"Why should our garments, made to hideOur parents' shame, provoke our pride?Let me be dressed fine as I will,Flies, flowers, and moths, exceed me still."
"Why should our garments, made to hideOur parents' shame, provoke our pride?Let me be dressed fine as I will,Flies, flowers, and moths, exceed me still."
"That's a very ugly verse, if you will permit me to say so, Penelope," remarked my father, and then he dragged me down to sit on his knee.
He was wonderfully like his old self, and yet there was an extraordinary change in him. He used to be—at least the dream-father I had thought of all these years used to be—a very calm, self-contained man, never put out nor wanting in self-possession. But now he started at intervals and had an anxious, almost nervous manner. Aunt Penelope would not allow me to sit long on my father's knee.
"You forget, Heather, that you are not a child," she said. "Jump up and attend to the Major's comforts. I do not forget, Major, how particular you used to be about your toast. You were an awful fidget when you were a young man."
"Ha! ha!" said my father. "Ha! ha! And I am an awful fidget still, Pen, an awful fidget. But Heather makes good toast; she's a fine girl—that is, she will be, when I have togged her up a bit."
Here he winked at me, and Aunt Penelope turned aside as though she could scarcely bear the sight. After tea, to my infinite disgust, I was requested to leave the room. I went up to my tiny room, and, to judge from the rise and fall of two voices, an animated discussion was going on downstairs. At the end of half an hour Aunt Penelope called to me to come down. As I entered the room the parrot said, "Stop knocking at the door!" and my father remarked:
"I wonder, Penelope, you don't choke that bird!" Aunt Penelope turned to me with tears in her eyes.
"Heather, your father wishes you to join him in London at once. He has arranged, however, that you shall spend a certain portion of each year with me."
"Yes," remarked my father, "the dull time in the autumn. You shall always have her back then—that is, until she marries a duke or someone worthy of her."
"Am I really to go with you, Daddy?" I asked. "Really and truly?"
"Not to come with me to-night, pretty pet," he answered, pinching my cheek as he spoke. "I must find a habitation worthy of my little girl. But early next week your aunt—your kind aunt—will see you into the train and I will meet you at the terminus, and then, heigho! for a new life!"
I could not help laughing with glee, and then I was sorry, for Aunt Penelope had been as kind as kind could be after her fashion, and I did wrong not to feel some regret at leaving her. But when a girl has only her father, and that father has been away for ten long years, surely she is to be excused for wishing to be with him again.
Aunt Penelope hardly spoke at all after my father left. What her thoughts were I could not define; I am afraid, too, I did not try to guess them. But early next morning she began to make preparations for my departure. The little trunks which had accompanied me to Hill View were placed in the centre of my room, and Aunt Penelope put my very modest wardrobe into them. She laid between my nice, clean, fresh linen some bunches of home-grown lavender.
"You will think of me when you smell this fragrant perfume, Heather," she said; and I thought I saw something of a suspicion of tears in her eyes. I sprang to her then, and flung my arms round her neck, and said:
"Oh, I do want to go, and yet I also want to stay. Can't you understand, Aunt Penelope?"
"No, I cannot," she replied, pulling my hands away almost roughly; "and, what is more, I dislike silly, nonsensical speeches. No one can wish to do two things directly opposite at the same time. Now, count out your handkerchiefs. I bought you six new ones for your last birthday, and you had before then, how many?"
I am afraid I forgot. I am afraid I tried Aunt Penelope very much; but, after all, her time of suffering was to be short, for that very evening there came a telegram from father, desiring Aunt Penelope to send me up to London by the twelve o'clock train the following day.
"I will meet Heather at Victoria," he said.
So the next day I left Hill View, and kissed Aunt Penelope when I went, and very nearly kissed the parrot, and shook hands quite warmly with the reigning Jonas, and Aunt Penelope saw me off at the station, and I was as glad to go as I had been sorry to come. Thus I shut away the old life, and turned to face the new.
I had not been half an hour in the carriage before, looking up, I saw the kind eyes of a very beautiful lady fixed on mine. I had been so absorbed with different things that I had not noticed her until that moment. She bent towards me, and said:
"I think I cannot be mistaken, surely your name is Heather Grayson?"
"Yes," I answered.
"And you are going to meet your father, Major Grayson?"
"How do you know?" I said.
"Well, it so happens that I am going up to town to meet both him and my husband. It is long years since I have seen you; but you are not greatly altered. Do you remember the day when you went to the railway station at Cherton, and asked for a person called Anastasia, and my husband and I spoke to you?"
"Oh, are you indeed Lady Carrington?" I asked.
"Yes, I am; and I am going to town to meet your father and Sir John. You were a very little girl when I had the pleasure of last speaking to you; now you are a young woman."
"Yes," I replied. Then I added, looking her full in the face, "I suppose I am quite grown-up; I am eighteen."
"Do you mind telling me, Miss Grayson, if you are going to live with your father?"
"I think so," I replied.
She looked very thoughtful. After a minute she said:
"You can confide in me or not, Miss Grayson. I ask for no confidences on your part that you are not willing to give, and if you would rather not tell me, I will not press you."
"What do you want to say?" I asked.
"Have you any idea why you have been separated from your father for ten long years?"
"My father was in India," I replied, "and Aunt Penelope says that India is not thought good for little girls. I liked it immensely when I was there, but Aunt Penelope says it injures them in some sort of fashion. Of course, I cannot tell how or why."
"And that is all you really know?"
"There is nothing else to know," I replied.
She was silent, leaning back against her cushions. Just as we were reaching Victoria she bent forward again, and said:
"Heather—for I must call you by that name—I have known your father for years, and whatever the world may do, I, for one, will never forsake him, nor will my dear husband. I have also known your mother, although she died many years ago. For these reasons I want to be good to you, their only child. So, Heather, if you happen to be in trouble, will you come to me? My address is 15a, Princes Gate. I am at home most mornings, and at all times a letter written to that address will find me. Ah! here we are, and I see your father and—and my husband." She abruptly took my hand and squeezed it.
"Remember what I have said to you," was her next remark, "and keep the knowledge that I mean to be your friend to yourself."
The train drew up at the platform. Father clasped me in his arms. He introduced me to Sir John Carrington, who laughed and said: "Oh, what a changed Heather!" and then my father spoke to Lady Carrington, who began to talk to him at once in a very earnest, low voice. I heard her say:
"Where are you taking her?" but I could not hear my father's reply.
Then the Carringtons drove off in their beautiful motor-car, and father and I stepped into a brougham, a private one, very nicely appointed, my luggage—such very simple luggage—was placed on the roof, and we were away together.
