by Ellen Wood
“Does he bear a good character?” asked the stranger harshly. Mrs. Pepperfly opened her eyes. “What, Mr. Stephen Grey? Why, mum, nobody never bore a better character in this world, whether as doctor or man. Except that mistake — if it was him that made it — he never had a thing whispered against him before or since. He left the place after that to settle in London, and he has got on, they say, like a house a-fire. I know this: he’d give his right hand to find out the rights about it.”
“Is he a young man — an unmarried man?”
“Be you and me young and unmarried?” retorted Mrs. Pepperfly; for the want of sense in the question (as it sounded to her in her superior knowledge) excited her ire. “Him? He have been married this five-and-twenty year, and he’s a’most as old as we be. There! There’s the very churchyard where she’s lying.”
Mrs. Pepperfly pointed to the opposite side of the street which they were now approaching. And the stranger, in her eagerness to look at the churchyard, found her face brought violently into contact with the omnibus, as it was whirled round the corner by the driver, to draw up at the door of the Red Lion.
CHAPTER III.
RIVALRY.
WAS it a scene of enchantment? — such as those we read of in the Arabian Nights? The assembly-rooms, garlanded with flowers, brilliant with light, decorated with mirrors and beautiful statues, were thrown open to the terraces, that, redolent with perfume, reposed so calmly in the moonlight. If only from the force of contrast, the scene would have told upon the heart and senses. The garish rooms, hot, noisy, turbulent in their gaiety; the calm cool night, lying clear and still under the dark blue heavens. Fairy forms were flitting in the rooms, measured strains of music charmed the ear; hearts were beating, pulses quickening. Care, in that one dizzy spot, seemed to have left the world.
These Seaford assembly-rooms were gay for that one night. A fete in aid of some local charity had been projected, and the chief names amidst the visitors at Seaford appeared as patrons of it. The Right Honourable the Countess of Oakburn headed the list, and amidst the rest might be read those of Lieutenant-General and Mrs. Vaughan. The Vaughans and the Oakburns had become acquainted. General Vaughan’s eldest son had joined the family at Seaford, and he remembered his one night’s introduction years before to Lord Oakburn’s house. Lady Grey and Mrs. Vaughan were also intimate — the intimacy, formed at watering-places, warm while it lasts, but ceasing when the sojourn is over. So Lucy Chesney and Miss Helen Vaughan had been brought into repeated contact, and — if the truth must be told — were desperately jealous of each other. Lucy heard the rumours obtaining in Seaford — that Mr. Frederick Grey was “in love” with Helen Vaughan. She looked around her and saw, or thought she saw, many things to confirm it. That Frederick Grey was the one object of attraction to half the young ladies staying at Seaford could not be disputed; the greater part of his time was spent with them without any seeking of his own. They sought him. They laid their pretty little plans to meet him, to form engagements with him, to keep him at their side. In the morning lounge, on the sands, in the walk, in the afternoon’s ride or drive, in some of the reunions of the night, there would he be with one or other of them. More especially would he be with Helen Vaughan. Do not fancy that he disliked it, although it was more the fault of the young ladies than his own; Frederick Grey was no more insensible to the charms of pretty girls than are other men.
And Lucy saw all this; saw it with the bitterest pain, with keen resentment. It might be, that things looked a great deal worse to her than they would have appeared to unprejudiced eyes, for jealousy, you remember, makes the food it feeds upon. He had not spoken to her; he had not told her that he loved; and Lucy may be excused if she took up the idea that he never had loved her; that the sweet consciousness recently filling her heart, had been altogether a mistake; and at the thought her cheeks tingled with shame.
Frederick Grey himself assisted the delusion. Lucy’s manner had so altered towards him, had become so unaccountably cold and haughty, that he avoided her in very resentment.
