When Aunt Penelope had finished her little meal, I proceeded to get fresh linen from the linen cupboard upstairs, and fresh, clean towels; I also went down to the kitchen and brought up a big can of hot water, and then I proceeded to wash her face and hands and to change her linen and make her bed, and altogether refresh the dear old lady. How I loved doing these things for her! I felt quite happy and my own trouble receded into the background with this employment. When I had done all that was necessary, the doctor, the same who had attended me so often in my childish ailments, came in. He was delighted to see me, and gave me a most hearty welcome.
"Miss Heather," he said, "you are good. Now this is delightful—now I have every hope of having my old friend on her feet once more."
Aunt Penelope gave him one of her grim smiles—she could not smile in any other way if she were to try for a hundred years. The doctor examined her, felt her pulse, took her temperature, said that she was decidedly better, ordered heaps of nourishment, and desired me to follow him downstairs.
"What possessed you to come back, Miss Grayson?" he said, when we found ourselves together in the little drawing-room.
I told him that I had not come back because the news of Aunt Penelope's illness had reached me, but for a quite different reason, and one which I could not divulge, even to him.
"But that is very strange," he said, "for I wrote three days ago to ask your father to send you back immediately. I was quite tired out expecting you and wondering at your silence. I would not tell the dear old lady for fear of disappointing her. Your coming back of your own accord and without hearing anything is really most extraordinary,mostastounding. But, there! you have come, and now it's all right."
"You may be certain, doctor," I replied, "that I will do my utmost for Aunt Penelope, and that she shall want for nothing as long as I can obtain it for her."
"Good girl; you are a good girl, Heather," he replied; "you are doing the right thing, and God will bless you. I may as well tell you that I was exceedingly anxious about your aunt this morning. You see, she had nobody to look after her; that boy did his best, but he couldn't be expected to know, and when I suggested a nurse, or even a charwoman, bless me, child, she nearly ate my head off! She is a troublesome old woman, is your aunt, Miss Heather, but a most worthy soul. Well, it's all right now, and my mind is much relieved."
I went upstairs a few minutes later to find Aunt Penelope sitting up in bed and looking wonderfully fresh and cheerful.
"Now just sit down by me, Heather," she said, "and tell me the news. Why have you come back? I made up my mind that I'd keep my vow and promise to your father not to ask for you, even if I died without seeing you, until August."
"But that was very wrong of you, auntie, and you ought not to be at all proud of yourself for having made such a vow."
"Well, I made it, and I'm the last sort of woman to break my word. But you have come back, so it's all right now. Did you dream about me or anything of that sort?"
"Oh, no," I answered. "I came back, dear auntie—I came back of my own accord."
"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Heather, child, I am not very strong, and you mustn't startle me. You don't mean to say, you don't mean to hint, that you—you aren't happy with your father?"
"I'd be always happy with father," I answered, "always, always. But the fact is, I don't think, Auntie Pen, dear, I don't think I love my stepmother very much."
"Thank the Lord for that!" exclaimed Miss Penelope. "She must be a horror, from all I can gather."
"I don't like her, auntie."
"You ran away, then? Is that what you mean? They'll be coming for you, they'll be trying to get you back; I know their ways, Heather. But now that you are here, you must promise to stay with me until the worst is over; you will promise, won't you? I don't pretend to deny, child, that I have missed you a good bit, yes, a very great deal. I am a proud old woman, but I don't mind owning that I have fretted for you, my child, considerably."
"And I for you," I replied. "I am happy in the old house: I am glad to have returned."
"I am not too weak to learn the truth," said Aunt Penelope. "I have, in my humble opinion, the first right to you, for it was I who trained you and who gave you what little education you possess; therefore I hold that I have a right. What did that woman do, why did you run away from her? As to your father, poor chap—well, of course, he's bound heart and soul to the horrible creature, but that's what comes from doing wrong. Your father did a very bad thing and——"
"Aunt Penelope," I interrupted—I took her hand and held it firmly—"don't—don't tell me to-night."
She looked at me out of her hard, bright eyes, then seemed to collapse into herself, then said slowly—
"Very well, I won't, I won't tell you to-night, that is, if you promise to say why you have returned."
"I will tell you," I answered. "Auntie, Lady Helen's house is the world, and you taught me to despise the world; you taught me not to spend my time and my money on dress and grand things; you taught me not to waste such a short, valuable, precious thing as life. Oh, Aunt Penelope, in that house people do nothing but kill time, and my Daddy is in it—my own Daddy! You know how brisk he used to be, how bright, how determined, but now—something seems to be eating into his heart, and breaking his strength and spirit—and—people have hinted things about him!"
Aunt Penelope nodded her head.
"They're likely to," she answered. "Major Grayson could not expect matters to be otherwise."
"But, auntie, that is one of the hardest things of all. My darling father is not even called Major Grayson—he has to take the name of Dalrymple."
"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Does he dare to be ashamed of his father's honest name?"
"I don't understand," I answered. "But I am called Dalrymple, too—Heather Dalrymple."
"Don't repeat the words again, child; they make a hideous combination."
"Well," I continued, "the house did not please me nor the people who came to it, and I hardly ever saw father, and I lived my own life. Lady Carrington was very kind to me, and I went to her when I could, but my stepmother was impatient, and did not want me to spend my time with her, and she put obstacles in the way, so that I could not see my kind friend very often. Still, I had no idea of deserting father and of going back to you; the thought of returning to you only came to me to-day—to-day, when I was in awful agony. Oh, auntie, dear, I can put it into a few words. I have met—I have met at Lady Carrington's house one——"
"You're in love, child," said Aunt Penelope. "I might have guessed it, it is the way of most women. I had half hoped that you'd escape. I never fell in love—I would not let myself."
"Oh, but if the right man came along, you could not help it," I replied.
"Then you think he is the right man—you have found your Mr. Right?"
"Yes, I have found the one whom I love with all my heart and soul; he is good. You would love him, too—but there's another man——"
"Two! God bless me!" said Aunt Penelope. "In my day a girl thought herself lucky if she found one man to care for her, but two! It doesn't sound proper."
"The other man is rich, and—oh, he's nice, he's awfully nice, only he is old—I won't tell you his name, there is no use—but Lady Helen wanted me to marry the rich old man, and to give up the young man whom I love, and—and father seemed to wish it, too—and somehow, auntie darling, I can't do it—I can't—so I have run away to you."
"Where you will stay," said my aunt, speaking in a firm and cheery voice, "until the Lord wills to show me clearly the right in this matter. You marry an old man whom you don't love, my sister's child exposed to such torture as that!—child, I am glad you came to me, you anyway showed a gleam of common sense."
"And you have taken me in," I answered, "and I'm ever so happy; it is home to be back with you."
Thus ended my first evening with Aunt Penelope. That night I slept again in my little old bed in my tiny chamber, and so kindly do we revert to the old times and to the things of youth that I felt more at home in that little bed and slept sounder there than I had done since I left it. I had gone out into the world, and the world had treated me badly. I was not destined, however, to stay long in peace and quietness at Aunt Penelope's. On the very next day there arrived a letter from my father. I recognised the handwriting, and as I carried Aunt Penelope up her tea and toast and her lightly-boiled fresh egg, I took the letter also, guessing in my heart of hearts what its contents were.
