CHAPTER XVII
I left Aunt Penelope's room. I walked very slowly. My room was next tohers, and the walls between were quite thin; you could almost hear aperson talking in the adjoining room. I wanted to be very quiet. Iwanted no one to hear me, and yet I could not bear the perfect stillnessand 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 cheeksflushed.
"Why, missie!" he said, "is there anything the matter?"
"No, no; nothing at all, Jonas," I said. "You are preparing AuntPenelope's dinner, are you not?"
"Yes, missie; that is, as well as I can. I'm not at all sure about thesoup, 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--itwould be a rare help, that it would."
I clenched one of my hands tightly together. It was with the utmostdifficulty that I could keep down the wild words which were crowding tomy lips. But Aunt Penelope, whatever she told me, however awful andcruel her words were, must be looked after, must be tended, must becared for. Crushing down that defiant, that worldly self which clamouredto assert itself, I followed the boy into the kitchen. I looked up anold receipt book and gave him swift directions.
"You will have dinner all ready," I said, "and if by any chance I amout--if I haven't come in, you will not wait for me, for Aunt Penelopemust have her dinner to the minute. You understand, don't you, Jonas?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Heather. Yes, I understand; but"--he looked at melongingly--"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 herthis 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 atthem. I must get out. I must go up on the heights above the little townbefore my father arrived. I must be by myself, whatever happened; I mustbe quite alone.
It was a hot day. Summer was coming on in great strides. In AuntPenelope's village the weather was very hot in the summer time. But theair was more or less my native air. I was glad of it. I was glad to feelits soft zephyrs blowing against my cheeks. I soon reached the high partof the town, and then I found myself on the moors. I sat down on a clumpof purple heather--the flower after which I was called--and pulled aspray of the blossom and crumpled it between my fingers and watched thelittle delicate flowers tumbling into my lap. All my life seemed to riseup before me at that moment, and the anguish that I lived through couldscarcely be surpassed. Oh, Aunt Penelope, Aunt Penelope! What a dreadfulthing 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 nottrue! 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 AuntPenelope, the then reigning Jonas--the "Buttons" in possession--hadtaken me to these very heights and had walked over them with me andshown me the blue of the sea and the beauty of the landscape; and I hadbeen excited, and pleased as a child will be, particularly such a childas I was--a child with a natural and intense love of nature in herheart.
Yes, I had been happy then, up on these fragrant heights; but I had comeback--oh, to such misery! For my father had gone; he had left me alonewith Aunt Penelope. I sat now on the Downs, and remembered all thatmiserable 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 getto the railway station; the kind friends who had met me there and hadassured me that Anastasia had not come by the next train; and then AuntPenelope's face, which to me on that day seemed so hard and cold andcruel.
What immediately followed was a blank to me: no wonder, for I was veryill. I recalled the days, the months, the years that followed--AuntPenelope's simple life and my gradual and yet sure enjoyment of it, thelittle things that pleased me, the tiny happenings that were allimportant, the little joys that were great joys to me; the schoolprizes; the breaking-up days; the rare occasions when I was given a newfrock; the careful, thrifty life. And all the time, noble lessons werebeing poured into my soul, and I was being taught by the sturdy exampleof one very brave, very poor old woman to refuse the evil and choose thegood. I recalled what took place a few months ago--my father's return,his dear, jolly, red, good-natured face, his kindly eyes, his pleasantsmile, the way he had hugged and kissed me, the manner in which my hearthad gone out to him; my raptures when he said that he had come to takeme away, that in future I was to be his child, his little girl who wasto live with him. Oh, I was happy! I forgot Aunt Penelope in my joy. Shewas in bitter grief at the thought of losing me; but I was selfish, anddid not mind.
