by Ellen Wood
“So you may,” said Mary Miller. “But the carriage they were in was not hired. The footman had powdered hair and a goldheaded cane; and the silver plates of the harness and the panels of the carriage displayed a coronet.”
Had the speaker announced that the harness and panels displayed a live griffin, it could not have aroused more excitement. “A coronet!” broke from the lips of those around.
“An earl’s coronet. So if she is an earl’s daughter, as we may assume, it would be somewhat infra dig for her to be found dancing in these rooms, liable to be waltzed about by any clerk from London who may pay his subscription to go in — whatever you may say to the contrary, Miss Vaughan.”
“It is singular I should not have observed them last night,” was Miss Vaughan’s remark.
“They did not stay long,” said Fanny Darlington; “and seemed to come in more to see what the rooms were like, than to remain. He went out with them, but came back again. He appeared to know them intimately.”
“Some of his patients, no doubt,” cried Miss Lake. “Medical men are always—”
“Hush, Augusta! Here he is. Don’t ask who the people were.”
A tall, slender man was slowly approaching the group. Certainly he was what Miss Vaughan had just described him — distinguished-looking. The thoughtful expression of his intelligent countenance, full of the beauty of intellect, gave him the appearance of being somewhat older than his age, which may have been about five-and-twenty. But it was neither for his fine form nor his handsome face that he was popular; popular with all classes; it was for his charm of manner. Quiet and refined, gentlemanly in bearing and in thought, he yet bore about him that frankness of speech, that winning courtesy to others, which is the great passport to favour, and which can never be assumed by those who possess it not.
Do you guess who it was? You have seen him before. It was that impetuous boy of years gone by, Frederick Grey. But Frederick Grey grown into manhood.
The change in the fortunes of Stephen Grey had been wonderful. At least it would have appeared wonderful, but that the rise had been so progressive, one step leading easily and naturally, as it were, to another. Eight years ago, barely as much yet, he had been a general practitioner in South Wennock, the modest dispenser of his own medicines; and now he was Sir Stephen Grey, a baronet, and one of the royal physicians.
A wonderful rise, you will say. In truth it was so. But the transition had been, I repeat, easy and gradual. His settling in London was the turning-point in his fortunes, and they had continued to rise step by step throughout the succeeding years. Practice first flew in to him, and he obtained a name. How valuable that is to a physician, more especially a London physician, let them tell you. Next he had been appointed to attend on royalty, and was knighted by the Queen. And now, about twelve months ago, his patent of baronetcy had been made out for “Stephen Grey and his heirs for ever.” There was scarcely a medical man in the metropolis who was so popular as Sir Stephen Grey; certainly none who had risen so rapidly.
Frederick, as you know, had been trained to his father’s profession. He would soon take his degree as M.D. A break had occurred in his medical studies, for when Sir Stephen found his fortunes rising, he judged it right to afford his son the advantages of a more liberal education, and Frederick was despatched to keep his terms at Oxford. No wonder he was sought after by those young ladies on the Seaford sands! — the heir to a baronetcy and the inheritor of wealth — for Sir Stephen was putting by largely! Added to these advantages were his own personal attractions, his high character, his fascinating manners. The whole combined in one man might well be deemed a prize.
Lady Grey, no stronger in health than she had ever been, had come to Seaford for the sea air, accompanied by her son. They had been there a fortnight now, and Mr. Frederick, as you perceive, had not failed to make himself a mark of interest; though probably using no effort of his own in the process.
He walked slowly towards those susceptible young ladies, and a change came over them all: that change from apathy to interest which the presence of such a man is sure to bring with it. Perhaps there was not a girl sitting there who would not have been glad to be his chosen, what with his attractions and his fair prospects in life.
He shook hands with some, he chatted with others, he had a pleasant look and word for all; but Helen Vaughan contrived to monopolize him — as she generally did. He thought nothing yet of her doing so, for he was accustomed to the homage of women. He never suspected that she had any particular motive for it; most certainly he did not suspect that she was permitting herself to become seriously attached to him.
“How is Lady Grey?” called out Fanny Darlington.
“Thank you,” he replied; “she is not well this morning. I begged her not to think of coming up on the sands to-day.”
“How vexing!” exclaimed Miss Vaughan. “Vexing that she should be ill, and vexing on my own account,” she added, with a fascinating smile. “You see this work that I am doing, Mr. Grey?”
“Very complicated work it seems to be,” was his laughing reply, as he glanced at the fragile fabric of threads she held out to him.