"Now I want Anastasia," I said.
"We'll find her if we can," said father. "You'd like her to be your maid, wouldn't you, Heather?"
"Oh, yes," I answered. "I did miss her so awfully." And I told father how I had run to the railway station to meet the next train on that terrible day long ago and how Aunt Penelope had followed me.
He laughed, and said I was a rare plucky one, and then we drew up before a grand hotel and entered side by side. We were shown immediately into a private sitting-room, which had two bedrooms opening out of it, one for father and one for me. Father said:
"Heather, I mean to show you life as it is, and to-night we are going to the theatre. We shall meet a friend of mine there—a very charming lady, who, I know, will be interested in you, and I want you to be interested in her too, as she is a great friend of mine."
"But I only want you to be great friends with me," I said.
Father laughed at this, got a little red, and turned the conversation.
"What dress have you for the theatre?" he asked.
"I don't think I have any," I said. "I don't possess any evening dress."
"But that won't do," he replied. "What is the hour? We really haven't an instant to lose."
He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"We can manage it," he said. He spoke down a tube, and presently was told that his carriage awaited him.
"Come, Heather, come," he said. "You must be togged up properly for to-night."
After my very quiet life at Hill View this complete change made me so excited that I scarcely knew how to contain myself.
We got into the brougham and drove to a smart shop, where fortunately a pretty dress of soft black was able to be procured. This was paid for and put into a box, and we returned to the hotel, but not before father had bought me also some lilies of the valley to wear with the dress.
I went up to our sitting-room alone, for he was busy talking to a lady who seemed to have the charge of a certain department downstairs, the result of which was that after tea a very fashionable hairdresser arrived, who arranged my thick dark hair in the latest and most becoming fashion, and who even helped me to get into my black dress. When I joined father my eyes were shining and my cheeks were bright with colour.
"Oh, what fun this is!" I said.
"Yes, isn't it?" he answered. "Where are your flowers?"
I had put them on, but he did not like the way I had arranged them, so he settled them himself in a more becoming manner, and then he slipped a single string of pearls round my white throat and showed me—lying on a chair near by—a most lovely, dainty opera cloak, all made in pink and white, which suited me just perfectly.
"Now, we'll have some dinner, and then we'll be off," he said. "Lady Helen Dalrymple will admire you to-night, Heather, and I want her to."
Who was Lady Helen Dalrymple?
It certainly was a wonderful night. Lady Helen Dalrymple had placed her box at the theatre at our disposal. She was a tall and slender woman, dressed in the extreme height of a fashion which I had never even dreamed about. Her cheeks had a wonderful colour in them, which was at once soft and vivid. Her lips were red and her eyes exceedingly dark. She greeted me with greatempressement; her voice was high-pitched, and I cannot say that it impressed me agreeably.
"Welcome, welcome, my dear Heather," she said, and then she invited me to seat myself on the front chair near her own, whereas father sat behind at the back of the box.
The play began, and to me it was a peep into fairy land. I had never seen a play before, but, of course, I had read about plays and great actors and actresses, and this one—As You Like It—took my breath away. I could scarcely restrain my rapture as the different scenes flitted before my eyes, and as the characters—all real to me—fitted their respective parts. But in the midst of my delight Lady Helen bent towards me and said:
"Don't the footlights dazzle your eyes a little, child? Would you not prefer to take this chair and let your father come to the front of the box?"
Now, my eyes were quite strong, and the footlights did not dazzle them in the very least, but I slipped back into the other seat, and, after that, if the truth must be known, I only got little glimpses of the play from time to time. Lady Helen and father, instead of being in raptures over the performance, kept up a running fire of whispered talk together, not one word of which could I catch, nor, indeed, did I want to—so absorbingly anxious was I to follow the story of Rosalind in the Forest of Arden.
When at last the performance was over, father suggested that we should all go to the Savoy Hotel for supper, where, accordingly, we went. But once again, although there was a very nice table reserved for us, father and Lady Helen did all the talking, and I was left in the cold. I looked around me, and for the first time had a distinct sense of home-sickness for the very quiet little house I had left. By this time Aunt Penelope would be sound asleep in bed, and Buttons would have gone to his rest in the attic, and the parrot would have ceased to say "Stop knocking at the door!" I was not accustomed to be up so late, and I suddenly found myself yawning.
Lady Helen fixed her bright eyes on my face.
"Tired, Heather?" she asked.
I had an instinctive sort of feeling that she ought not to call me Heather, and started back a little when she spoke.
"Oh, you need not be shocked, Heather," said my father. "Lady Helen is such a very great friend of mine that you ought to be only too proud when she addresses you by your Christian name."
"I shall have a great deal to do with you in future, my dear," said Lady Helen, and then she looked at father, and they both laughed.
"The very first thing I want you to see about, kind Lady Helen," said father, in his most chivalrous manner, "is this poor, sweet child's wardrobe. She wants simply everything. Will you take her to the shops to-morrow and order for her just what she requires?"
Lady Helen smiled and nodded.
"We shall be in time to have her presented." Lady Helen bent her face towards father's and whispered something. He turned very white.
"Never mind," he said; "I always thought that presentation business was a great waste of time, and I am quite sure that we shall do well for little Heather without it."
"I am so tired," I could not help saying.
"Then home we'll go, my girl. Lady Helen, I will call early to-morrow and bring Heather with me, if I may. Whatever happens, she must be properly dressed."
"I shall be ready to receive you, Major, at eleven o'clock," said Lady Helen, and then she touched my hand coldly and indifferently, but smiled with her brilliant eyes at my father. Her motor-car was waiting for her; she was whirled away, and we drove back in our brougham to the hotel.
"Well, Heather," said my father, "what a wonderful day this must have been for you. Tell me how you felt about everything. You used to be such an outspoken little child. Didn't you just love the play, eh?"
"I loved the beginning of it," I said.
"You naughty girl! You mean to say you didn't like the end—all that part about Rosalind when she comes on the stage as a boy?"
"I could not see it, father—I could only see the back of your head; and oh, father, your head is getting very bald, but the back of Lady Helen's head isn't bald at all—it is covered with thick, thick hair, which goes out very wide at the sides and comes down low on her neck."
"It's my belief she wears a wig, Heather," said my father, bending towards me. "But we won't repeat it, will we, darling? So she and I took up all your view, poor little girl! Well, we did it in thoughtlessness."
"I don't think she did," I answered stoutly "I think she wanted to talk to you."
"She'll have plenty of time for that in the future," he said; "but tell me now, before we get to the hotel, what do you think of her ladyship? She's a very smart-looking woman—eh?"
"I don't know what that means, father, but I don't like her at all."
