The reigning belle

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.