"Here is a letter from father, auntie," I said.
She looked into my face and immediately opened it. She was decidedly on the mend that morning: she said she had slept very well. As I stood by her bedside she calmly read the letter, then she handed it to me; I also read the few words scribbled on it:—
We are in great perplexity and very unhappy, Penelope. My dear wife and I returned unexpectedly from Brighton last night, and found that Heather had been out all day. Her maid was in a distracted state. I am writing to know if by any chance she has gone back to you? I have just been to Carrington's; she is not with them. I think the child would probably go to you; in any case, will you send me a telegram on receipt of this, to say if she is with you or not?Your unhappy brother-in-law,Gordon Grayson.
We are in great perplexity and very unhappy, Penelope. My dear wife and I returned unexpectedly from Brighton last night, and found that Heather had been out all day. Her maid was in a distracted state. I am writing to know if by any chance she has gone back to you? I have just been to Carrington's; she is not with them. I think the child would probably go to you; in any case, will you send me a telegram on receipt of this, to say if she is with you or not?
Your unhappy brother-in-law,
Gordon Grayson.
"What do you mean to do?" I said to Aunt Penelope, as I laid the letter back again on her breakfast tray.
"Leave it to me," she said. "You're but a silly sort of child, and never half know what you ought to be doing. You want wiser heads than your own to guide you."
"But you won't tell him—you won't tell him?" I repeated.
Aunt Penelope made no remark, but began munching her toast with appetite.
"You do cook well, Heather," she said. "Although you are a society girl I can see that you'll never forget the lessons I imparted to you."
"I hope not," I answered.
"I consider you a very sensible girl." Here Aunt Penelope began to attack her egg.
"Really?" I answered.
"Yes, very. You have acted with judgment and forethought; I am pleased with you, I don't attempt to deny it. Now then, what do you say to my telling your father exactly where you are?"
"But, of course, you won't—you could not."
"Don't you bother me about what I won't or I could not do, for I tell you I will do anything in the world that takes my fancy, and my fancy at the present moment is to see you through a difficult pass. I don't trust Gordon Grayson—could not, after what has happened."
"Auntie!Howcan you speak like that!"
"There you go, flying out for no reason at all. Now, please tell me, what sort of person is that young man you care for—I hate to repeat the word love. To 'care for' a man isquitesufficient before marriage; of course, you may do what you like afterwards—anyhow, you care for or love, forsooth! this youth. What is he like?"
"Just splendid," I said. "I have put him into my gallery of heroes."
"Oh, now you are talking rubbish! Is he the sort of man your dear mother, my blessed sister, would have approved of your marrying? Think carefully and tell me the truth."
"I am sure she would," I replied, "for he is honest and tender-hearted, and poor and true, and devoted to me, and I love him with all my heart and soul!"
"Poof, child, poof! You're in love and that's a horrid state for any girl to be in; it's worse in a girl than in a man. You haven't a likeness of him by any chance, have you?"
"No, he never gave me his photograph, but he's very—I mean he is quite handsome."
"You needn't have told me that, for, of course, I know it. He is handsome in your eyes. You have no photograph, however, to prove your words; you are just in love with this youth, and your father wants you to return because he and that grand lady of his intend you to marry the old gentleman with the money. What sort is the old man? Is he in trade, in the butter business, or tobacco, or what?"
"Oh, no, he's a lord," I said feebly.
"Heaven preserve us—a lord! Then if you married him you'd be a countess?"
"I don't know—perhaps I should; I don't want to marry him."
"You blessed child! And he is rich, I suppose?"
"I'm sure he is very rich, but then I don't care about riches."
"Heather, you mustn't keep me the whole day chattering. When a girl begins on the subject of her sweethearts she never stops, and I have plenty of things to attend to. Here's a list of provisions I wrote out early this morning. I want you to go into the town and buy them for me. Don't forget one single thing; go right through the list and buy everything. Here's thirty shillings; you oughtn't to spend anything like all that. But pay for the things down on the nail the minute you have purchased them. Now then, off with you, and I will consider the subject of your sweethearts. Upon my word, to think of a mite like you having two!"
I left Aunt Penelope's room and went out and bought the things she required. She had a troublesome lot of commissions, and they took me some time to execute. When I had done so I returned home again.
"You are to go up to your aunt's room, and as quickly as you can, miss," said Jonas, when I found myself in the little hall.
"Jonas," I said, "several nice things will be sent in from the shops, and I have got a little bird for auntie's tea, and I want you to cook it just beautifully."
"You trust me," said Jonas. "I'll see to that."
He left me, and I went upstairs to Aunt Penelope's room.
"The doctor has been, Heather, and he says you are the finest medicine he ever heard of, and that my chest is much better, and I am practically out of the wood; but here's a telegram from your father."
"Oh!" I said, breathlessly, "has he discovered anything?"
"Read," she answered, gazing at me with her glittering black eyes.
I read the following words:—
Leaving Paddington by the 11.50 train. Hope to be with you about 1.30.Gordon Grayson.
Leaving Paddington by the 11.50 train. Hope to be with you about 1.30.
Gordon Grayson.
"How did he know? Why is he coming?" I asked, my face turning very white.
"He is coming, if you wish to know, Heather, because I asked him to come. And now, you will have the goodness to sit down by me. No, I am not hungry for dinner. I won't touch any food until you know the story I am about to tell you. Sit down where I can see your face, my child. Your father is coming, of course, because I wish it, and now I have something to say to you."
I sat down, feeling just as though my feet were weighted with lead. I was trembling all over. Aunt Penelope looked at me fixedly; she had the best heart in the world, but the expression of her face was a little hard. Her eyes seemed to glitter now as they gazed into mine.
"Aunt Penelope," I said, suddenly, "be prepared for one thing. Whatever you tell me, whatever you believe, and doubtless think you have good cause to believe, I shall never believe, never—if it means anything against my father."
"Did I ask you to believe my story, Heather?"
"No, but you expect me to, all the same," was my reply.
"I expect you to listen, and not to behave like an idiot. Now sit perfectly still and let me begin."
"It doesn't matter, if you don't expect me to believe," I said.
"Hush! I am tired, I have been dangerously ill, and am not at all strong. I must get this thing over, or I'll take to worrying, and then I shall be bad again. Well, now, about your father. You understand, of course, that he left the army?"
I nodded.
"Oh, you take that piece of information very quietly."
"He told me so himself," I said, after a pause. "Of course, I must believe what he tells me himself."
"He told you himself? That's more than I expected Gordon Grayson to do. However, he has done so, and I don't think the worse of him, not by any means the worse, as far as that point is concerned. It hasn't occurred to you, I suppose, my poor little girl, to wonder why a man like your father is no longer in the army, to wonder why every army man will have nothing to do with him, to wonder why he married a woman like Lady Helen Dalrymple, and why she is received in society and he is not?"
"How can you tell?" I asked, opening my lips in astonishment, "you weren't there to see."
"A little bird told me," said Aunt Penelope.