"You don't like her—why, child?"
"I can't say; except that I don't."
"Oh, you mustn't give way to silly fancies," said my father. "She's a very fine woman. You oughtn't to turn against her, my dear Heather."
"Do you like her, father?" I asked, nestling up to him and slipping my hand into his.
"Awfully, my dear child; she's my very dearest friend."
"Oh! not dearer than I am?" I said, my heart beating hard.
He made no reply to this, and my heart continued to beat a great deal faster than was good for it.
By and by I went to bed. I was very, very tired, so tired that the strange room, with its beautiful furniture, made little or no impression on me. The very instant I laid my head on the pillow I was far away in the land of dreams. Once more I was back with Aunt Penelope, once more the parrot screamed, "Stop knocking at the door!" once more Jonas broke some crockery and wept over his misdeeds, and once more Aunt Penelope forgave him and said that she would not send him away without a character this time. Then, in my dreams, the scene changed, and I was no longer in the quiet peace of the country, but in the bustle and excitement of London. Father was with me. Yes, after all the long years, father was with me again. How I had mourned for him—how I had cried out my baby heart for him—how glad I was to feel that I was close to him once more!
By his side was Lady Helen Dalrymple, and I did not like Lady Helen. She seemed to push herself between father and me, and when at last I awoke with the morning sun shining into my room, I found myself saying to father, as I had said to him in reality the night before, "Lady Helen is not dearer than I am?" and once again, as on the night before, father made no reply of any sort.
I was awakened by a nice-looking maid, who was evidently the maid in attendance on that special floor of the hotel, bringing me some tea and some crisp toast. I was thirsty, and the excitement of the night before had not yet subsided. I munched my toast and drank my tea, and then, when the maid asked me if I would like a hot bath in my room, I said "Yes." This luxury was brought to me, and I enjoyed it very much. I had to dress once again in the clothes that father thought so shabby, the neat little brown frock—"snuff-coloured," he was pleased to call it—the little frock, made after a bygone pattern, which just reached to my slender ankles and revealed pretty brown stockings to match and little brown shoes; for Aunt Penelope—badly as she was supposed to dress me—was very particular where these things were concerned. She always gave me proper etceteras for my dress. She expected the etceteras and the dress to last for a very long time, and to be most carefully looked after, and not on any account whatever to be used except for high days and holidays. But she had sufficient natural taste to make me wear brown ribbon and a brown hat and brown shoes and stockings to match my brown frock.
I went down to breakfast in this apparel and found father waiting for me in the private sitting-room which he had ordered in the Westminster hotel. He came forward at once when I appeared, thrusting as he did so two or three open papers into his coat pocket.
"Well, little girl," he said, "and how are you? Now, if I were an Irishman, I'd say, 'The top of the morning to you, bedad!' but being only a poor, broken-down English soldier, I must wish you the best of good days, my dear, and I do trust, my Heather, that this will prove a very good day for you, indeed."
As father spoke he rang a bell, and when the waiter appeared he orderedtable d'hôtebreakfast, which the man hastened to supply. As we were seated round the board which seemed to me to groan with the luxuries not only of that season, but of every season since cooking came into vogue, father remarked, as he helped himself to a devilled kidney, that really, all things considered, English cooking wasnotto be despised.
"Oh, but it's delicious!" I cried—"at least," I added, "the cooking at a hotel like this is too delicious for anything."
"You dear little mite!" said father, smiling into my eyes. "And how did Auntie Pen serve you, darling? What did she give you morning, noon, and night?"
I laughed.
"Aunt Penelope believed in plain food," I said.
"Trust her for that," remarked my father. "I could see at an eye's glance that she was the sort of old lady who'd starve the young."
"Oh, no," I answered; "you are quite mistaken. Aunt Penelope never starved me and was never unkind to me. I love her very dearly, and I must ask you, father, please, not to speak against her to me."
"Well, I won't, child; I admire loyalty in others. Now then, leave those kidneys and bacon alone. Have some cold tongue. What! you have had enough? Have a kipper, then. No? What a small appetite my little girl has got! At least have some bread and butter and marmalade. No again? Dear, dear—why, the sky must be going to fall! Well, I'll tell you what—we'll have some fruit."
"Oh, dad, I should like that," I said.
"Your bones are younger than mine, child," remarked the Major; "you must press that bell. Ah! here comes James. James, the very ripest melon you can procure; if you haven't it in the hotel, send out for it. Let us have it here with some powdered ginger and white sugar in less than ten minutes."
"Yes, sir," answered the man. He bowed respectfully and withdrew.
"What are you staring at, Heather?" asked my father.
"You called that man James," I said. "Is that his name?"
"Bless you, child, I don't know from Adam what his name is. I generally call all waiters 'James' when I'm in England; most of them are James, so that name as a rule hits the nail on the head. In Germany Fritz is supposed to be the word to say. But now, what are you thinking of? Oh, my little darling, it's I who am glad to have you back!"
I left the table, and when James—whose real name I afterwards heard was Edgar—came back, he found me throttling father's neck and pressing my cheek against his.
"Where's the charm I gave you, Heather? I trust you have it safe."
I pointed with great pride to where it reposed on a little chain which held my tiny watch.
"By Jove," said father, "you are a good child to have kept it so long. It will bring you luck—I told you it was a lucky stone. It was about to be placed on the tomb of the prophet Mahomet when I came across it and rescued it, but it was placed before then on many other sacred shrines. It will bring you luck, little Heather. But now, in the name of fortune, tell me who gave you this gold watch?"
"Aunt Pen gave it to me," I said. "She gave it to me my last birthday; she said it had belonged to my mother, but that she had taken it after mother's death. She said she knew that mother would wish me to have it—which, of course, is the case. I love it and I love the little gold chain, and I love the charm, father."
"The charm is the most valuable of all, for it brings luck," said my father. "Now, sit down and enjoy your melon."
I don't think I had ever tasted an English melon before, and this one was certainly in superb condition. I rejoiced in its cool freshness and ate two or three slices, while father watched me, a pleased smile round his lips.
"I am going to take you to Lady Helen this morning, Heather."
"Yes, father," I answered, and I put down my last piece of melon, feeling that my appetite for the delicious fruit had suddenly faded.
"Why don't you finish your fruit, child?"
"I have had enough," I said.
"That's a bad habit," said my father, "besides being bad form. Well-bred girls invariably finish what is put on their plates; I want you to be well-bred, my dear. You'll have so much to do with Lady Helen in the future that you must take advantage of a connection of that sort. Besides, being your father's daughter, it also behoves you to act as a lady."