Then there came my hurried journey to London; the meeting with myfather, the meeting with Lady Helen Dalrymple, and the beginning of anew life, the beginning of fresh troubles. First of all, there was myfather's second marriage. I was not to have him to myself; Lady Helenwas to share my felicity; and I hated Lady Helen, I recalled thattime--that awful time. I thought of the great rich house in London andof what Lady Helen Dalrymple was, and of my anguish when she told methat I must change my name, and must in future be called HeatherDalrymple, and never again as long as I lived Heather Grayson. Shefurther informed me that my father had taken her name and was MajorDalrymple, not Major Grayson. I was wild with anger, but a look on hisface made me submit. Then by degrees I saw that my darling father wasnot at all happy. His fun had gone out of him; he no longer made a jokeabout everything. He sat very silent; sometimes I thought he was even alittle bit afraid. Then Lord Hawtrey appeared on the scene, andthen--then! my true lover, Vernon Carbury.
Oh! yes, I loved Vernon Carbury. He was all that a romantic young girlwould most adore. He was so handsome and gay and chivalrous, and such aperfect 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. Itdidn'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 ita very good match. But what was that to me? I loved Vernon and wouldmarry 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 thegrief of it, and the shame of it, and the torture of it. My father--myown father! If I had been told that Lady Helen had done a thing likethat 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 Penelopebelieved the story, but I would never believe it unless I heard it frommy father's lips, and if it was true, then of course I must give Vernonup. He should not marry a girl whose father had done something to makeher ashamed. Much as I loved him, I felt that he must never do that; forthat 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 wasslipped into my belt. I took it out, and looked at the time. It was aquarter past one. If I walked quickly, I could reach the railway stationin time to meet my father. I would take him away with me at once. Wewould go up on the Downs, and I would ask him point-blank if AuntPenelope'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 purpleheather down with my weight. But it was elastic, strong, and wiry. Thewinds of heaven and the sun would soon kiss it and tempt it, and rouseit to an upright position again. I had not really injured my ownheather. I straightened my hat. Of late I had been forced to think agood deal about dress and fashion. Nobody else did at Cherton. Chertonwas a little old-world place, and fashions put in their appearance thereseveral years after they were seen in London.
I pulled my gloves on tidily, pushed back my tumbled hair, and wentrapidly towards the rai
lway station. I knew how to get there now. Ineeded no fat old woman to show me the way. I arrived just as the Londonexpress was coming in. As I have said before, it but seldom stopped atour little wayside station. But it did stop to-day. I wondered if somegreat people like the Carringtons were returning. I did not want to seethe Carringtons just then. The only person, however, who stepped out ofthe train, and that was out of a first-class carriage, was an elderlyman with white hair and a haggard expression. He was very well dressed,and carried a smart walking-stick. But there was a decided stoop betweenhis shoulders, as though he did not care to keep himself upright. I gavea 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 afright you have given Lady Helen and myself. You have been disgracefullynaughty."
"You must forgive me, Dad. Dad, darling, you haven't come all the wayfrom London to a little place like Cherton just to scold your ownHeather?"
"Bless you, my beauty!" was the reply. "Aren't you the very joy of myheart? But all the same, you did wrong. You didn't think of what I wentthrough 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 afume if she doesn't hear. Ah! here's the telegraph office. I won't be aminute, child; you wait for me outside."
I made no response. He went in, while I stood in the fierce heat of thesunshine. I hoisted my parasol, but the heat penetrated through it. Howlong my father stayed in that little office! And how old and tired helooked! and yet--oh, of course, he had done nothing wrong. It was but tolook into those kind blue eyes; he could not have done that thing whichAunt Penelope accused him of. My spirits rose. She had made a mistake.He himself would explain everything to me, of that I was quiteconvinced.
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 isAunt Penelope?"
"She is not at all well, Dad. It was most providential from her point ofview 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 everso 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 fromschool--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 hadbeen quite certain about that story of Aunt Penelope's; but then I wasdoubting it more and more each moment. I was firmly convinced that therewas not a syllable of truth in it, and I had him quite to myself, and Icould soon talk him round with regard to Vernon. Of course, he would notwish me to marry an old man like Lord Hawtrey when there was a young manlike Vernon Carbury longing to have me, longing to clasp me to his heartas his true love--his true wife. Daddy was not worldly-minded--of that Iwas certain.