This was her usual fashion of explaining how certain information got to her ears: there was always a "little bird" in it; I knew that bird. I sat very still for a few minutes, then I said, as quietly and patiently as I could—
"Speak."
"It happened," said Aunt Penelope, "in India, and it happened a long time ago—the beginning of it happened before you came to live with me, Heather. Of one thing, at least, I am glad—your poor, sweet mother, my precious sister, was out of it all. She believed in your father as you believe in him; she was spared the terrible knowledge of the other side of his character."
"Oh, hush! don't say such things."
"And don't you talk rubbish. Listen to the plain words of a plain old woman, a woman who, for aught you can tell, may be dying."
"I am sure you are not, auntie; I have come back to help you to get well again."
"I am saying nothing against you, poor child; you are right enough, you do credit to my training. Had you been left to his tender mercies, God only knows what sort of creature you'd have grown into. But now I will begin, continue, and end in as few words as possible. Your father came courting your mother long years ago in a dear little seaside garrison town. He was a young lieutenant then, and was very smart, and had a way with him which I don't think he ever lost."
I thought of my darling father, with his cheerful, bluff manners, with his gay laugh, his merry smile, his ready joke. Even still he had "a way with him," although it must be sadly altered from the time when my mother was young.
"Your mother was a good bit my junior, Heather, and she and I kept a little house together. She was a very pretty girl indeed, and, of course, men admired her. We were pretty well off in those days, the pressure of penury had not come near us; we were orphans, but were left comfortably off. We used to subscribe to all the pleasant things that took place in our little town, and we occupied ourselves also in good works, and I think we were loved very much. Your father came along and got introduced to your mother, and to me, and we both took to him from the first."
"Oh, auntie, did you like him, then?"
"Like him! Of course I did. Heather, he was just the sort of man to beguile young girls to their destruction.
"Well, he cast his spell over your mother, and people began to talk about them both, and I began to get into a rage, for I knew what those soldier lads were when they liked. I knew how easy it would be for him to flirt and make love and ride away. I was determined he should not do that. Your mother could not have borne it. She was so pretty, Heather, and so clinging, and so gentle, and she had just given her whole heart to your father. So one day I asked him, after he had been with her the whole morning, and they had walked together by the seashore, and sat together in the garden, and he had read poetry to her, and she had listened with her heart in her eyes—I said to him, 'Do you know what you are doing?' He stared at me and coloured, and said, 'What?'—and then I said again, 'You must know perfectly well that a girl's heart is a sensitive thing, so just be careful what you are doing with my young sister's heart.' He coloured all over his face, and I never liked him better than when he sprang forward and took my hand and said,
"'Why, Penelope!'—I knew I ought to be shocked, but I did not even mind his calling me Penelope—'Why, Penelope, if I could only believe that I had been fortunate enough to make any impression on your sister's heart, I'd be the happiest man on earth, for I love her, Penelope, better than my own life!' Yes, Heather, I can hear him saying those words just as though it were yesterday, and I was ever so pleased, ever so glad; the delight and joy of that moment come back to me even now. Of course, your father and mother got engaged, and everything was as right as possible. They were married, and soon after their marriage they went to India, and in about a year's time I heard of the birth of their child—of you—Heather. Your mother was very poorly after your birth, and had to be sent to the hills, up to a place called Simla. But even the air of the hills did not do her any good. She pined and pined, and faded and faded, and when you were about five years of age she died."
"I remember aboutafterwards," I said then, "I saw her after she was dead."
"Well, you needn't tell me, the knowledge would be harrowing," said Aunt Penelope. "After your mother's death I wrote to Gordon, proposing to adopt you, and begging of him to send you to me at once. He refused rather shortly, I thought, and said that he preferred you to be near him, and that he knew a family who would keep you in the hills during the hot weather. So the next few years went by. Then, when you were about eight years old I got a letter from your father. He said he was coming back to London, that he wanted to come on special business, and also that he had now changed his mind, and would bring you to me, if I had not changed my mind about having you. Of course I had not, and he brought you, and that was the end of that story. You were left with me and you fared well enough. While your father was in London I saw him several times, and I marked a great change in him, and what I considered a great deterioration of character. He knew the woman he has since made his wife even then, and often spoke of her. She was in society in Calcutta, where his regiment was stationed, and he often met her. He used to mention her in almost every letter he wrote, and I was fairly sick of her name, and also of the name of her brother. I told Gordon so in one of my letters. I said that Lady Helen's brother might be the best man on earth, but that he was nothing at all to me, and that if he wanted to write about him he had better choose another correspondent.
"Then, all of a sudden, without the slightest warning, the blow of blows fell. Your father was arrested on a charge of forgery; he had forged a cheque for a considerable sum of money. Oh, I forget all the particulars, but he had been made secretary to the golf and cricket clubs, and held, so to speak, the bank—in fact, he made away with the money, but he was caught just in time, and was tried by the laws of India, and sentenced to prison—penal servitude, in short. Of course, such a frightful disgrace carried its own consequences. He was cashiered from the army, they would have nothing whatever to do with him. His term of imprisonment was over late last autumn. I often used to wonder what would happen when he was free, and to speculate as to what your feelings would be when you saw him again. I used to make myself miserable about him. Well, you met, as you know, and he carried off everything with a high hand, and insisted on taking you away with him, and insisted further on marrying Lady Helen Dalrymple. It seems she stuck to him when all his other friends deserted him. He has lived through his punishment as far as the law of the land is concerned, but he will never outlive his disgrace, and there isn't a true soldier in the length and breadth of the land who will speak to him. Well, that's his story, and I was obliged to tell you. Now, you can run away and change your dress—oh, I forgot, you have no dress to change into. Well, you can tidy your hair and wash your hands, and by that time we'll be ready for dinner. Now, off with you, and be sure you have your hair well brushed. Good-bye for the present."
I left Aunt Penelope's room. I walked very slowly. My room was next to hers, and the walls between were quite thin; you could almost hear a person talking in the adjoining room. I wanted to be very quiet. I wanted no one to hear me, and yet I could not bear the perfect stillness and the cramped feeling of the tiny room.
I put on my hat, snatched up my gloves and parasol, and ran downstairs. Jonas met me. He looked much excited. He came up to me with his cheeks flushed.
"Why, missie!" he said, "is there anything the matter?"
"No, no; nothing at all, Jonas," I said. "You are preparing Aunt Penelope's dinner, are you not?"
"Yes, missie; that is, as well as I can. I'm not at all sure about the soup, though; I am not certain that it is flavoured right. If you, missie, were to come along into the kitchen and just taste it, why—it would be a rare help, that it would."
I clenched one of my hands tightly together. It was with the utmost difficulty that I could keep down the wild words which were crowding to my lips. But Aunt Penelope, whatever she told me, however awful and cruel her words were, must be looked after, must be tended, must be cared for. Crushing down that defiant, that worldly self which clamoured to assert itself, I followed the boy into the kitchen. I looked up an old receipt book and gave him swift directions.
"You will have dinner all ready," I said, "and if by any chance I am out—if I haven't come in, you will not wait for me, for Aunt Penelope must have her dinner to the minute. You understand, don't you, Jonas?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Heather. Yes, I understand; but"—he looked at me longingly—"there's the telegraphic message, miss," he said.
