newspaper was in Mrs. Lambert’s hand. In the listlessness of a mind
utterly prostrated, she had taken little heed of passing events, and of
the little drama which had been enacted against the Laurence family,
almost under the sanction of her own name, was entirely ignorant.
It was an old paper which had been wrapped about some parcel at which
the lady was looking. Just as she was about to lay it down, her own
name, with that of Miss Spicer, astonished her into sudden interest. The
article she read was an account of that trial which had sent the Boyce
brothers to Sing Sing.
Mrs. Lambert knew that Eva had been adopted by the Carters, and that her
success in the fashionable world was something marvellous, but of the
underhand machinations that led to it, she had never dreamed till now.
Ivon Lambert had informed himself of the main features of this
disgraceful transaction at the time, but never mentioned them to his
step-mother, who was suffering, and so ill that no unpleasant thing was
permitted to come near her. She knew in a general way that the man
Robert Mahone had left her service; but under what circumstances, every
person admitted into her presence was interested in concealing.
Thus it happened that this statement in the paper took the proud woman
completely by surprise, and aroused the sensitive pride in her nature so
completely, that Ellen Post, when she answered the sharp pull of her
lady’s bell, was startled by the vivid fire that lighted up those sad
features.
“Ellen Post, is this thing true?”
Mrs. Lambert held the paper out in one hand, pointing to the report with
the other.
Ellen caught one glimpse of the hateful sheet, recoiled a little, then
gave her head a toss, and said, with a degree of careless contempt that
did honor to her nerve:
“Oh, that was Miss Spicer’s little job. My name was dragged in
promiscuous. That about me is all lies, from beginning to end; but Miss
Spicer and that Mahone was awful thick for awhile. She was always giving
him money, being so malicious against that handsome Laurence girl, that
she was willing to plot with any one against her. I’m pretty sure she
_was_ in the scrape, because she once offered me anything I’d ask just
to join in with them; but, of course, I never had a word for her, but
no. I want to marry that Mahone! The idea! I hope, marm, you think
better of me than that.”
Mrs. Lambert was a woman of the world, whom airs, such as her maid put
on, were not likely to deceive. She simply folded the paper, drew forth
her portemonnaie, and paid Ellen Post a month’s wages in advance.
“I cannot give you a recommendation,” she said, very quietly, “and
probably shall never have occasion to mention your name. Perhaps you had
better put on your things, and go at once. The express man will come for
your trunk.”
Ellen Post turned her half-scared, half-insolent face on her mistress.
It had turned to a dull grayish-white, and her eyes gleamed with
gathering malice.
“Perhaps, marm, you had better think twice. Some girls are blind as to
what is going on around them, and can be sent off meek and
broken-hearted; but I ain’t one of that sort. Just take a second
thought, marm. You’d better, I can tell you.”
“I never take a second thought, Ellen. Go! I am engaged!”
The slender finger that pointed toward the door belonged to a fragile,
but firm little hand, which scarcely seemed strong enough to support the
diamonds that blazed upon it; but a revolver could not have more
effectually silenced the impudent servant. Ellen walked backward, step
by step, until she almost fell against a footman, who stood in the door
with a card in his hand.
Mrs. Lambert took the card, giving no further heed to the retreating
maid, and read the name upon it.
“Miss Spicer! Tell her to come up.”
There was a rustle of silk flounces, a clatter of high heels, as Miss
Spicer came up the stairs. There was also a strong scent of the last
fashionable perfume left floating in the hall, as she entered her
friend’s boudoir, closing the door behind her.
Fifteen minutes after this Ellen Post glided down the back stairway,
with an evil look on her face, and a satchel in her hand.
Then all was still, and only a faint murmur of voices disturbed the
sumptuous quiet of that lady’s boudoir. Voices, did I say? Only the
quick, rattling sound of Miss Spicer’s tongue was heard; the firm, even
tones of Mrs. Lambert never penetrated beyond the room in which she sat.
Once, when the door was open, and Miss Spicer stood upon the ermine mat,
biting her lips, and beating her flounces with the end of her cane
parasol, the clear ringing tones of that voice penetrated into the hall.
“No, Miss Spicer, I will take leave of you now; for this is the last
time that you will ever be admitted into a house of which I am
mistress.”
Miss Spicer turned upon the mat like a little fury.
“Well, madam! I suppose it is just possible to live without coming into
your house! Heaven knows, it’s been dull enough since that girl cut you
out with Ross, the painter! This is the gratitude one gets for paying
off your debts. I’m thankful for one thing; though! She’ll marry him,
and leave you to break your mean old heart; while Ivon will hate you
forever and ever for breaking up his little matrimonial game. Good-by,
Mrs. Lambert. If you can stand it, I ought to, having nothing very
dreadful to look back upon, and plenty of youth, which you will never
have again!”
As Miss Spicer was flying down stairs in her hot wrath, Ivon Lambert
came into the hall, and stood aside for her to pass. She stopped
suddenly, and held out her hand with a hysterical laugh.
“There; let’s shake hands, and say good-by. Your lovely mother has just
turned me out of doors; but see if I don’t pay her off! If that fellow,
Ross, don’t marry your old lady love, and I for one have no idea that he
ever thought of it, I’ll marry him myself, and ride over the old woman
rough-shod. With his genius and my money we could do it—for people are
beginning to talk about her awfully, I can tell you; something about the
conservatory, and fainting dead at the artist’s feet. Ellen Post knows
all about it. She’s just been sent away, and won’t the story ring. Of
course I shan’t help it forward. Oh, no! she hasn’t insulted me!”
Before Ivon could even comprehend this rude speech, the young lady had
turned the latch and door-knob with a force that tore her gloves, and
hurried down the pavement.
Ivon, who had intended to visit his mother, went to her room, where he
found her pacing up and down the carpet, flushed with suppressed
excitement, and with unusual fire in her eyes.
“My son!—my dear son! I am glad, very glad that you are here. Something,
no matter what, has disturbed me. I have been hard and selfish with you;
my own wretchedness has made me cruel.”
“Your own wretchedness, mother!”
“There, there, Ivon! Do not question me; but generously accept my
atonement, without explanation. I have been very, very unhappy of late;
but I am not speaking of myself. You are dear to me as any son could
have been. When I die, all that I have shall be yours, without
restriction. From this day out the world shall know you as my heir.
Another thing, once more I say to you, seek out that girl and marry her,
if you can. I will accept her with all my heart. Carter has made her his
heiress—be it so! I make you my heir. Go, ask her to marry you.”
“Mother! Mother! how can I? She has refused me once,” cried the young
man.
“But that was after I had trodden on her pride, when she thought herself
worse than poor. Now you go to her with my full consent. I will call
upon her, and urge your case, if that is needful. Go, my boy—go now. I
shall not be at rest till your fate is settled.”
Astonished, bewildered, and like a man in a dream, Ivon Lambert went to
his own room. Was his step-mother in her right mind? Had she placed him
in a condition to approach Eva once more, now that she was an heiress?
If so, mercenary motives could not be imputed to him. Yes, yes, there
was yet a chance of such happiness as he had given up in despair.