We walked down the steep hill about which I had got directions from thefat 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 youfrightfully, frightfully hungry? For if you are, we can buy some cakesand eat them up on the Downs."
"Well, I am not disinclined for a meal; but I'll tell you what we willdo. We will go on the Downs first, and afterwards we will visit the bestrestaurant 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 toconfess, Heather, but I'm about sick of that everlasting motoring. I'dgive a good deal to be rid of it once and for all. But there! that ishigh treason. Lady Helen wouldn't like me to talk like that; and she isa good soul, you know, Heather--a right, good, generous creature. Shedoesn'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 tospeak, 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 allmy long experience I had considered him one of the very strongest ofmen, a man who would never be tired, who was possessed of unboundedvitality, with such a great, strong flood of life in him that nothing ofthe ordinary sort could extinguish it. Nevertheless, he panted now andpuffed 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 canstretch my legs. Upon my word, I am losing my muscle; I shall be aworn-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--ofcourse, you're not old--but men of your age spend hours at golf, andthat keeps them active. That's what you ought to do--it is, really andtruly."
"It is, really and truly," he repeated, looking at me with a twinkle inhis blue eyes. "So that's your way of looking at it, Miss Heather, andyou think her ladyship will approve of my playing golf, and you thinkshe'll approve of my absenting myself from her for long hours everyday?"
"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 Isaid, 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 hesqueezed my arm in his old, affectionate manner.
Thank God! we were on the top at last. The beautiful fresh air cametowards us, laden with salt from the sea, laden with freshness, andpurity, and beauty. My father's tired eyes brightened; he stretchedhimself and looked about him. There was a lot of sunshine flooding theplace, 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 abed 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 beimpossible!"
"So it would. Well, it was your mother's--your real mother's wish. Factis, she was very ill when you were born, and there was a bit of Scotchblood in her; she had lived in Aberdeenshire. She was all Aberdeen inevery sort of way, through and through, in her nature, I mean; canny,and straight and true, like the real, best Scotch folks. After you wereborn she had a sort of fever, and she saw purple heather all aroundher--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--avery 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 himemphatically.
"And I have something to say to you."
"Well, Heather, I, being the elder, have the privilege of my years, haveI not?"
"You have," I said.
I was glad of this. I was a coward at that moment, and wanted to put offthe 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 awaywithout saying a word to anybody? Do you think you acted kindly or wellto 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 lovehim with all my heart and soul and strength. You sent him away. Then youand Lady Helen spoke to me; you said I was to give him up. I don't--Imean that kind of thing would never make me give him up, never! I couldnot live in the house with Lady Helen. She wanted me to marry LordHawtrey; father, I will never marry him--he knows it. You, father, youand Lady Helen, did your utmost to break my heart, but my heart is myown as my life is my own. I could no longer stay with you. Father, Ihave chosen; I have come back to the poor life, to the humble life, tothe little life at Cherton, to Aunt Penelope's house and to AuntPenelope's home once more. I don't want grandeur, I don't want what LadyHelen calls a high position--I should hate it, I should loathe it; itwould be torture to me. Father, I won't have it!"
He was quite silent, but, just as I had done that morning, he began topull up pieces of purple heather and to scatter the little bells on thegrass 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'tescape; I can never escape; never, never!"
"Father, I am coming to your part of all this in a few minutes, butfirst I want to speak about myself. Do you dislike the man I love? Youdon't know him; I do. I have seen him often at the Carringtons. He isstrong, 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 islong. Father, I won't have that old man, and, what is more, I know thathe won't have me. I will tell you what I did yesterday. You and LadyHelen between you broke my heart--oh, I had an awful time! I don't blameyou much, but I must--I must say that I blame you a little. I sat in myroom until you went out, and then I determined that whatever happened Iwould live my own life, that I would not be tied and bound to thatawful, dreadful stepmother of mine. I saw that she was ruining you, thatshe was destroying your happiness, that she was making your life a hellto you, and I vowed that she should not destroy mine. I wondered whocould help me, I wondered and wondered, and at last a bold thoughtoccurred 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 ataxi-cab; he was out, but I waited for him--he came in presently, he wasvery nice--oh, yes! I saw him for a minute or two. I said I wanted tospeak to him; he told me he could not attend to me then or in his ownhouse, 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 shetook me to her house, and there and then I told her everything. I toldher about Vernon and about--about her brother, and what her brother hadsaid to me. She was kind, although she said one or two strange things. Icould not quite understand her, and some of the things she said stuck inmy mind. She seemed to think that I had refused the greatest match inEngland."