"I hope I shall always act as a lady," I said, and I felt my cheeks growing crimson and a feeling of hatred rising within me towards Lady Helen; "but if acting as a lady," I continued, "means eating more than is good for you, I don't see it, father, and I may as well tell you so first as last."
"Bless you, child," said father, "bless you! I don't want to annoy you. Now, I'll tell you what your day is to be. Lady Helen will take you and get you measured for some smart dresses, and then you are to lunch at the Carringtons. Lady Carrington has been kind enough to send round this morning to invite you. She and Sir John are staying at their very smart house at Prince's Gate, Kensington. Lady Helen will put you down there in her motor, and then she and I will call for you later in the day. You will enjoy being with Lady Carrington. She is the sort of woman you ought to cultivate."
"Lady Carrington used to live not far from Hill View," I said. "Once I met her and she—she was going to be kind to me, when Aunt Penelope stepped in and prevented it."
"Eh, dear," said my father, "now what was that? Tell me that story."
I did not like to, but he insisted. I described in as few words as possible my agony of mind after parting with him, and then my determination to find Anastasia, who, according to his own saying, was to come by the next train. I told him once again how I ran away and how I reached the railway station, and how the train came in and Lady Carrington spoke to me, as also did Sir John, but there was no Anastasia, and then Aunt Penelope came up, and—and—I remembered no more.
"You were a troublesome little mite that day," said my father, kissing me as he spoke, and pinching my cheek. "Well do I recall the frenzy your poor aunt was in, and the telegrams and messages that came for me; well do I recollect the hunt I had for Anastasia, and how at last I found her and brought her to see you, and how you quieted down when she sat by your bedside. Well do I remember how often I sat there, too."
"I remember it, too," I said, "only very dimly, just like a far-off dream. But, father, dear father, why didn't Anastasia stay?"
"Your aunt would not have her, child."
"And why didn't you stay? Why did you come when I could not recognise you and keep away when I could?"
"Noblesse oblige," was his answer, and he hung his head a little and looked depressed.
But just then there came a rustling, cheerful sound in the passage outside, and Lady Helen, her dress as gorgeous as it was the night before, with a veryoutrépicture hat, fastened at one side of her head, and with her eyes as bright as two stars, entered the room. She floated rather than walked up to father's side, took his two hands, then dropped them, and said, in her high-pitched, very staccato voice:
"How do you do, Major? You see, I could not wait, but have come for the dear littleingénue. I am quite ready to take you off, Heather, and to supply you with the very prettiest clothes. Your father has given mecarte blancheto do as I please—is not that so, Major?"
"Yes," answered my father, bowing most gallantly and looking like the very essence of the finest gentleman in the land. "I shall be glad to leave Heather in such good hands. You will see that she is simply dressed, and—oh, I could not leave the matter in better hands. By the way, Lady Helen, I have had a letter this morning from Lady Carrington; she wants the child to lunch with her. Will you add to your many acts of goodness by dropping her at Prince's Gate not later than one o'clock?"
"Certainly," said Lady Helen.
"I shall have lunch ready for you, dear friend," said my father, "at a quarter past one precisely at the Savoy."
"Ah, how quite too sweet!" said Lady Helen. She gave the tips of her fingers to father, who kissed them lightly, and then she desired me to fly upstairs and put on my hat and jacket. When I came down again, dressed to go out, I found Lady Helen and father standing close together and talking in low, impressive tones. The moment I entered the room, however, they sprang apart, and father said:
"Ah, here we are—here we are! Now, my little Heather, keep up that youthful expression; it is vastly becoming. Even Lady Helen cannot give you the look of youth, which is so charming, but she can bestow on you the air of fashion, which is indispensable."
Father conducted us downstairs and opened the door of the luxurious motor-car. Lady Helen requested me to step in first, and then she followed. A direction was given to the chauffeur, the door was shut behind us, father bowed, and stood with his bare, somewhat bald head in the street. The last glimpse I had of him he was smiling and looking quite radiant; then we turned a corner and he was lost to view.
"Well, and what do you think of it all?" said Lady Helen. "Is the little bird in its nest beginning to say, 'Cheep, cheep'? Is it feeling hungry and wanting to see the world?"
"All places are the world," I answered, somewhat sententiously.
"For goodness' sake, child," said Lady Helen, "don't talk in that prim fashion! Whatever you are in the future, don't put on airs to me. You are about the most ignorant little creature I ever came across—it will be my pleasure to form and mould you, and to bring you at last to that state of perfection which alone is considered befitting to the modern girl. My dear, I mean to be very good to you."
"That is, I suppose, because you are so fond of father," I said.
She coloured a little, and the hand which she had laid for a moment lightly on my hand was snatched away.
"That kind of remark is terriblyoutré," she said; "but I shall soon correct all that, my dear. You won't know yourself in one month from the present time. Child of nature, indeed! You will be much more likely to be the child of art. But dress is the great accessory. Before we begin to form style and manner we must be dressed to suit our part in this world's mummer show."
The car drew up before a large and fashionable shop. Lady Helen and I entered. Lady Helen did all the talking, and many bales of wonderful goods, glistening and shining in the beautiful sun, were brought forward for her inspection. Lady Helen chose afternoon dresses, morning dresses, evening dresses; she chose these things by the half-dozen. I tried to expostulate, and to say they would never be worn out; Lady Helen's remark was that they would scarcely drag me through the season. Then I pleaded father's poverty; I whispered to Lady Helen: "Father cannot afford them."
She looked at me out of her quizzical dark eyes and, laying her hand on my shoulder, said:
"You may be quite sure of one thing, little girl—that I won't allow your father to run into unnecessary expense."
I began to be sick of dresses. I found myself treated as a little nobody, I was twisted right way front, and wrong way back. I was made to look over my right shoulder at my own reflection in a long mirror; I was desired to stoop and to stand upright; I was given a succession of mirrors to look through; I got deadly tired of my own face.
When the choosing of the dresses had come to an end there were stockings and shoes and boots to be purchased, and one or two very dainty little jackets, and then there was a wealth of lovely chinchilla fur, and a little toque to match, and afterwards hats—hats to match every costume; in addition to which there was a very big white hat with a huge ostrich plume, and a black hat with a plume nearly as big. Gloves were bestowed upon me by the dozen. I felt giddy, and could scarcely at last take the slightest interest in my own wardrobe. Suddenly Lady Helen looked at her watch, uttered an exclamation, and said:
"Oh, dear me! It is ten minutes past one! What am I to do? I must not fail your father at the Savoy. Do you think, child, if I put you into a hansom, you could drive to the house at Prince's Gate? I would give all directions to the driver."
"I am sure I could," I answered.
