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.