"Oh, you mean that my father is coming. I'll be back in time to see him. It's all right, Jonas. Don't tell Aunt Penelope that I am out. Take her this soup, when it is ready, and, for Heaven's sake! don't keep me now."
Jonas's round eyes became full of wonder, but I would not glance at them. I must get out. I must go up on the heights above the little town before my father arrived. I must be by myself, whatever happened; I must be quite alone.
It was a hot day. Summer was coming on in great strides. In Aunt Penelope's village the weather was very hot in the summer time. But the air was more or less my native air. I was glad of it. I was glad to feel its soft zephyrs blowing against my cheeks. I soon reached the high part of the town, and then I found myself on the moors. I sat down on a clump of purple heather—the flower after which I was called—and pulled a spray of the blossom and crumpled it between my fingers and watched the little delicate flowers tumbling into my lap. All my life seemed to rise up before me at that moment, and the anguish that I lived through could scarcely be surpassed. Oh, Aunt Penelope, Aunt Penelope! What a dreadful thing you did when you told me that story about my father! Why did you, who kept it to yourself all your days, tell it to me now? Oh, it was not true! I did not believe it! Long ago, on the very day when I, a little, shy, frightened girl of eight years of age, had come to live with Aunt Penelope, the then reigning Jonas—the "Buttons" in possession—had taken me to these very heights and had walked over them with me and shown me the blue of the sea and the beauty of the landscape; and I had been excited, and pleased as a child will be, particularly such a child as I was—a child with a natural and intense love of nature in her heart.
Yes, I had been happy then, up on these fragrant heights; but I had come back—oh, to such misery! For my father had gone; he had left me alone with Aunt Penelope. I sat now on the Downs, and remembered all that miserable day, my passionate, frantic pain, my mad search for my nurse, Anastasia; the woman who had taken my money and had shown me how to get to the railway station; the kind friends who had met me there and had assured me that Anastasia had not come by the next train; and then Aunt Penelope's face, which to me on that day seemed so hard and cold and cruel.
What immediately followed was a blank to me: no wonder, for I was very ill. I recalled the days, the months, the years that followed—Aunt Penelope's simple life and my gradual and yet sure enjoyment of it, the little things that pleased me, the tiny happenings that were all important, the little joys that were great joys to me; the school prizes; the breaking-up days; the rare occasions when I was given a new frock; the careful, thrifty life. And all the time, noble lessons were being poured into my soul, and I was being taught by the sturdy example of one very brave, very poor old woman to refuse the evil and choose the good. I recalled what took place a few months ago—my father's return, his dear, jolly, red, good-natured face, his kindly eyes, his pleasant smile, the way he had hugged and kissed me, the manner in which my heart had gone out to him; my raptures when he said that he had come to take me away, that in future I was to be his child, his little girl who was to live with him. Oh, I was happy! I forgot Aunt Penelope in my joy. She was in bitter grief at the thought of losing me; but I was selfish, and did not mind.
Then there came my hurried journey to London; the meeting with my father, the meeting with Lady Helen Dalrymple, and the beginning of a new life, the beginning of fresh troubles. First of all, there was my father's second marriage. I was not to have him to myself; Lady Helen was to share my felicity; and I hated Lady Helen, I recalled that time—that awful time. I thought of the great rich house in London and of what Lady Helen Dalrymple was, and of my anguish when she told me that I must change my name, and must in future be called Heather Dalrymple, and never again as long as I lived Heather Grayson. She further informed me that my father had taken her name and was Major Dalrymple, not Major Grayson. I was wild with anger, but a look on his face made me submit. Then by degrees I saw that my darling father was not at all happy. His fun had gone out of him; he no longer made a joke about everything. He sat very silent; sometimes I thought he was even a little bit afraid. Then Lord Hawtrey appeared on the scene, and then—then! my true lover, Vernon Carbury.
Oh! yes, I loved Vernon Carbury. He was all that a romantic young girl would most adore. He was so handsome and gay and chivalrous, and such a perfect gentleman; and he had such a soldierly air and such a proud, upright bearing; and he was mine. He loved me as much as I loved him. It didn't matter a bit about his being poor. Lord Hawtrey, kind old man, wanted to marry me; and his sister, Lady Mary Percy, seemed to think it a very good match. But what was that to me? I loved Vernon and would marry no one else. But—but—there was my father; my father who had—oh, it couldn't be true! God in heaven! it was not true.
I buried my face in my hands. I sobbed aloud. I was frantic with the grief of it, and the shame of it, and the torture of it. My father—my own father! If I had been told that Lady Helen had done a thing like that I should not have been surprised; but my father! It could not be; it was impossible.
Suddenly I started to my feet. I would know the worst. Aunt Penelope believed the story, but I would never believe it unless I heard it from my father's lips, and if it was true, then of course I must give Vernon up. He should not marry a girl whose father had done something to make her ashamed. Much as I loved him, I felt that he must never do that; for that very reason, he must not do it—just because I loved him too well.
I had a beautiful little jewelled watch with a long gold chain which was slipped into my belt. I took it out, and looked at the time. It was a quarter past one. If I walked quickly, I could reach the railway station in time to meet my father. I would take him away with me at once. We would go up on the Downs, and I would ask him point-blank if Aunt Penelope's story was true. He, at least, would tell me the truth. Afterwards, I could decide.
I rose from my seat on the heather. I had crushed the beautiful purple heather down with my weight. But it was elastic, strong, and wiry. The winds of heaven and the sun would soon kiss it and tempt it, and rouse it to an upright position again. I had not really injured my own heather. I straightened my hat. Of late I had been forced to think a good deal about dress and fashion. Nobody else did at Cherton. Cherton was a little old-world place, and fashions put in their appearance there several years after they were seen in London.
I pulled my gloves on tidily, pushed back my tumbled hair, and went rapidly towards the railway station. I knew how to get there now. I needed no fat old woman to show me the way. I arrived just as the London express was coming in. As I have said before, it but seldom stopped at our little wayside station. But it did stop to-day. I wondered if some great people like the Carringtons were returning. I did not want to see the Carringtons just then. The only person, however, who stepped out of the train, and that was out of a first-class carriage, was an elderly man with white hair and a haggard expression. He was very well dressed, and carried a smart walking-stick. But there was a decided stoop between his shoulders, as though he did not care to keep himself upright. I gave a faint cry, then ran up to him. I linked my hand inside his arm.
"I thought I'd come to meet you. I am here; I am all right, you see."
"Oh, I say! My darling little Heather! This is first-rate. Child, what a fright you have given Lady Helen and myself. You have been disgracefully naughty."
"You must forgive me, Dad. Dad, darling, you haven't come all the way from London to a little place like Cherton just to scold your own Heather?"
"Bless you, my beauty!" was the reply. "Aren't you the very joy of my heart? But all the same, you did wrong. You didn't think of what I went through last night. You forgot that, little Heather. But never mind, never mind; only I'd best send a wire to her ladyship. She will be in a fume if she doesn't hear. Ah! here's the telegraph office. I won't be a minute, child; you wait for me outside."