I was not at all afraid of London, knowing nothing of its dangers.
"Then that is much the best thing to do," said Lady Helen. She turned to a man who was a sort of porter at the big shop, and gave him exact orders what he was to do and what he was to say. A hansom was called, the cabman was paid by Lady Helen herself, and at last I was off and alone.
I was glad of this. I had a great sense of relief when that patched-up, faded, and yet still beautiful face was no longer near me. When I reached the house at Prince's Gate I felt rested and refreshed. There was a servant in very smart livery standing in the hall, and of him I ventured to inquire if Lady Carrington were at home.
"Is your name, madam, Miss Heather Grayson?" inquired the man.
I replied at once in the affirmative.
"Then her ladyship is expecting you. I will take you to her."
He moved across a wide and beautifully carpeted hall, knocked at a door at the further end, and, in answer to the words "Come in," flung the door open and announced "Miss Grayson, your ladyship," whereupon I found myself on the threshold of a wonderful and delightfully home-like room. A lady, neither young nor old, had risen as the man appeared. She came eagerly forward—not at all with the eagerness of Lady Helen, but with the eagerness of one who gives a sincere welcome. Her large brown eyes seemed to express the very soul of benevolence.
"I am glad to see you, dear," she said. "How are you? Sit down on this sofa, won't you? You must rest for a minute or two and then I will take you upstairs myself, and you shall wash your hands and brush your hair before lunch. It is nice to see you again, little Heather. Do you know that all the long years you lived at High View I have been wanting, and wanting in vain, to make your acquaintance?"
"Oh, but what can you mean?" I asked, looking into that charming and beautiful face and wondering what the lady was thinking of. "Would not Aunt Penelope let you? Surely you must have known that I should have been only too proud?"
"My dear, we won't discuss what your aunt wished to conceal from you. Now that you have come to live with your father, and now that you are my near neighbour, I hope to see a great deal of you. Your aunt was doubtless right in keeping you a good deal to herself. You see, dear, it's like this. You have been brought up unspotted from the world."
"I like the world," I answered; "I don't think it's a bad place. I am very much interested in London, and I am exceedingly glad to have met you again. Don't you remember, Lady Carrington, how tightly I held your hand on that dreadful day when I was first brought to Aunt Penelope?"
"I shall never forget the pressure of your little hand. But now I see you are quite ready to come upstairs. Come along, then—Sir John may be in at any moment, and he never likes to have his lunch kept waiting."
Lady Carrington's beautiful bedroom was exactly over her sitting-room. There I saw myself in a sort of glow of colour, all lovely and iridescent and charming. There was something remarkable about the room, for it had a strange gift of putting grace—yes, absolute grace—into your clothes. Even my shabby brown frock seemed to be illuminated, and as to my face, it glowed with faint colour, and my eyes became large and bright. I washed my hands and brushed back my soft, dark hair. Then I returned to the drawing-room with Lady Carrington.
A tall man was standing on the hearthrug when I came in. There was a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and he was standing with his back to it, and apparently enjoying the pleasant glow which emanated from its bright depths. There was also a young man in the room who was nearly as tall as the elder gentleman. The younger man had very dark eyes and an olive complexion, straight, rather handsome features, and a strong chin and a good mouth.
"John," said Lady Carrington, "here is little Heather."
"How do you do, my dear—how do you do?" said Sir John.
He came forward as he spoke and wrung my hand, looking into my eyes with a curious mingling of affection and amusement.
"Ah!" he said; "you have grown a good bit since that wonderful night long ago, eh, Heather?"
"I am grown up," I answered, trying to speak proudly, and yet feeling, all of a sudden, quite inclined to cry.
"Yes, of course, you're grown up," responded Sir John, and then his wife introduced the strange gentleman to me. His name was Captain Carbury, but when the Carringtons spoke to him they addressed him as "Vernon." He had a nice, frank manner, and it was he who was deputed to take me into the next room to lunch.
"I have heard a lot about you," he said. "The Carringtons have been quite keen about you. They've been wondering what day you would arrive, and making up all sorts of stories about what you'd look like, and your life in the past and what your life in the future will be."
"Heather, you must not mind Vernon, he always talks nonsense," said Lady Carrington. "Will you have clear or thick soup, dear? We always help ourselves at lunch, it makes the meal so much less formal."
I said I would have thick soup, and Captain Carbury took clear. He looked at me again once or twice, and I thought that his expression was somewhat quizzical, but, all the same, I liked him.
I had made in the course of my life a little gallery of heroes; they were of all sorts and descriptions. In that gallery my father held the foremost place, he was the soldierpar excellence, the hero above all other heroes. Then there were splendid persons whose names were mentioned in history. The great Duke of Marlborough was one, and Sir Walter Raleigh, and King Edward the First, and King Henry the Fourth. And there were minor lights, great men, too, in their way, statesmen and ambassadors and discoverers of new worlds. But besides the historical personages, there were those few whom I knew personally. Amongst these was one of the many "Jonases" who had lived with Aunt Penelope, and who was admitted into a somewhat dark and shadowy part of my gallery.
He was a very ugly Jonas, and slightly—quite slightly—deformed; that is, one shoulder was hitched up a good bit higher than the other. In consequence, he never felt happy or comfortable in buttons, and used to coax me to let him play with me in the garden in the dress he wore at home, which was loose and unwieldy, but, nevertheless, fitted that misshapen, poor shoulder. Aunt Penelope had been very angry with him for not appearing in his buttons costume, and she was not the least concerned when he told her that it made his shoulder ache; she was more determined than ever that he should wear his livery, and never be seen out of it while in her employ. He told me, that poor Buttons, that he would have to wear it, notwithstanding the pain, for the very little money he earned helped his mother at home. It was after he said this, and after I found out that what he said was true, that I put him into my gallery of heroes. He never knew that he was there. He became ill quite suddenly of some sort of inflammation of the spine, and was taken away to the hospital to die. I wanted very badly to see him when I heard he was so ill, but Aunt Penelope would not hear of it. Then I gave her a message for him.
"Tell him, if you are going yourself," I said, "that he is in my gallery of heroes. He will know what it means."
But Aunt Penelope forgot to give the message, so that poor Jonas never knew.
But I had other heroes also. There was a pale young curate, like the celebrated curate in the song, and my heart went out to him—my girlish heart—in full measure, and I put him into my gallery right away; there I gave him a foremost place, although I never spoke to him in my young life, and I don't think, as far as I remember, that his eyes ever met mine.
And now last, but by no means least, I put Captain Carbury into my gallery of heroes, and as I did so I felt my heart beating with pleasure, and I looked full up into my hero's face and smiled at him with such a look of contentment, admiration, and satisfaction that he smiled back again.