“I cannot get on with it, do you know. I am doing it under Lady Grey’s instructions, and cannot tell which part to take up next. If I thought mamma would not mind my walking alone through the streets, I would go to your house, and take further instructions from her. Is she well enough to see friends?” continued the young lady quickly.
“Quite well enough.”
“I think I must go to her, then. It is so tiresome to be at a standstill. Besides, I am working against time; this is for a wedding present.”
“I can tell you how to go on with it, if you like,” interrupted Augusta Lake. “There’s not the least necessity for troubling Lady Grey.”
Helen Vaughan shook her head dubiously. “But if you should tell me wrongly? — and I had to pick the work out again! No, I would rather trust to Lady Grey, as she has shown me throughout. Would it be troubling her too much, Mr. Grey?” appealing to him with her handsome eyes.
“On the contrary, I think my mother would be glad to receive you,” he replied. “On these monotonous mornings, when she is confined to the sofa, she is often pleased to see a visitor.”
Helen Vaughan rose, but she did not move away; she stood where she was, and seemed lost in deliberation.
“I scarcely know what to do; mamma has so great a dislike to our walking through the streets alone.”
Augusta Lake’s lip curled scornfully, and she did not take any pains to conceal it.
“Will you accept of my escort?” asked the gentleman of Miss Vaughan. Could he say anything less?
“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Helen, with a rosy flush. “Though I am extremely sorry to give you the trouble, Mr. Grey.”
He had taken a step or two by her side when he found himself arrested. A little pale lad had come up, and was pulling him backwards. He wore a plain brown-holland tunic, and his straw hat had a bit of straw-coloured ribbon tied round it. There was nothing about the child to indicate his quality or condition; his attire might have been equally worn by one of no degree, or by a son of her Majesty the Queen.
“Hey, Frank! Where did you spring from?”
“Mamma’s there. She said I might run to you.”
“Who is that child, Mr. Grey?” came the eager inquiry, for the gossiping young ladies had recognized him as the one to whom they had alluded.
Mr. Grey caught the boy in his arms and perched him on his shoulder.
“Tell who you are, Frank.”
Master Frank did not choose to speak; he was shy. One hand stole round Frederick Grey’s neck; the fingers of the other he inserted into his own mouth.
“The child was here yesterday with a black servant,” began Miss Lake; “but—”
“It was Pompey,” interrupted the boy, finding his tongue. “Put me down, please, Mr. Grey; I want to go for my spade.”
“There you are, then,” he returned, d
epositing him on his legs. “But, Frank, I am ashamed of you. Not to tell your name when you are asked it!”
“It’s Frank,” said the boy, running away over the sand.
“Who is he really, Mr. Grey?”
“Lord Oakburn.”
“Lord Oakburn! The young Earl of Oakburn, who was born when his father died?”
“The same,” said Mr. Grey. “He is a somewhat delicate boy, and Lady Oakburn has brought him here for a month’s sea-bathing.”
“It was his mother we saw you so amiable 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 coldly.
“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 again prevented.”
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 of 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 had grown into this lovely young woman of nineteen. Blushes rose to her face so obviously 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 close and lasting friendship. Lady Oakburn, poor for her rank, living a retired life in the house in Portland Place, educating Lucy, training her little boy, had been more inclined to form quiet friendships than to frequent the society of the gay world. A little gaiety now Lucy was out — and she had been presented in the 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 whisper his honeyed words.
Medical men have their prejudices in favour of certain watering-places, some patronizing 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: “Take the boy to Seaford.” The boy, young Frank, was 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 sterling 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 had no conception that the mandate would be a particularly welcome one to his son and Lucy Chesney; Lady Oakburn had as little; for they had been utterly blind to the attachment that was taking root under, as may be said, their very noses.
He went up to her, holding out his hand, and her cheeks wore their loveliest carmine as he bent to her with his whispered words. Very commonplace words though, and there was no apparent necessity for the blushes, or for his sweet, low tones. Their lovemaking 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 agreeable to either.
“But, as Lady Oakburn is here, I suppose she will remain?” he said.
“I think so, now. It is only July, you know, and there may be time for Germany later. Mamma says we must remain a month, for she has written to ask Jane to come to us. At least, we must remain if Jane accepts the invitation.”
“I hope she will do so!” involuntarily exclaimed Frederick. “Did Sir Stephen say whether he should come down on Saturday, do you know, Lucy?”
“I cannot tell. I did not read his letter. Mamma read it aloud to me, but I don’t know whether she read all. Sir Stephen—”
“Mr. Frederick Grey, Helen bade me ask whether you had forgotten that she is waiting? She says perhaps it is inconvenient to you to keep your promise.”