I made no response. He went in, while I stood in the fierce heat of the sunshine. I hoisted my parasol, but the heat penetrated through it. How long my father stayed in that little office! And how old and tired he looked! and yet—oh, of course, he had done nothing wrong. It was but to look into those kind blue eyes; he could not have done that thing which Aunt Penelope accused him of. My spirits rose. She had made a mistake. He himself would explain everything to me, of that I was quite convinced.
He came out again. He was rubbing his hands. He was in high spirits.
"Upon my word, Heather," he said, "we are a pair of truants, you and I. I feel like a boy let loose from school. And how is the old aunt? How is Aunt Penelope?"
"She is not at all well, Dad. It was most providential from her point of view that I did return, for she wanted someone to look after her."
"Do you mean to tell me, Heather, that she is in danger?"
"She is better to-day," I answered; "but she was very ill yesterday, very ill indeed, and the doctor was a little frightened, but he is ever so pleased to-day."
"You have been nursing her, then?"
"Yes, I have. But oh, Daddy, I am glad to see you again!"
"And I to see you," was the reply. "A pair of truants out from school—eh, little girl, eh, eh?"
"Yes, Daddy; oh, yes, Daddy."
I slipped my hand inside his arm. I might not have done this if I had been quite certain about that story of Aunt Penelope's; but then I was doubting it more and more each moment. I was firmly convinced that there was not a syllable of truth in it, and I had him quite to myself, and I could soon talk him round with regard to Vernon. Of course, he would not wish me to marry an old man like Lord Hawtrey when there was a young man like Vernon Carbury longing to have me, longing to clasp me to his heart as his true love—his true wife. Daddy was not worldly-minded—of that I was certain.
We walked down the steep hill about which I had got directions from the fat woman, and plunged into the little town.
"I suppose we'd best get to your aunt's at once, child?" said my father.
"No," I answered; "I want us to come up on the Downs first. Are you frightfully, frightfully hungry? For if you are, we can buy some cakes and eat them up on the Downs."
"Well, I am not disinclined for a meal; but I'll tell you what we will do. We will go on the Downs first, and afterwards we will visit the best restaurant in Cherton. Come along, little woman; let's march. Eh, dear! it's a good thing to stretch one's legs. It's an awful matter to have to confess, Heather, but I'm about sick of that everlasting motoring. I'd give a good deal to be rid of it once and for all. But there! that is high treason. Lady Helen wouldn't like me to talk like that; and she is a good soul, you know, Heather—a right, good, generous creature. She doesn't mind how much she spends on a person. She has never stinted you, has she, Heather? Come now, confess the truth."
"Oh, no," I replied, "she has been horribly, terribly generous."
"Child! What on earth do you mean?"
"I will tell you when we get on the Downs."
He looked at me in a surprised sort of way, opened his lips as if to speak, then remained silent. I found I was walking too quickly for him; I was obliged to slacken my steps. I was surprised at this, for in all my long experience I had considered him one of the very strongest of men, a man who would never be tired, who was possessed of unbounded vitality, with such a great, strong flood of life in him that nothing of the ordinary sort could extinguish it. Nevertheless, he panted now and puffed as I walked with him up towards the Downs.
"Why, Dad!" I cried, "is this too much for you?"
"I expect so," he answered. "It's that beastly motoring—I never can stretch my legs. Upon my word, I am losing my muscle; I shall be a worn-out, rheumatic old man in no time—it's all Helen's fault."
"You ought to play golf," I said; "men of your age, not old men—of course, you're not old—but men of your age spend hours at golf, and that keeps them active. That's what you ought to do—it is, really and truly."
"It is, really and truly," he repeated, looking at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "So that's your way of looking at it, Miss Heather, and you think her ladyship will approve of my playing golf, and you think she'll approve of my absenting myself from her for long hours every day?"
"Oh, I don't know—oh, I can't bear it!" I said.
My voice was choked, there came a lump in my throat. After a moment I said, in a totally different sort of voice:
"We'll walk slowly, darling. Darling, I understand."
"Bless the child! of course she understands," he replied, and he squeezed my arm in his old, affectionate manner.
Thank God! we were on the top at last. The beautiful fresh air came towards us, laden with salt from the sea, laden with freshness, and purity, and beauty. My father's tired eyes brightened; he stretched himself and looked about him. There was a lot of sunshine flooding the place, and there was no sort of shade, but neither he nor I minded that.
"Come where the heather is most purple," I said. "Now, here—here's a bed for you and another for me. Stretch yourself; I'll lie close to you. Isn't it just lovely?"
"Upon my word, it is, Heather; it's heavenly."
"Daddy, I wonder sometimes why you called me Heather?"
"It was your mother's wish—your first mother, I mean."
"Oh, father, I could not have two mothers; you know that it would be impossible!"
"So it would. Well, it was your mother's—your real mother's wish. Fact is, she was very ill when you were born, and there was a bit of Scotch blood in her; she had lived in Aberdeenshire. She was all Aberdeen in every sort of way, through and through, in her nature, I mean; canny, and straight and true, like the real, best Scotch folks. After you were born she had a sort of fever, and she saw purple heather all around her—the heather of the moors. So she begged of me to call the child 'Heather,' and I did. You are called after the moors in Aberdeenshire—a very respectable sort of ancestress, too, eh, Heather, my love, eh, eh?"
"Yes, father."
My father had now recovered his breath; he sat upright and looked at me; he took my hand.
"I have something to say to you," was his remark.
I looked back at him and nodded. Our joyful time together was over now; our time of pain had begun. I knew this fact quite well. I nodded to him emphatically.
"And I have something to say to you."
"Well, Heather, I, being the elder, have the privilege of my years, have I not?"
"You have," I said.
I was glad of this. I was a coward at that moment, and wanted to put off the evil day.
"Well, now, little girl, a straight question requires a straight answer. Why did you leave your mother's house and mine yesterday, and go away without saying a word to anybody? Do you think you acted kindly or well to Lady Helen or myself?"
"I acted as I only could act under the circumstances," was my reply.
"But tell me why, Heather."
"You know what you did, father. You sent away the man I loved. I love him with all my heart and soul and strength. You sent him away. Then you and Lady Helen spoke to me; you said I was to give him up. I don't—I mean that kind of thing would never make me give him up, never! I could not live in the house with Lady Helen. She wanted me to marry Lord Hawtrey; father, I will never marry him—he knows it. You, father, you and Lady Helen, did your utmost to break my heart, but my heart is my own as my life is my own. I could no longer stay with you. Father, I have chosen; I have come back to the poor life, to the humble life, to the little life at Cherton, to Aunt Penelope's house and to Aunt Penelope's home once more. I don't want grandeur, I don't want what Lady Helen calls a high position—I should hate it, I should loathe it; it would be torture to me. Father, I won't have it!"
He was quite silent, but, just as I had done that morning, he began to pull up pieces of purple heather and to scatter the little bells on the grass by his side. His eyes were lowered.
"I hate the world!" I said.
After a long pause, he spoke.
"Bless you, Heather."
"Father!"
"For saying those words," he continued.
"Oh, father, I knew you agreed with me in your heart of hearts."
