This tenacity of Lady Adeline appeared to be a confirmation of his suspicions; and when, in the after part of the evening, Mr. Foley was announced, Lord Albert lost all command over himself, and under plea of a bad head-ache, sat silent, that he might the better watch every look and motion of Lady Adeline and Mr. Foley. Turning every indifferent word and gesture into the meaning with which his jealousy clothed it, he fancied that they were certainly mutually attached. Whatever soothing attentions Lady Adeline shewed to himself, he imagined were put on for the purpose of deceiving him; and his manner was so cold and haughty, that she in her turn began to shrink within herself, and to wear an abstracted, and somewhat distressed countenance.
Under this impression, Mr. Foley, with his doucereux air, whispered Lady Adeline, "that he was sure she was ill," and asked her "to cast out the evil spirit by her sweet power of music."
"Do, my love," said Lady Dunmelraise, "sing that delightful duet, which is always charming, 'O Momento fortunato!' and then I feel sure we shall be all love and harmony—shall we not, Lord D'Esterre?"
The chords of the piano-forte relieved him from the embarrassment of a reply, and he listened to the impassioned tones of poi Doman, poi Doman l'altro, ascribing to every intonation and every sentiment of her feeling voice the dictates of a passion for his supposed rival.
"That used to be a favourite of yours, Albert," said Lady Adeline when the duet was finished; "but I am afraid your head-ache prevents you from enjoying any thing to-night."
"I do not feel well," he replied shortly; "and lest my indisposition should in any way affect the pleasure of others, I will hasten away."
"Oh yes, you appear ill, indeed!" said Lady Adeline, fixing her eyes tenderly on his; "and, dear Albert, perhaps you had better go—the noise of company may be too much for you:" and she held out her hand to him—"Oh, if you are unwell, by all means go home," she repeated, with an anxiety of tender interest, that no one else could misinterpret to be any thing but genuine affection, but which to him seemed to spring from the desire of his absence.
"You shall be obeyed," he said, returning her look reproachfully; and at the same time reaching his hat, which happened to lie on a table beyond Mr. Foley, he almost rudely snatched it away, and with a celerity of movement that admitted of no courtesy to any one present, departed. Lady Dunmelraise called after him, "Lord Albert, do you dine here to-morrow?" But he heard not, or affected not to hear, and with the gnawing rage of blind jealousy darted into his carriage, and gave the order, "home."
Soon after the rest of the party broke up; and when Lady Dunmelraise and her daughter found themselves once more alone, their mutual silence proved that they both felt the strangeness of Lord Albert's manner of departure. But although the words were on Lady Dunmelraise's tongue to utter—"he is capricious,"—she restrained, and suffered them to die away in silence, determined that her daughter's own unbiassed judgment should form for herself that opinion of Lord Albert's character, which would soon now ultimately decide on her acceptance or rejection of him as her husband.