with at the rooms last night, then?” cried Miss Lake. “And the young lady—who was she?”
“A very lovely girl; quite charming to look upon,” interposed Fanny Darlington rather maliciously, as she stole a glance at Miss Vaughan. “Who was she, Mr. Grey?”
“His sister, Lady Lucy Chesney.”
“Are they patients of yours, Mr. Grey?” asked Helen Vaughan, in a cold tone.
“Of Sir Stephen’s; not of mine,” he answered, laughing.
“By the way, Mr. Grey, I thought you expected Sir Stephen down last Sunday.”
“We expected him on Saturday, but he was unable to come. He will be here next Saturday, if not prevented again.”
The little lord ran up again, spade in hand.
“Mr. Grey, Lucy says I am to tell you we have heard from town.”
“Is Lucy there?” suddenly responded Mr. Grey, turning his head. “She told me she———"
The words died away with the steps of the speaker; for he strode off, quite oblivious to any recollection of Miss Vaughan. At some distance, tracing characters on the sands with her parasol, in a cool and pretty muslin dress, stood an elegant girl of middle height and graceful bearing, her features inexpressibly refined and beautiful, her complexion bright and delicate. It was Lucy Chesney: the little girl of the short frocks and white-tipped drawers had become this lovely young woman of nineteen. The blushes rose to her face in so obvious a degree as Frederick Grey approached her, that they might have told a tale, had any one been there to read it. Miss Vaughan looked on from the distance, her heart sinking, her lips paling: if ever she saw the signs of mutual love, she believed she saw them then.
Miss Vaughan was not deceived. Love, and love in no measured degree, had long ago sprung up between Frederick Grey and Lucy Chesney. That introduction of Stephen Grey to the Countess of Oakburn by Lady Jane—though indeed we ought to give Judith the credit of it—had led to a personal intimacy between the families, which had ripened into a close and lasting friendship. Lady Oakburn, poor for her rank, living a retired life in the house at Portland Place, educating Lucy, training her little boy, had been more inclined to form quiet friendships than to frequent the gay society of the world. A little gaiety now Lucy was out—and she had been presented this past spring—but the long friendship with the Greys could not be superseded by all the gaiety in the world. It had brought forth its fruits, that friendship; for Lucy Chesney’s heart had gone out for all time to that attractive young man, now bending to her to whisper his honied words.
Medical men have their prejudices in favour of certain watering-places, some patronising one place, some another. Sir Stephen Grey’s pet place was Seaford. His wife generally visited it once a year; in short, Sir Stephen recommended it to all his patients, especially to those whose maladies were more imaginary than real. It was he who had said to Lady Oakburn, not ten days ago yet, “Take the boy to Seaford.” The boy, young Frank, was but sickly, and his mother, as a matter of course, was very anxious. The boy had the sturdy independence of his father, and the magnificent dark eyes, the plain good sense of his mother. “There’s no reason to be fidgety over him,” Sir Stephen would say; “he’ll grow into a strong man in time.” But Lady Oakburn was fidgety in that one particular, and Sir Stephen had this year ordered the boy to Seaford—Sir Stephen having no conception that the mandate would be a particularly welcome one to his son and Lucy Chesney, Lady Oakburn as little; for they had been utterly blind to the attachment that was taking root under, as may be said, their very noses. Talk of beetles being blind, men and women are far more so.
He went up to her, holding out his hand, and the cheeks wore the loveliest carmine flush as he bent to her with his whispered words. Very commonplace words, though, and there was no apparent necessity for her blushes, or for his sweet, low tones. Their love-making had not yet gone on to open avowal.
“You told me you were not coming here to-day, Lucy.”
“I thought we were not. Mamma said it would be too hot, but she changed her mind. We had a note from Sir Stephen this morning.”
“Ah! What about?”
“He has obtained the information for us regarding those German baths. It is very favourable, and mamma says now she wishes she had gone to them instead of coming to Seaford.”
An interchanged glance from between their eyelashes, shy on Lucy’s part, speaking worlds on his, and Lucy’s eyes at least were dropped again. Lady Oakburn’s going to the German baths instead of to Seaford would not have been acceptable to either.
“But as Lady Oakburn is here, I suppose she will remain! " he said.
“I think so, now. It is only July, you