Ah, who knew? — the subtle intricacies of this heart of ours are so cunningly, profound! — it might be that this attention to other demoiselles, this apparent flirting and love-making — was done only to tease Lucy Chesney, and bring back her allegiance to him. In the midst of it all, Lady Oakburn had become acquainted with the state of affairs. By the merest accident, her eyes, so long closed, were suddenly opened, and she saw that Lucy loved Frederick Grey. She had little doubt but that he returned the love; she as little doubted that the passion was of some standing. There occurred to her dismayed memory the intimacy that had subsisted between them all in town; the interviews without number, in which he could have made love to Lucy had he chosen so to do.
The countess sat down in consternation. She liked Frederick Grey herself more than any one she knew; but what of Lady Jane? Would she deem him a suitable parti for Lucy? Would she not rather condemn him as altogether ineligible? — and how should she herself answer to Lady Jane for her care of Lucy? Care? — as applied to love? Lady Oakburn in her self-condemnation forgot that the one is rarely a preventive to the other. She did the best that she could do. In her straightforward way she wrote that hasty letter summoning Lady Jane; Lucy meanwhile remaining ignorant of the discovery and its results. Lucy had enough on her heart just then, if not on her hands, in seeking fresh cause for her new jealousy.
It was not an ordinary evening at ordinary seaside gala-rooms, but a fete for which the rooms had for once been lent, and to which every one of note had flocked, not only of the seaside visitors, but of the local society. Much had been made of it; and the arrangements were of that complete nature not often seen. You may be very sure the ladies’ toilettes equalled the rest in attraction.
Lady Oakburn and Lucy arrived late. So late indeed that Miss Helen Vaughan was saying to herself they certainly would not come at all. The little Earl of Oakburn was with them. The little earl was indulged a great deal more than was good for him, especially by Lucy, and his mamma had yielded to the young gentleman’s demand to “go to the ball,” upon condition that when he had taken a twenty-minutes’ peep at it, he should retire quietly and be conveyed home by Pompey. Their delay in coming to the ball was caused by the anticipated arrival of Lady Jane. Jane had telegraphed to the countess that she was on her road to them, and they had waited to receive her. But it grew late, and she had not come.
As Lucy entered the rooms, her eyes were dazzled for a moment by the blaze of light, and then they were cast around in search of — what? Exactly in search of what she saw, and nothing less; of what her jealous heart had pictured. Whirling in the mazy waltz, to the measured strains of a military band, his arm encircling her waist, his hand clasping hers, his eyes bent upon her with admiration, or what looked like it, his voice lowered to whispered tones, were Frederick Grey and Helen Vaughan. A pang, almost as of death, shot through Lucy’s heart, and she shivered in her excess of pain.
Helen Vaughan looked well. She always did look so. Tall, regal, stately, fair; a fitting companion for the distinguished Frederick Grey — and many were thinking so. But what was her beauty, compared with that of Lucy Chesney? — with her retiring grace, her exquisite features, her pure, damask complexion, her sweet brown eyes? Both were dressed in white; robes soft, flowing, fleecy as a cloud. Miss Vaughan displayed an elaborate set of ornaments, emeralds set in much gold; Lucy, in better taste, wore only pearls. Both looked very, very beautiful, and the room thought so. Helen Vaughan was praised in words, but a murmur of hushed admiration followed in Lucy Chesney’s wake.
The waltz was over, and Frederick Grey made his way to Lucy. She affected not to see him. Her head was turned from him, and she was talking volubly to Fanny Darlington. He had to touch her at length to obtain attention.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she coldly said. “Good evening.”
“How late you are, Lucy! The dance for which you were engaged to me is over.”
“I supposed it wo
uld be,” she said in her bitter resentment. “I told you at the time I promised that it was more than I should probably be able to perform.”
“You will dance the next with me. I think it is the Lancers.”
Was she deaf? She made no reply, and her head was again turned from him. At that moment, a gentleman was brought up and introduced to her; a little man who looked as if he had not two ideas in his head, with an eye-glass stuck artistically in his eye, and his sandy hair parted down the middle. She did not catch his name; it was Viscount Somebody, one of the county notabilities; but she put her hand within his arm when he solicited the honour of it for the forthcoming quadrille, and was moving away with him.