"I do, but I am tied and bound—yes, child, tied and bound. I can't escape; I can never escape; never, never!"
"Father, I am coming to your part of all this in a few minutes, but first I want to speak about myself. Do you dislike the man I love? You don't know him; I do. I have seen him often at the Carringtons. He is strong, and brave and upright; he is not rich, but neither is he poor; he could marry me without taking any fortune with me; he could marry me, yes, me, just as I stand, and we should be happy—happy as the day is long. Father, I won't have that old man, and, what is more, I know that he won't have me. I will tell you what I did yesterday. You and Lady Helen between you broke my heart—oh, I had an awful time! I don't blame you much, but I must—I must say that I blame you a little. I sat in my room until you went out, and then I determined that whatever happened I would live my own life, that I would not be tied and bound to that awful, dreadful stepmother of mine. I saw that she was ruining you, that she was destroying your happiness, that she was making your life a hell to you, and I vowed that she should not destroy mine. I wondered who could help me, I wondered and wondered, and at last a bold thought occurred to me, and I determined to go into the lion's den."
"Child, what do you mean?"
I put my hand on his; his hand was fat and flabby, not the firm, brown, muscular hand that I used to remember.
"I went to Lord Hawtrey," I said very quickly.
He snatched his hand away, stood upright, and looked at me.
"What! you went to Hawtrey—to his house?"
"Yes. I found his address on a visiting card. I went there in a taxi-cab; he was out, but I waited for him—he came in presently, he was very nice—oh, yes! I saw him for a minute or two. I said I wanted to speak to him; he told me he could not attend to me then or in his own house, but he would send his sister to me."
"Thank goodness!" said my father.
"Her name was Lady Mary Percy. She was a nice woman; she came and she took me to her house, and there and then I told her everything. I told her about Vernon and about—about her brother, and what her brother had said to me. She was kind, although she said one or two strange things. I could not quite understand her, and some of the things she said stuck in my mind. She seemed to think that I had refused the greatest match in England."
"And so you have, you most silly of all little Heathers."
"Oh, no, Daddy! The greatest match in all England I have not refused; I have accepted Vernon Carbury. He is the best husband in all the world for me."
"It is amazing what love will do," said my father then. "I felt something like that for your mother—eh! but that was a long time ago!"
"Then, of course, you understand," I said, nestling up to him, "you are my darling old Dad, and you quite understand."
"I don't, not a bit; and yet, at the same time, I do. Well, go on. You were at Lady Mary Percy's when you left off talking. How, in the name of fortune, did you get here?"
"I left her after a bit. I would not go back to you, so I came to Aunt Penelope. I took the train here; I had money; and it was quite simple. I found my darling auntie very ill, but the sight of me has made her better. The doctor was so glad when I came back, and so was poor little Jonas—the Buttons, you know, Dad—you remember the Buttons?"
"Yes, yes; of course, I remember him."
"Auntie is in bed, very weak."
"Then she won't want to see me," said my father, restlessly.
"Yes; of course she will; she is expecting you. But now, I want to say something to you. I must say it; oh, Daddy, I must."
His face turned white. He pulled his soft hat a little over his eyes and looked fixedly at me.
"Well, Heather, speak. You—you're no coward."
"I don't think I am. It began first in this way," I said. "It was something Lady Mary said; these were her words. She said: 'You are, of course, aware of the fact that Hawtrey must have loved you beyond the ordinary love of an ordinary man when he made up his mind to take as a wife the daughter of Major Grayson?'"
"So he must; that's true enough, Heather."
"Father, oh, father! Do you think I listened to those words tamely? I said: 'My father is the best man in all the world.' Lady Mary looked at me; at first she was angry, then a softened expression came over her face. She said: 'You poor little girl!' and then she said: 'Have you never suspected why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple?' Oh, father, it was after those words I came here, for I was determined to find out, and to-day—oh, my own Daddy, I did find out! I asked Aunt Penelope."
"She told you—my God! she told you!"
"She did, but I don't believe it—it isn't true."
"Give me your hand, Heather."
I gave it. I had some little difficulty in doing so, for a cold, icy, terrible doubt was flooding my mind, flooding my reason, flooding my powers of thought.
"Keep it up," said my father to me. "Be brave, right on to the end. Tell me what she said. You are my daughter and—once I was a soldier; tell your soldier father what she said."
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, she said that you, you, my father—had—oh, it's so awful!—that you were arrested in India on a charge of forgery—you had made away with a lot of money—you were cashiered from the army and—you were imprisoned. All the time while I was picturing you a brave soldier, filling your post with distinction and pride, you were only—only—in prison! Oh, Daddy, it isn't true—it could not have been true; she said it was true, she said that your term was over last autumn, and that you came straight here to see me, and that, in some extraordinary way, you had money, and you carried everything off with a high hand, and insisted on taking me away with you, and the next thing she heard was that you had married Lady Helen Dalrymple. She says, Daddy, that you will never outlive your disgrace, and there isn't a soldier in the length and breadth of the land who will speak to you!"
I laid my head down on his coat sleeve. Sobs rent my frame. There was an absolute silence on his part. He did not interrupt my tears for a moment, nor did he say one single word of contradiction. After a minute or so he remarked, very quietly:
"Now, you will stop crying and listen."
I sat upright. I looked at him out of glassy eyes; he gazed straight back at me; there was not a scrap of shame about his face; I wondered very much at that, and then a wild, joyful thought visited me. He could clear himself, he could show me that this disgraceful story was all a lie.
"Now, stop crying," he said again. "Whatever I did or did not do, I was a soldier and fought the Queen's battles when she was alive—God bless her!—and I was accounted a brave man."
"You were never a forger—you never saw the inside of a prison?"
"Those are your two charges against me, Heather?"
"Not mine, not mine," I said; "I just want you to tell me the truth."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was accused of forgery."
My eyes fell, I trembled all over.
"I was had up for trial; I stood in the prisoner's dock. I was convicted by jurymen, and a judge of our criminal courts proclaimed my sentence. The case was a particularly aggravated one, and my sentence was severe—I was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude—I lived all that time in prison. Not a pleasant life. Ah! it's spoiled my hands a good bit—have you never remarked it?"
"Now that you speak, I—do remark it," I said.
"And of course I was cashiered," he continued.
I nodded.
"Well, I have answered you."
"You have," I said.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
"Yes. Why did you marry Lady Helen?"
"Why, that was part of the bond."
"The bond?" I said.
"The fact is, we understood each other. She had been very fond of me, poor woman, and she stuck to me through my disgrace, and when I came out of prison she was willing to do the best possible for me and for you. Of course, you can understand that without marriage I could not accept her services, so—I married her. I don't go about with her a great deal, you will have observed that?"
"Yes, and I have wondered," I said.
"But she has been good to you. She has taken you about."
"Oh, yes. I hated going about with her."
"She was anxious, and so was I, that you should marry well. She held out to me as the bait—your salvation."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. When I entered into that worst prison of all, it was for your sake."
"Father—oh, father!"
"It is true, child. There, it's out. It is the worst prison of all—God help me! And now, at the end, you desert me!"