"And so you have, you most silly of all little Heathers."
"Oh, no, Daddy! The greatest match in all England I have not refused; Ihave accepted Vernon Carbury. He is the best husband in all the worldfor me."
"It is amazing what love will do," said my father then. "I feltsomething 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 aremy darling old Dad, and you quite understand."
"I don't, not a bit; and yet, at the same time, I do. Well, go on. Youwere at Lady Mary Percy's when you left off talking. How, in the name offortune, did you get here?"
"I left her after a bit. I would not go back to you, so I came to AuntPenelope. I took the train here; I had money; and it was quite simple. Ifound my darling auntie very ill, but the sight of me has made herbetter. The doctor was so glad when I came back, and so was poor littleJonas--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 saysomething to you. I must say it; oh, Daddy, I must."
His face turned white. He pulled his soft hat a little over his eyes andlooked 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 wassomething Lady Mary said; these were her words. She said: 'You are, ofcourse, aware of the fact that Hawtrey must have loved you beyond theordinary love of an ordinary man when he made up his mind to take as awife 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? Isaid: 'My father is the best man in all the world.' Lady Mary looked atme; at first she was angry, then a softened expression came over herface. She said: 'You poor little girl!' and then she said: 'Have younever suspected why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple?' Oh, father, it wasafter those words I came here, for I was determined to find out, andto-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 mypowers of thought.
"Keep it up," said my father to me. "Be brave, right on to the end. Tellme what she said. You are my daughter and--once I was a soldier; tellyour soldier father what she said."
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, she said that you, you, my father--had--oh, it's soawful!--that you were arrested in India on a charge of forgery--you hadmade away with a lot of money--you were cashiered from the army and--youwere imprisoned. All the time while I was picturing you a brave soldier,filling your post with distinction and pride, you were only--only--inprison! Oh, Daddy, it isn't true--it could not have been true; she saidit was true, she said that your term was over last autumn, and that youcame straight here to see me, and that, in some extraordinary way, youhad money, and you carried everything off with a high hand, and insistedon taking me away with you, and the next thing she heard was that youhad married Lady Helen Dalrymple. She says, Daddy, that you will neveroutlive your disgrace, and there isn't a soldier in the length andbreadth of the land who will speak to you!"
I laid my head down on his coat sleeve. Sobs rent my frame. There was anabsolute silence on his part. He did not interrupt my tears for amoment, nor did he say one single word of contradiction. After a minuteor 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 straightback at me; there was not a scrap of shame about his face; I wonderedvery much at that, and then a wild, joyful thought visited me. He couldclear himself, he could show me that this disgraceful story was all alie.
"Now, stop crying," he said again. "Whatever I did or did not do, I wasa soldier and fought the Queen's b
attles when she was alive--God blessher!--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 convictedby jurymen, and a judge of our criminal courts proclaimed my sentence.The case was a particularly aggravated one, and my sentence wassevere--I was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude--I lived all thattime in prison. Not a pleasant life. Ah! it's spoiled my hands a goodbit--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 outof 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 accepther 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 outto me as the bait--your salvation."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. When I entered into that worst prison of all, itwas for your sake."
"Father--oh, father!"
"It is true, child. There, it's out. It is the worst prison of all--Godhelp me! And now, at the end, you desert me!"
"No, I won't," I said, flinging my arms round his neck; "no, I neverwill! 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 excepton her own terms; she only wants you in order to get you well married,to have the eclat and fuss and glory of a great marriage; that's herobject. 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 verypoor 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 worstprison."