people who can never let anybody else be at peace, her eyes sharp as a needle, her brain active as a mischief-maker’s tongue, watched Frederick Grey and Helen Vaughan for some minutes, and then turned to Lady Grey with a whisper:
“Is it a settled thing?” she asked.
“Is what a settled thing?”
“That your son marries Helen Vaughan?”
It was the first time the idea had been presented to Lady Grey. Living much in seclusion, she had seen and known nothing of the doings of the outer world of Seaford. Her heart leaped up with a bound of dismay, for she did not like Helen Vaughan.
“Pray do not mention anything so improbable,” she faintly said. “My son marry Helen Vaughan! Indeed I hope not!”
“Improbable you call it?” was Mrs. Delcie’s answer. “Look at them.”
Lady Grey did look. The Lancers were over, and he was taking Helen Vaughan back to her place. He was bending down to talk to her, and there was an impressement in his manner that she, the mother, did not like. The evening’s pleasure had gone out for her.
Back came Lucy, escorted by the viscount; she sat down by Lady Oakburn. The seat next her was vacant now, and Frederick Grey dropped into it. My Lady Lucy’s cheeks grew pale with inward agitation.
“Lucy, what have I done to you?”
“Done?” repeated Lucy, in a tone of supreme indifference mingled with a dash of surprise. “Nothing.”
He bit his lip. “Will you tell me how I have offended you?”
“You have not offended me.”
“Then what is the matter with you?”
“What should be the matter with me? Really I do not understand you.”
Neither in real truth did he understand Lucy. Frederick Grey was not a vain man, and it never occurred to him to think that she could be jealous. He thought nothing of that foolish dalliance—flirtation—call it what you will—in which his hours were often spent; the society of those pretty girls was pleasant pastime, but to him nothing more. If Miss Vaughan threw herself rather more in his way than the rest did, he never gave it a second thought; and most certainly he did not cast a suspicion that it was changing the manners of Lucy Chesney. In the few days that had elapsed since her arrival at Seaford, he had been at times greatly pained by her behaviour to him. He had set it down hitherto to some unaccountable caprice: now he began to think that her feelings to him were changing. And he had felt so sure of her love!
“Lucy, you must know that you are behaving very strangely to me. You heard me ask you for the Lancers, and you turned and engaged yourself to that little puppy, who is not worth a kick. Will you stand up with me the next?”
“Thank you: I do not intend to dance the next. I feel a little tired.”
He paused a minute, rose from his seat, and stood before her. “There must be some reason for all this.”
“Reason for all what?”
“For your indifference to me.”
“You may think so if you please.”
“It looks very like caprice, Lucy.”
“Caprice? Oh yes, that is it. It is caprice.”
“Once for all,” he rejoined, quite savagely, “will you dance the next dance with me, Lady Lucy?”
“No I will not. Thank you all the same.”
He turned on his heel.
Lucy caught her little brother, who was running up to them.
“I am going home, Lucy. Pompey’s come, and I am going without being naughty, because I promised I would.”
“There’s my darling Frank,” said Lucy, bending over the child. “Wish mamma good night.”
He was a brave, honourable little fellow, and he intended to go off blithely with Pompey, whose black face was seen at the door. The Oakburns were noted for holding a promise sacred; and it seemed that the future chief would be no degenerate descendant. Kissing his mamma, he put up his face to Lady Grey; but that lady was too much engaged to pay attention to him, and the boy ran away without it.
Lady Grey had her face turned to her son. She had pulled him to her when he was quitting Lucy. Mrs. Delcie had left her seat then, and Frederick halted before it, listening to his mother’s whisper.
“Frederick! only a word—to ease my troubled heart. Surely you are not—you are not falling in love with Helen Vaughan!”
“I don’t think I am, mother.”
The answer was given gaily, lightly. All conscious of that other love so deeply seated in his heart, he could afford to joke at this. But he caught the anxious look of pain in his mother’s eyes.
“You would not like her for a daughter-in-law?” he breathed, laughing still.
“I confess I should not.”
“Very well. Be at ease, mother mine. What put such a thing into your head?”
“They say she is in love with you—that