Mr. Frederick Grey’s blood boiled up, dyeing his brow crimson. He laid his hand on Lucy’s arm to detain her.
“I asked you first, Lucy.”
She recoiled from the touch. “I beg your pardon, did you speak to me?”
“I asked you for this quadrille. I consider you engaged to me for it.”
“If you are anxious to dance, there are plenty of partners” — and her tone stung him with its cold indifference. “Miss Lake, Miss Vaughan, Miss Darlington — they are all waiting for you. Pray choose one of them.”
She moved away in her haughty pride. But every pulse in her body was throbbing with pain, every fibre of her heart was sick with love — love for Frederick Grey.
His face flushed with anger, and he stood still for a moment, possibly undecided whether to make a scene and pull the little viscount’s nose, or to let it alone. Then he went straight up to Helen Vaughan and asked her for the quadrille. They took their places, vis-a-vis, as it happened, to Lucy and the viscount.
Lady Grey was seated between the Countess of Oakburn and Mrs. Delcie. The latter, an inveterate busybody, one of those wretched people who can never let any one else be at peace, her eyes sharp as a needle, her brain active as only a mischief-maker’s can be, 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 at Seaford. Her heart leaped 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 to talk to her, and there was an empressement 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, and sat down by Lady Oakburn. The seat next to 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 tones 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 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 nothing more to him. 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 never suspected that it was changing the manners of Lucy Chesney towards him. In the days that had elapsed since her arrival at Seaford, he had been at times greatly pained by her behaviour. He had set it down hitherto to some unaccountable caprice: but he now 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 deliberately turned and engaged yourself to that little puppy, who is not worth a thought. Will you dance the next with me?”
“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 towards me.”
“You may think so if you please.” —
“It looks very like caprice, Lucy.”
“Caprice? Oh yes, that is it, no doubt. It is caprice.”
“Once for all,” he rejoined quite savagely, “will you dance with me or not, 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,” said the child. “Pompey’s come, and I am going without being naughty, because I promised I would.”
“There’s my darling Frank,” said Lucy, bending over him. “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’s face was turned to her son. She had beckoned 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 one 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. Conscious of that other love so deeply seated in his heart, he could afford to joke at this. But he caught the anxious look in his mother’s eyes.
“You would not like her for a daughter-in-law?” he breathed, laughing still.
“I confess that 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 — and that 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 they whirled round 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 that the general has consented.”
“When did she say that?”
“This evening. She was talking to me and Lady Lucy Chesney.” A change came over his features. Was this the secret of Lucy’s inexplicable conduct — 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, changed to earnestness.
“Miss Darlington, will you allow me to remind you — as I most certainly shall Mrs. Delcie — that to speak of Miss Vaughan, or of any other young lady, in this way, is v
ery 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 to him. At its conclusion he looked round for Lucy and could not see her.
Lucy Chesney had left the garish rooms, which accorded ill with her aching heart. In a corner of the terrace, shaded from observation by clustering trees, she stood, leaning over the rails and gazing upon the sloping gardens beneath, lying so cold and still in the summer’s night. Cold and still was her own face; cold and still her unhappy heart: its pulses felt as if frozen to stone; its life-blood to have left it. The waltz was over; she could hear that; and she pictured him with her happy rival, whispering 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 and merriment came from the rooms; the strains of music again floated on the air; fragrant flowers, giving forth their perfume, surrounded her: things all pleasant in themselves, but grating just now on Lucy’s heart.
What had become of the old bliss that had made her days seem as a dream of Eden? It had 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 seek attractive men? — ay, and men who are not attractive? Perhaps she hoped to win him; perhaps she only thought to while away her idle hours. However it might have been, it brought to Lucy Chesney fruits that seemed bitter as the Dead-Sea fruit. 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 in pain, her forehead was pressed upon the cold iron of the rails, as if its chill could soothe the throbbing pulse 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.