Frederick Grey turned to behold a young girl of ten, Helen Vaughan’s sister. Helen Vaughan had watched the speakers with a resentful spirit and a jealous eye. It was more than her chafed temper could bear, and she called her sister from the attractions of the sand castles, and gave her the message, following herself slowly on the heels of the little girl. As Frederick looked round, she had almost come up to them. The child flew off to the castles again, and Helen spoke.
“It may be inconvenient to you now, Mr. Grey?”
“By no means. I shall be happy to accompany you.”
The two young ladies stood, scanning each other’s faces, waiting as it seemed to him — for an introduction. He knew that Miss Vaughan’s position, as the daughter of a general officer, would justify his making it to Lucy.
“Miss Vaughan: Lady Lucy Chesney.”
Two cold distant curtsies, and the ceremony was over. The general’s daughter was the first to speak.
“Not Miss Vaughan; Miss Helen Vaughan. I have an elder sister. Her health was indifferent, and she stayed behind us at Montreal to come home later.”
Montreal? Vaughan? The names struck some almost forgotten chord in the memory of Lucy, in connection with a Miss Beauchamp who had gone out to Montreal as governess, and who turned out not to be Clarice. She made no comment, however, no inquiry; the young lady’s haughty face did not take her fancy. Neither perhaps did her intimacy with Frederick Grey.
A few interchanged words, cold and civil, two more distant curtsies, and the young ladies had parted: and Miss Vaughan was walking in the direction of the town, side by side with Frederick Grey.
“I don’t like her a bit,” thought Lucy, as she turned away. “I wonder how long Frederick has known her?”
In a quiet spot, apart from others, sat Lady Oakburn. The seven years had passed over her face lightly; and she looked almost as young, — more magnificent than when, as Miss Lethwait, the captivated earl had asked her to become his wife. A hazardous venture, perhaps, but one that had turned out well. Lady Oakburn was a step-mother in a thousand. Seated by her side, having rushed up to claim acquaintance with her on hearing Frederick Grey’s announcement, was a Mrs. Delcie. The acquaintance between them was very slight. They had met once or twice in some of the crowded rooms in London; but you know it is not all w
ho have the chance of showing to their sea-bathing friends that they are on speaking terms with a countess. Mrs. Delcie appeared inclined to make herself at home, and was already initiating Lady Oakburn into the politics of the place.
“You look tired, my dear child,” exclaimed Lady Oakburn, when Lucy came up. “It is hot here. Would you rather go home?”
“I am not at all tired, mamma. But I think Frank will be tired, by the way he is running about.”
“It will do him good,” returned Lady Oakburn. “You know what Sir Stephen says — that we wrap him up in lavender.”
“Is that Sir Stephen Grey?” interposed Mrs. Delcie. “You know the Greys personally, perhaps?”
“Very well, indeed,” replied Lady Oakburn.
“I don’t. But I should like to do so. I must get an introduction to Lady Grey. What a handsome young fellow is that son of theirs I He will not get away from Seaford heart-whole,”
The words were spoken emphatically, and Lady Oakburn looked up with some curiosity. Lucy, who had sat down by her stepmother, bent her face and her parasol, and began her favourite pastime of tracing characters on the sands as she listened.
“That handsome girl, Helen Vaughan, has been making a dead set at him ever since he came here, and he does not respond to it unwillingly,” continued Mrs. Delcie. “Some think that they are already engaged: but I don’t know.”
“I do not think that likely,” observed Lady Oakburn.
“Why?”
“From what I know of Frederick Grey, he is not the man to choose a young lady for a wife, after knowing her for a fortnight only.”
“You would think it likely if you saw them together. He is ever with her, evidently smitten; on the sands, on the promenade, in the rooms, there he is by the side of Helen Vaughan. Some fancy his profession might be a bar in the general’s eyes; not it, say I: there’s the baronetcy to set off against it. It is to be hoped he will have her, for she’s dying for him.”
Lucy’s face turned white, and the parasol went scoring its marks according to its own will. Was it true, this? For the last few months she had been living as in a dream of Eden: one that she had not cared to analyze. All she knew was, that the step of Frederick Grey sent her whole life-blood coursing through her veins, that his presence brought rapture to her; his voice was sweeter than the sweetest music, the touch of his hand thrilled her every fibre. The sunny spring-tide of love had come for Lucy Chesney, and she had been glad that it should never pass.