"No, I won't," I said, flinging my arms round his neck; "no, I never will! It doesn't matter what you did, I'll stick to you—I will, I will, I will!"
"My little girl, my own little girl! But she won't have you back except on her own terms; she only wants you in order to get you well married, to have the éclat and fuss and glory of a great marriage; that's her object. You have refused Hawtrey; I doubt if she'll forgive that."
I was clinging close to him, I was holding his hand.
"Can't we both leave her?" I whispered. "Can't we go away and be very poor together, and forget the world?"
"Child, there is your lover, Carbury."
I gave a quick, sharp sigh.
"I can't think of him now," I said.
"Oh, child, he proposed for you, knowing everything."
"I won't marry him," I said, "I am going to stay with you in that worst prison."
My father kept on holding my hand. We neither of us spoke; there are moments when words fail us, and these happened to be some. The sun crept higher and higher in the heavens, it beat down on us, but it was tempered by the pleasant, cool sea breezes. We were both looking into the future, and, truth to tell, our hearts were sad. I was making up my mind, and father was making up his mind. At last I, being the younger and more impulsive, spoke:
"It is all right, Daddy," I said. "It was a bit of a dreadful shock; I don't pretend it was anything else. I have always put you—oh, on such a pedestal! But I'll get used to it. You were tempted awfully, or you would never have done it. I am certain of that, and—I have never been tempted at all, so, of course, I can't understand. You were tempted, poor darling, and it—it happened. It is hateful of people to stamp on you, and crush you when you're down; but I suppose it is something horrid inside of them makes them do it. Daddy, I'm not made like that. I couldn't stamp on you—I couldn't crush you. On the contrary, I have made up my mind. You and I against the world, Daddy mine, against the whole wide world. You won't return to London to-night; you'll stay here, and you'll write to Lady Helen, and you'll tell her that you and I have escaped from the worst prison, and are going to live always together, and that we aren't a bit afraid of poverty, and that, in short, we've made up our minds. We've cut the Gordian knot. We'll be happy together, and we don't care a scrap about poverty."
"That's your firm resolve, is it, Heather?" said my father.
"It is. I have been thinking it out—I can't get away from it."
"All right. Give me a kiss, child."
I put my arms round him, and kissed him many times. Again I noticed that there wasn't a bit of shame in his eyes; they looked quite clear, and steadfast, and blue, with that wonderful blue light which I think only comes into the eyes of men who are accustomed to face the sea and the wind, and who have lived a great deal out of doors.
"So that is your final decision?" he repeated. "I like to feel your kisses on my cheek, Heather."
I kissed him again.
"It is," I said.
"Well, now you've to hear mine."
"Oh, yours," I said; "you won't go away from your own Heather—you couldn't—you love her too well."
"God knows I love you, pretty one. You are the only creature on earth I do love. I love you with all my heart and soul, and that's saying a great deal. For the ten long years I was in prison I kept thinking and thinking of you, child. But for you I might have lost my reason; but your little face, and your ways, and your love for me kept me—well, all right. And now I am a free man again—I mean, I am free to claim your love. But you haven't decided what part Carbury is to play in this."
I shivered very slightly.
"I have told you," I said. "He won't play any part. I—I'm going to write to him. We need not talk about him any more. Yesterday you and my stepmother were opposed to my marrying him; now I also am opposed. There will be no marriage between us. I am all yours."
"Oh, you best child in all the world!"
"Then it's settled, isn't it, Daddy?"
"My little girl, I can't tell. It rests with Carbury himself. But my part—you've got to hear my part now."
I felt very, very sad when he said this. I seemed to guess in advance that a great strain and trial was about to be put upon me. My father looked at me, and then he looked away. Again he took up some great, full bells of heather and crushed them in his hand; he threw them away and turned and faced me.
"There! The worst is out. I have got to stay with her ladyship."
"Father!"
"Yes. I can't get away from it, Heather child. I can't live on nothing, nor, my little girl, can you. We are both dependent on Lady Helen for our daily bread."
"I am not—I won't be," I said.
"But you are," he answered, "and you must be; that's just it. You can't get away from it. She holds the purse. Do you think she will unfasten those purse strings to give you and me an allowance to live away from her?"
"But we can live on so little," I said; "and I can work. I should love to work."
"Well, now, Heather," said my father, "you are no fool."
"I hope I am not," I said.
"You're a very wise girl for your age."
"I hope so," I replied.
"I have watched you, and I know you are wise for your age—very. Being so, therefore, what can you do to earn a living? Just tell me."
I sat very quiet and still. I thought over my different accomplishments. I could play a little, I could sing a little; I had a smattering of French—a very slight smattering—and I was fond of good English books, history books, and books of travel, and I adored books of adventure, and I could recite a good many pieces from our best poets. But all these things did not form much of a cargo to take on board my ship of life. My father kept looking at me, with that whimsical light in his blue eyes.
"Eh, little woman? Suppose I take you at your word, how do you propose to support yourself and me? There would be, first of all, our lodgings. We might go to Plymouth, or some other place, not too dear. We might find rooms—kind of country cottage rooms—by the sea, and pay, say, six shillings a week each. It is very unlikely we'd get them for that, but I really want to bring you down as lightly as possible. Well, six shillings a week for you and six shillings for me means twelve shillings, and that would mean, probably, a tiny, tiny sitting-room, and two of the wee-est bedrooms in all the world. Still, it might be done for the price of twelve shillings a week. There would be extras, of course—landladies greatly live by extras—and we should have to put them down, counting coal and light, one part of the year with another, at about three shillings a week, which mounts up, our lodging and our light and coal, to fifteen shillings a week.
"Then, my dear little Heather, there comes that important thing, food, for the bravest of all little girls would get very hungry at times, and if she didn't get hungry she wouldn't be worth her salt. There'd be your breakfast, my dear, and my breakfast, and your snack in the middle of the day, and your tea in the afternoon, and your dinner in the evening; and I don't think the shopkeepers would give us bread, and butter, and milk, and beef, and mutton, and vegetables, and all those sort of things for nothing—I have an impression that they wouldn't. Of course I may be wrong, but that is my impression, and I have a pretty good knowledge of the world. I don't think, dear, that even at starvation price we could be fed under something like another fifteen shillings to a pound a week. Now, my little Heather, how are you to earn, say, one pound fifteen shillings a week—to say nothing of the expense of note-paper, and stamps, and envelopes, and dress?"
"Oh, I have heaps of dress," I said. "There are a great many dresses of mine at the house in London."
"Which have been supplied to you by Lady Helen. I don't really know, if we made this great severance from her, whether we should have any right to take those dresses from her or not—I am inclined to think not, if you ask me. However, suppose you don't want dress for the time being, at least you will want shoe leather, and gloves, and trifles of that sort. My dear, we can't put down our living, between us, however hard we try, at less than two pounds a week, and that means over a hundred pounds a year. Now, Heather child, I have nothing a year—nothing!"
He stretched out both his arms as he spoke.
"Oh, yes; I am supposed to be one of the richest of old men. I can drive in my motor-car, and I can have a horse, and I can go here, there, and everywhere. I can live in the softest rooms, and I can eat the most dainty food, and I can curse luxury in my heart as you curse it in yours; but I haven't a penny piece to get away from it—not a penny piece; and, as far as I can tell, no more have you."