"What a nice child you are," he said. "I wonder what you are thinking about?"
Some visitors had now come in and had joined Sir John and Lady Carrington in the drawing-room, and Captain Carbury and I were alone.
"You ought to be very proud," I said, lowering my voice to meet his.
"What about?" he asked.
"Why, this," I answered; "I have done you a tremendous honour."
"Have you, indeed? I can assure you I am pleased and—quite flattered. But do tell me what it is."
"I have just put you, Captain Carbury, into my gallery of heroes."
"You have put me into what?" said the young man. He sat down by my side and lowered his voice. "You have put me into what, Miss Grayson?"
"I have a gallery," I said, "and it is full of heroes. It, of course, lives in my imagination. You have just gone in; those who go in never come out again. There are a great many people in my gallery."
"Oh, but I say, this is interesting, and quite fascinating. Please tell me who else holds that place of vantage."
I mentioned the Duke of Marlborough and Sir Walter Raleigh and a few of the heroes of old, but I said nothing about father, nor about the pale curate, although I did mention Jonas.
"Who is Jonas?" asked Captain Carbury.
"Jonas is no longer in this world. When he was here he was a very great hero."
"But what was he? Army, navy, church, or what?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort," I answered; "he was only our Buttons, and he had one shoulder much higher than the other. I put him in because he bore the pain of his livery so bravely. You see, he had to wear his livery, or Aunt Penelope would have dismissed him. He wore it because he wanted the money to help his mother. I call him a real hero—don't you?"
"I do. And what have I done, may I ask, to be such a privileged person?"
"You haven't done much yet," I answered, "but I think you can do a great deal. For instance, if there was a big war against England, I think you'd fight and probably get your V.C."
"Bless you, child, you talk very nicely. Do you know, I have never met a little girl who talked like this before. I hope we shall see much more of each other, Miss Grayson."
"I hope we shall," I answered.
"I come here a good deal," continued Captain Carbury. "I am a sort of cousin of Lady Carrington's, and she always treats me as though I were her son. There are no people in the world like the Carringtons. By the way, you must be excited, coming up to town just in time for your——"
"In time for what?" I asked.
"Is it possible you don't know?" he said. And he looked full at me with his dark and serious eyes. Just then Lady Carrington came up.
"I am going to take Heather away now for a little time," she said. "Thank you so much, Vernon, for trying to entertain her. We will expect you to dinner this evening—no, I'm afraid Heather won't be here; she will be much occupied for the next few days."
"Well, good-bye, Miss Heather, and thank you so much for putting me into the gallery," said the Captain, and then he left the room.
"He is a very nice man," I said, when he had gone and I was back in the drawing-room. "Do you know many men as nice as Captain Carbury, Lady Carrington?"
"No, I do not," said Lady Carrington, not laughing at my remark, as some women would have done, but pondering over it. "He is one of the best—that is all I can say about him."
I looked across the room. The visitors had gone; Sir John had taken his leave; Captain Carbury was no longer there.
"I want to ask you a question," I said, looking full up into Lady Carrington's face. "Captain Carbury said something to me."
"Yes, dear child. What?"
"He supposed I was glad or excited or something, at being in time for—and then he stopped. Please, Lady Carrington—I see you know it by your eyes—what is it I am in time for?"
"I was going to speak to you about that," said Lady Carrington, with extreme gravity.
"Please do," I said.
She took my hand and pressed it between both her own.
"Sir John and I," she said, "have never been blessed with a little daughter of our very own, so we want you, as much as your father and mother can spare you, to come and be with us. We want you morning, noon, and night—any day or any hour."
"My father andmother!" I said, raising my voice to a shriek. "Lady Carrington, who are you talking about?"
"Of course, dear, she will be only your stepmother."
"Whom do you mean?" I asked. "Please say it out quickly. Is father going to marry? No, it can't be—it shan't be! What is it, please, Lady Carrington—please say it quickly?"
"For many reasons I am sorry, Heather, but we must make the best of things in this world, dear, not the worst. Your father is to be married on Monday next to Lady Helen Dalrymple."
I sat perfectly still after she had spoken. Her news came on me like a mighty shock—I felt quite stunned and cold. At first, too, I did not realise any pain. Then, quickly, and, as it seemed to me, through every avenue in my body at the same moment, pain rushed in—it filled my heart almost to the bursting point. It turned sweetness into bitterness and sunshine into despair. Father! Father! Father! Had I not waited for him, all during the long years? And now!
I felt so distracted that I could not keep still. I stood up and faced Lady Carrington; she put out her hand to touch me—I pushed her hand away. I began to pace up and down the floor. After a few minutes Lady Carrington followed me. Then I turned to her, almost like a little savage. I said:
"Is there anywhere in this big, grand, horrid house where I can be quite alone?"
"Yes, Heather, you shall be quite alone in my bedroom," said Lady Carrington.
I had no manners at that moment, no sense of civility.
"I know the way to your bedroom," I said. I dashed upstairs without waiting for her to lead me; I rushed into the room, I turned the key in the lock, and then I flung myself on the floor. I was alone, thank God for that! How I beat out my own terrible suffering, how I fought and fought and fought with the demon who rent me, I can never describe to any mortal. No tears came to my relief. After a time I sat up. I had so far recovered my self-possession that I could at least remain quiet. I went stealthily towards the big looking-glass; I saw my reflection in it, my little pale face, my dark hair in its orderly curls—those curls which even my tempest of grief could scarcely disarrange, my neat, snuff-coloured brown dress—so old-fashioned and therefore none so beloved. That morning I had gone shopping withher—I had allowed her to buy me dresses on dresses, and hats and toques, and muffs, and gloves, and shoes—oh! I would not touch one of her things! I felt at that moment that I could have killed her! To be torn from father, to find him again and then to lose him, that was the crudest stroke of all!
I looked at my wan face in the glass and hoped that I should die soon; that was the only thing left to wish for—to live in such a way that I should die soon. I thought that I might effect this by a course of starvation. I would begin at once. To-day was Thursday—if I ate nothing at all from the present moment until Monday, there was a good chance of my dying on Monday. That would be the best plan.
There came a tap at the room door.
"It is I, dear," said Lady Carrington.
I even hated kind Lady Carrington at that moment. Had she not given me the news? I went unwillingly and slowly towards the door. I unlocked it and she entered.
"That is right," she said, looking at me and suppressing, as she told me afterwards, a shocked exclamation, "you are calmer now, darling."
"I cannot speak of it," I said.
"Dear child, no one wants you to; and I have been arranging with your father that you are to stay with me for the present."
