"I fear you are tired, Lucy," he kindly said, as they drove off.
"Yes, very. I wish I was at home."
She drew her elegant white cloak about her with its silken tassels, gathered herself into the corner of the carriage, and shut her eyes, seemingly intending to go to sleep. Sleep! her heart was beating too wildly for that. But she kept them resolutely closed, making no sign; and never another word was spoken all the way. Sir Karl helped her out: the others had already arrived.
"Good night," she whispered to him, preparing to run up the stairs.
"Good night, Lucy."
But, in spite of Lady Andinnian's efforts to make the best of things and show no sign, a mother's eye could not be deceived; and before Mrs. Cleeve had been many days in the house, she was struck with the underlying aspect of sadness that seemed to pervade Lucy. Her cheerfulness appeared to be often forced; this hidden sadness was real. Unsuspecting Mrs. Cleeve could come to but one conclusion--her daughter's health must be deranged.
"Since when have you not felt well, Lucy?" she asked her confidentially one day, when they were alone in Lucy's little
sitting-room.
Lucy, buried in a reverie, woke up with a start at the question. "I am very well, mamma. Why should you think I am not?"
"Your spirits are unequal, Lucy, and you certainly do not look well; neither do you eat as you ought. My dear, I think--I hope--there must be a cause for it."
"What cause?" returned Lucy, not taking her meaning.