"Couldn't we live here with Aunt Penelope?" I said.
My voice was very weak and faint. A good deal of my courage was being taken out of me.
"As if we would, Heather! Think how that brave woman supported you during the long years when I was in prison, and could not earn a halfpenny! No, no, Heather; no, no! It was partly to relieve your aunt that I married her ladyship, and, Heather child, I can't get away from her now—I can't—and I am greatly afraid you can't either."
"But she won't have me," I said; "she'll have you back, of course, but not me; and, father, darling, Ican'tgo back!"
"She would have you if I pleaded," said my father, "and if I could tell her you had quite given up young Carbury. She has taken a dislike to that poor boy, God alone knows why—but I think I can manage it. You see, it's this way. Her ladyship has a great horror of anything approaching a scandal; I never knew anyone with such a downright horror of it; upon my word, in her case it amounts to a downright sin—it does, really. Well, there she is, hating scandal, and if you left her there'd be no end of talk, for in your way you have paid her well for all the luxuries she has showered upon you. People have been civil to her, not for her sake—who would look at a frowzy old woman like her?—yes, child, I say it; I don't mind what I say to you—but a great many people would want to look at your dear, fresh little face; and it is just because of that same dear little face that so many people have come to her ladyship's 'At Homes'; and it is because of that same little face that you and Lady Helen have been asked out so much. She knows it well enough; she knows why she's popular. I can easily get her to let the old life go on, and you shan't be worried with—with that poor fellow Hawtrey. I said to myself, when she was so full of it, 'I don't believe the child will consent,' but there, she told me I was wrong. She said there wasn't a girl in England who'd refuse a match like that; and even I allowed myself to be persuaded that that was the case."
"But, oh, father, wouldn't you have hated it?"
"No, child, not altogether; there might have been worse fates for you. He's a good man, is Hawtrey; he'd have treated you well; he'd have been very kind to you. I have heard before of girls marrying men old enough to be their fathers, and being happy with them. I dare say if young Carbury had not come in the way you'd have taken him, for there isn't his like in England for chivalry and kindness of heart."
"But he did come," I said.
"Yes; youth naturally mates with youth—it's the true story of life. I'm not blaming you a bit, Heather—not in my heart, I mean. I had to pretend to blame you, of course, the other day."
Here my father rose to his feet.
"You shan't be worried about Hawtrey," he said, "and I'll promise that Carbury shall not cross your path. But I don't think there is any help for it; you'll have to come back with me. I'll stay here to-night; I'll telegraph to her ladyship again, and tell her that you are all right, and that we are coming back to-morrow morning. I'd rather have you in the house than not in the house, for even though we can't often talk to each other we can at least understand each other."
"But Aunt Penelope is ill; even if I could agree to what you wish, Aunt Penelope is very ill. I ought not to leave her now."
"Well, perhaps not; perhaps your aunt ought to be considered. In that case I would go back myself to-night—it would be best for me to do so; her ladyship might want me, and I know I'd be in the right to go back, and as quickly as possible. Well, we'll go and see your aunt now; only, before we visit her, I want you to make me a promise. You will come to London—you will take up the old life for my sake?"
I looked him in the eyes.
"Do you want this very, very badly?" I said.
"I want it more than anything on earth."
"And wanting it so badly," I said very sadly, "you yet would have pretended to be glad if I had said 'Yes' to Lord Hawtrey?"
"I might have, there's no saying. I'd have had your house to come to then; but that's out of the question, and needn't be thought of. You'll come back to me, Heather, when your aunt can spare you?"
"Yes, I will come," I said, and then I kissed him, and we walked slowly back from the Downs, my hand clasped in his.
Aunt Penelope was better; the doctor had been again, and was pleased with her. Jonas, in his very best suit, his face shining with soap and water, gave us the good news on our arrival. There was a nice little lunch waiting for us in the tiny dining-room, and my father, as he expressed it, was "downright hungry."
"Delicious, this cold beef and salad tastes," he said. "Upon my word, there's nothing like plain food; one does get sick to death of made-up dishes."
I helped him to the best that my aunt's little table could afford, and then I ran softly up to her room. She was lying high up in bed, her eyes were bright, and she was watching for me.
"Well, child; well?"
"You are better, aren't you, auntie?"
"Better? I am all right, child; what about yourself?"
"I am quite well, of course."
"Heather, is that poor man, your father, downstairs?"
"He is."
"Has he expressed a wish to see me?"
"He has come back for the purpose."
"I will see him; only he must be quiet, in order to prevent my coughing. If I start coughing again I may get really bad; you tell him that. Heather, my love, you're not going to leave me, are you?"
"Not at present, at any rate," I said.
"Kiss me, dear. You are a very good girl; you take after your mother. You have got her patient, steadfast light in your eyes. Now send that father of yours up, and tell him, whatever he does, to be careful that he doesn't set me coughing."
I ran downstairs, and gave my father Aunt Penelope's message. He said:
"Poor old girl! I'll be careful, right enough," and then he went softly and slowly upstairs. I watched until he was out of sight; then I ran quickly into the little drawing-room. I had not a minute to lose, and I would not delay. I would not postpone setting a seal on my own fate for a single moment.
There was the little room, looking just as of old. I had dusted it and tidied it that morning, and put a few fresh flowers in one or two vases, and made it look quite gay and pretty. I knew where Aunt Penelope kept her note-paper; I opened her Davenport and took out a sheet now and began to write. I wrote straight to Vernon Carbury. My letter was very short.
"I have to give you up, Vernon," I wrote; "there is no other way out. My father, Major Grayson, has told me his true story. I never heard it until to-day. I understand everything now, and I wish you, Vernon, clearly to understand that I, Major Grayson's daughter, take his shame, and bind it on me, and not for all the world will I loosen that badge of shame from my heart. So, because of this very thing, I can never be your true wife. You are a brave soldier of the King, and my father has been cashiered, because of a crime, from the King's Army. Is it likely that you and I can be husband and wife? Good-bye, dear. It gives me dreadful pain to write this letter, but all the same, I am glad we have met, and that you have put me into your gallery of heroines, as I have put you into my gallery of heroes. Forget me soon—find a girl who has no shame to bind round her heart, and be happy. Dearest darling, best beloved,—Your little"Heather."
"I have to give you up, Vernon," I wrote; "there is no other way out. My father, Major Grayson, has told me his true story. I never heard it until to-day. I understand everything now, and I wish you, Vernon, clearly to understand that I, Major Grayson's daughter, take his shame, and bind it on me, and not for all the world will I loosen that badge of shame from my heart. So, because of this very thing, I can never be your true wife. You are a brave soldier of the King, and my father has been cashiered, because of a crime, from the King's Army. Is it likely that you and I can be husband and wife? Good-bye, dear. It gives me dreadful pain to write this letter, but all the same, I am glad we have met, and that you have put me into your gallery of heroines, as I have put you into my gallery of heroes. Forget me soon—find a girl who has no shame to bind round her heart, and be happy. Dearest darling, best beloved,—Your little
"Heather."