"Oh, I don't want that," I said, a great lump rising in my throat; "I want to be with him while I can have him. There is only between now—this Thursday—until Monday. I'd like to be with him for that little time."
"But you won't, dear Heather. He will be occupied almost entirely with Lady Helen Dalrymple."
"Then it doesn't matter," I said. "Did you say they were downstairs, Lady Carrington?"
"Yes; they are in the drawing-room; they are waiting for you. They asked me to break it to you, and I did my best."
"I am quite ready to—to see them," I said.
When we reached the drawing-room a servant flung open the door. Lady Carrington went first and I followed.
My father was standing with his profile towards me; he was looking at a newspaper, and I think, just for a second, he was rather shy, although I could not be sure. Lady Helen, however, made up for any awkwardness on his part. She rushed at me and clasped me in her arms.
"Dear little daughter!" she said. "Now you know everything; in future you will be my own little daughter. Think what a splendid time we'll have together! Why, I'll take you everywhere—you won't know yourself. Just tell her, Gordon, what a right good time she'll have with me."
"Jove! I should think so," said my father.
I struggled out of her arms. If I had remained in that hateful embrace for another moment I might have slapped her. I flung myself on father's neck, and kissed him many times, and then, all of a sudden, I began to whisper in his ear.
"Eh, eh? What, what?" he said. "Child, you're tickling me. Oh, you want to speak to me alone! Helen, you won't mind?"
"No, dear, I won't mind."
Lady Helen looked at me out of those strange dark eyes of hers. Her face was brimming all over with good humour, but I know she was not pleased with me at that moment. I had repulsed her advances, and now I was taking father away.
"Here is a little room," said Lady Carrington, "you can both have it to yourselves."
She opened a door, and father and I entered. The moment we were alone I ceased to whisper and stood before father, just a little way off, but at the same time so close that he could see me well.
"I have heard the news, Dad," I said.
"Well, and isn't it just rippin'?" he said. "Don't you congratulate me—I, a poor beggar—to get a wife like that, and you—a mother like that!"
"She will never be my mother, father, if you marry her a hundred times."
"Come, come, that is sobourgeoise, that kind of speech is so completely out of date; but Helen will explain to you. Now, what is it you want, little Heather? I'm sure Helen has spent enough money on your little person to satisfy you for one morning."
"Was it her own money she spent?" I asked.
"Gracious, child!" cried my father. "What other money could she spend?"
"Why, yours—I thought it was yours," I said, with a sob.
"Mine!" he said. "I haven't a stiver in the world to bless myself with. But there, I am a rich man for all that. Helen is rich, and what is hers is mine, and she's going to do the right thing by you, Heather—the right thing by you."
"Daddy," I said, very slowly, "I waited for you during all the years while I was growing up, and yesterday I found you again—or rather, I ought to say a few days ago, when you came to see me at Hill View, and now again I have lost you."
"Bourgeoise, bourgeoise," muttered my father; "those words are Penelope's words. She'd be sure to speak to you like that."
"Lady Carrington has asked me to stay here, and I should like to do it," I replied; "I am not going to wear any of the clothesshebought—no, not one, not one! But if you would come to see me to-morrow evening, perhaps we might have one long, last chat together. That is what I really wanted to ask you. Will you promise me, Dad?"
"Dear me, how afflicting!" said my father. "How afflicting and sentimental and unnecessary—and after all I have lived through! I didn't know you'd grow up that sort of child; you were such a jolly little thing when I took you down to your aunt. It's your aunt who has spoilt you. You can stay here, of course, if you prefer this house to the Westminster. Helen won't like it; she has got a box for us at the opera to-night."
"I can't go," I said.
"Very well. She would hate to see a dismal child, and your clothes won't be ready for a day or two—at least, most of them—so perhaps you had better stay here. I'll just go and speak to Lady Carrington."
Father left the room. By and by Lady Carrington came back alone.
"They've gone, dear," she said, "and I have made arrangements with Major Grayson that you are to stay with us during the honeymoon, so that altogether you will be with us for quite a month, my child. Now, during that month I want you to be happy and to make the best of things. Do you hear me?"
"Yes. I think I shall be happy with you. But oh! I have got a blow—I have got a blow!" I said.
Father did not come to see me on Saturday night, although I hoped against hope that he would do so, but, to my great surprise, on Sunday evening he walked in, just as Lady Carrington was preparing to go out to evening service. I had refused to accompany her—I am afraid I made myself unpleasant to my kind friend on that occasion. I was overcome by the shock I had received, and this fresh and most unexpected parting from father, so that I could only centre my thoughts on myself.
Father bustled into the house, and I heard his cheerful voice in the hall.
"Hallo!" he said. "And how is the little woman?"
Lady Carrington dropped her voice to a whisper, and father began to talk in low tones. Then they both approached the room where I was lying on a sofa by the fire. I was feeling cold and chilled, and the little colour I had ever boasted of in my face had completely left me. Now, as I heard steps coming nearer and nearer, my heart beat in a most tumultuous fashion. Then father and Lady Carrington entered the room.
"Heather, here's your father," said my kindest friend. "Sir John and I are going to church, so you will have him quite to yourself. Now, cheer up, dear. By the way, Major Grayson, won't you stay and have supper with us afterwards?"
"Will Carbury be here?" asked my father suddenly.
"Yes, I think so. We asked him to come."
"Then I'd better not—better not, you know." He exchanged glances with Lady Carrington, and I noticed a delicate wave of colour filling her smooth and still girlish cheeks. She went away the next moment, and left father and me alone.
"Well, pussy cat," he said, looking down at me, "what is the meaning of all this rebellion? I didn't know you were such a queer little girl."
"Oh, father!" I said.
"Well, here is father. What does the little one want him to do?"
"Pet me, pet me, pet me," I said, and I gave a great sob between each word.
"Why, Heather, you are as great a baby as ever! Lady Helen says you are the most babyish creature she has ever come across in her life. My word, Heather, if you but knew it, you are in luck to have such a stepmother. I tell you, my child, you are in wonderful luck, for she is downright splendid!"
"Please—please—may I say something?" My voice shook violently.
"Of course you may, little mite."
"Don't let us talk of her to-night. I'll try very hard to be good to-morrow, if you will promise not to speak of her once to-night."
"It's hard on me, for my thoughts are full of her, but I'll endeavour to obey your small Majesty."
Then I sprang into his arms, and cuddled him round the neck, and kissed his cheek over and over again.
"Oh, I am so hungry for your love!" I said.
"Poor mite! You will have two people to love instead—oh! I forgot—'mum's' the word. Now then, Heather, let's look at you. Why, you're a washed-out little ghost of a girl! Even Aunt Penelope would be shocked if she saw you now."
