you love her. They are saying she is your chosen wife.”
“I am much obliged to them, I’m sure. Who are ‘they?’”
“Oh—the room of course,” replied Lady Grey. “The people stopping at Seaford. Frederick———"
“Mr. Grey do waltz with me if you are not engaged.”
The interruption came from Miss Fanny Darlington. She was quite young, and therefore deemed herself justified in acting as a child or a romp. He was not engaged, he said, and laughed as he took her on his arm.
“When is the wedding to be?” she asked, as he whirled her to the strains of Strauss’s music.
“What wedding?”
“As if you did not know! It can mean nothing else, when your attentions are so marked. Mrs. Delcie says she knows for a fact the general has consented.”
“When did she say that?”
“A minute or two ago. She was talking to me and Lady Lucy Chesney.”
A change came over his features. Was this the secret of Lucy’s inexplicable conduct to him—some wretched gossip linking his name with General Vaughan’s daughter? All his gaiety seemed to have gone from him, and his tone, as he spoke to Fanny Darlington, was changed into one of grave earnestness.
“Miss Darlington, will you allow me to remind you—as I most certainly shall Mrs. Delcie—that to speak of Miss Vaughan in this way, or of any other young lady, is unjustifiable. I am certain it would seriously displease her—and it has displeased me.”
He went through the rest of the waltz in silence. Miss Darlington grew cross, and asked what had come over him. At its conclusion he looked for Lucy and could not see her.
Lucy Chesney had gone out from the garish rooms: they accorded ill with her aching heart. In a corner of the terrace, shaded from observation by the clustering trees, she stood, leaning over the rails and gazing on the sloping gardens beneath, lying so cold and still in the light summer’s night. Cold and still was her own face; cold and still her unhappy heart, for its pulses felt as if frozen into stone. The waltz was over; she could hear that; and she pictured him with her happy rival, whispering his sweet vows in her ear. She stood there in her bitter misery, believing that he, whom she so passionately loved, had deserted her for another! The sound of laughter, of merriment, came from the rooms; the rich strains of the music were again floating on the air; the fragrant flowers, giving forth their strong night perfume, rose at her feet: all pleasant things in themselves, but they grated inharmoniously on Lucy’s heart.
What had become of the old bliss that had made her days seem like a dream of Eden? It was gone. All had changed since their sojourn at Seaford; the joy had left her, the sweet half-consciousness of being beloved had departed, to give place to the bitterest jealousy.
Why did Helen Vaughan so seek him? Why do girls thus beset attractive men?—ay, and men who are not attractive? Perhaps she hoped she should gain him; perhaps she but thought to while away her idle hours. However it might have been, it brought to Lucy Chesney fruits that seemed like bitter ashes. But she had to digest them; and never, never had they been harsher or more cruel than at that moment, as she hung over the terrace in the moonlight.
Her hands were clasped together in pain, and her forehead was pressed upon the cold iron of the rails, as if its chill could soothe the throbbing fire within. A cloud of images was in her brain, all bearing the beautiful but dreaded form of Helen Vaughan, and—some one touched her shoulder, and Lucy shivered and looked up.
It was Frederick Grey. What had he come out there for? He to see her in her abandonment of grief!
“Lucy!” he whispered, and the tone of his voice spoke of love if ever tone spoke it. “Lucy, are you ill?”
She would have been glad to fling his hand away, to fly from him, to meet his words with scorn; but she could not: for the heart will be true to itself, and the startled agitation unnerved her. She shook like a leaf.
He gently wound his arms round her, he bent over her and poured forth his tale of love—to be suppressed no longer: he told her how passionately he had hoped to make her his; that if he had been silent, it was because he feared the time to speak had not come. Lucy, in the revulsion of feeling, burst into tears, and yielded herself up to the moment’s fascination.
“Oh, Lucy, how could you suffer this cloud to come between us?” he whispered. “How could you suspect me of faithlessness? My darling, let me speak plainly. We have loved each other, and we both knew it, though it may be that you scarcely acknowledged the fact to yourself; but here, without witnesses—save One, who knows how ardently and loyally I will cherish you, under Him—surely we may