"Never mind Aunt Penelope just for the present," I said. "I have so much to say to you, and this is the very last evening."
"Not a bit of it; there are hundreds of other evenings to follow."
"Oh, no," I said; "this is the very last between you and me, quite to ourselves, Daddy."
"I like to hear you say 'Daddy'—you have such a quaint little voice. Do you know, Heather, that when I was—when I was—"
"When you were what, Daddy?"
"Never mind; I was forgetting myself. I have lived through a great deal since you last saw me, child, since that time when you were so ill at Penelope Despard's."
"Weren't you enjoying yourself during those long years in India, Daddy?"
"Enjoying myself? Bless you, the discipline was too severe." Here my father burst out laughing, and then he unfastened my arms from his neck and put me gently down on the sofa and began to pace the room.
"As a wild beast enjoys himself in a cage, so did I, little Heather; but it's over, thank Heaven, it's over; and—oh, dash it!—I can't speak of it! Heather, how do you like your new clothes?"
"I haven't any new clothes," I answered demurely, "except the little black frock you gave me the night I came to you at the Westminster hotel. I put that on every evening because Lady Carrington wears something pretty at dinner-time."
"But what have you done with all your other clothes?"
"I told you, Daddy, I wouldn't wear them.Shegave them to me."
"Now, look here, Heather, once and for all you must stop this folly. I presume you don't want me to cease to love you. Well, you've got to be good to your stepmother, and you have got to accept the clothes she gives you. She and I are taking a beautiful house in a fashionable part of London and you are to live with us, and she will be nice to you if you will be nice to her—not otherwise, you understand—by no means otherwise. And if I see you nasty to her, or putting on airs, why, I'll give you up. You'll have to take her if you want to keep me, and that's the long and short of it."
I trembled all over; my hero of heroes—was he tumbling from his place in my gallery?
"Promise, child, promise," said my father, brusquely.
"Will it make you happy if I do?" I said.
"Yes. I'll call you my little duck of all girls—I'll love you like anything, but we three must be harmonious. You will stay here until we come back, and on the day we come back you are to be in the new house to meet us, and you are to wear one of your pretty frocks, and you are to do just whatshesays. It's your own fault, Heather, that I have to bring in her name so often. Bless her, though, the jewel she is! My little love, we'll be as happy as the day is long. It's terribly old-fashioned, it's low down, to abuse stepmothers now—don't you understand that, Heather?"
"I don't," I answered. "I suppose I must do what you wish, for I cannot live without you, but if—if—I find itquitepast bearing—may I go back to Aunt Penelope?"
"Bless me, you won't find it past bearing! We need not contemplate such an emergency."
"But, promise me, Daddy darling—if I do find it past bearing, may I go back to Aunt Penelope?"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes—anything to quiet you, child. You are just the most fractious and selfish creature I ever came across. You don't seem to realise for a single minute what anybody else is feeling."
"It's settled, and I will try to be happy," I said.
"That's right. Now, let's talk of all sorts of funny things. I haven't half heard about your different Jonases, nor about the parrot, who would only say, 'Stop knocking at the door!'"
"Daddy," I said, with great earnestness, "may I have Anastasia back? It would give me great, great help if she came back."
"Bless me!" said my father, rubbing his red face, "I must ask her ladyship. I'll see about it; I'll see about it, little woman. Now, then, stand up and let me look at you."
I stood up. I was wearing my snuff-coloured dress, and the electric light and the firelight mingled, fell over a desolate, forlorn, little figure.
"Run upstairs this minute, Heather, and put on one of your pretty frocks. I know for a certainty they haven't gone back, because I told Lady Carrington she was to keep them. Find a servant who can tell you where they are, and put one on, and come down and let me see you in it."
He smiled at me. Surely there never was anyone with such a bewitching smile. You felt that you would cut your heart out to help him when he gave you that smile, that you would lie down at his feet to be trampled on when he looked at you with that expression in his bright blue eyes.
I went upstairs very slowly. Lady Carrington's maid happened to be in, and I said to her, in a forlorn voice:
"I want one of my pretty new frocks. May I have it?"
The woman gave me a lightning glance of approval, and presently I was dressed in softest, palest, shimmering grey, which fell in long folds around my young person. I held it up daintily, and ran downstairs.
"There's my rose in June!" said father, and he came and took me in his arms. He chatted in his old fashion after that, but he went away before Lady Carrington returned from church. She came back, accompanied by Captain Carbury. I was in the drawing-room then, and there was plenty of colour in my cheeks, for father's visit had excited me a great deal. Captain Carbury gave me a wistful glance and drew a chair near mine.
"Do you know what I was thinking of?" he said, suddenly.
"What?" I asked.
"That it would be very nice after the wedding to-morrow——"
I shivered, and clutched my chair to keep myself from falling. I felt his dark eyes fixed on my face.
"After the ceremony to-morrow," he continued, "if you and Lady Carrington and I went to Hampton Court to spend the day. We will go down in my motor-car, come back afterwards and dine in town, and then go to the theatre. What do you think? I know Lady Carrington is quite agreeable."
"Do you want me to go, Captain Carbury?"
"Yes, I want you very much."
"Well, I will do it, if it pleases you," I said.
He looked steadily at me, then he bent forward—he dropped his voice.
"I, too, have a gallery," he said, "in which I place, not my famous heroes, but my famous heroines, and just at this moment, when you gave up your real will to mine and—forgot yourself—I put you in."
"Oh, thank you," I said, and my eyes brimmed with tears.
Captain Carbury went away early, and after he had gone Lady Carrington sat down by my side and began to talk to me.
"You and he are famous friends," she said, "and I am so glad. Perhaps I ought to tell you, however, that Vernon is engaged to a most charming girl. I know he will want you to meet her—they are to be married next summer."
"Oh, I hope she is good enough for him."
"I hope so also. Her name is Lady Dorothy Vinguard. She is beautiful and—and rich—and her people live in a lovely place in Surrey."
Suddenly a memory flashed through my mind.
I asked a question:
"Why did father say he would not meet Captain Carbury to-night at supper?" I said.
Lady Carrington coloured. She got up and poked the fire quite vigorously.
"Why are you getting so red?" I said. "Why would not father meet him?"
"You see, he is an army man," answered Lady Carrington.
"But that has nothing to do with it," I replied. "Father's in the army, too."
"Don't ask so many questions, Heather."
"Has father a reason for not wanting to see him?"
"He may have, dear, but if he has I cannot tell you."
"That means you won't," I replied.
"Very well—I won't."