A tall man was standing on the hearthrug when I came in. There was a
cheerful fire burning in the grate, and he was standing with his back to
it, and apparently enjoying the pleasant glow which emanated from its
bright depths. There was also a young man in the room who was nearly as
tall as the elder gentleman. The younger man had very dark eyes and an
olive complexion, straight, rather handsome features, and a strong chin
and a good mouth.
"John," said Lady Carrington, "here is little Heather."
"How do you do, my dear--how do you do?" said Sir John.
He came forward as he spoke and wrung my hand, looking into my eyes with
a curious mingling of affection and amusement.
"Ah!" he said; "you have grown a good bit since that wonderful night
long ago, eh, Heather?"
"I am grown up," I answered, trying to speak proudly, and yet feeling,
all of a sudden, quite inclined to cry.
"Yes, of course, you're grown up," responded Sir John, and then his wife
introduced the strange gentleman to me. His name was Captain Carbury,
but when the Carringtons spoke to him they addressed him as "Vernon." He
had a nice, frank manner, and it was he who was deputed to take me into
the next room to lunch.
"I have heard a lot about you," he said. "The Carringtons have been
quite keen about you. They've been wondering what day you would arrive,
and making up all sorts of stories about what you'd look like, and your
life in the past and what your life in the future will be."
"Heather, you must not mind Vernon, he always talks nonsense," said Lady
Carrington. "Will you have clear or thick soup, dear? We always help
ourselves at lunch, it makes the meal so much less formal."
I said I would have thick soup, and Captain Carbury took clear. He
looked at me again once or twice, and I thought that his expression was
somewhat quizzical, but, all the same, I liked him.
I had made in the course of my life a little gallery of heroes; they
were of all sorts and descriptions. In that gallery my father held the
foremost place, he was the soldier _par excellence_, the hero above all
other heroes. Then there were splendid persons whose names were
mentioned in history. The great Duke of Marlborough was one, and Sir
Walter Raleigh, and King Edward the First, and King Henry the Fourth.
And there were minor lights, great men, too, in their way, statesmen and
ambassadors and discoverers of new worlds. But besides the historical
personages, there were those few whom I knew personally. Amongst these
was one of the many "Jonases" who had lived with Aunt Penelope, and who
was admitted into a somewhat dark and shadowy part of my gallery.
He was a very ugly Jonas, and slightly--quite slightly--deformed; that
is, one shoulder was hitched up a good bit higher than the other. In
consequence, he never felt happy or comfortable in buttons, and used to
coax me to let him play with me in the garden in the dress he wore at
home, which was loose and unwieldy, but, nevertheless, fitted that
misshapen, poor shoulder. Aunt Penelope had been very angry with him for
not appearing in his buttons costume, and she was not the least
concerned when he told her that it made his shoulder ache; she was more
determined than ever that he should wear his livery, and never be seen
out of it while in her employ. He told me, that poor Buttons, that he
would have to wear it, notwithstanding the pain, for the very little
money he earned helped his mother at home. It was after he said this,
and after I found out that what he said was true, that I put him into my
gallery of heroes. He never knew that he was there. He became ill quite
suddenly of some sort of inflammation of the spine, and was taken away
to the hospital to die. I wanted very badly to see him when I heard he
was so ill, but Aunt Penelope would not hear of it. Then I gave her a
message for him.
"Tell him, if you are going yourself," I said, "that he is in my gallery
of heroes. He will know what it means."
But Aunt Penelope forgot to give the message, so that poor Jonas never
knew.
But I had other heroes also. There was a pale young curate, like the
celebrated curate in the song, and my heart went out to him--my girlish
heart--in full measure, and I put him into my gallery right away; there
I gave him a foremost place, although I never spoke to him in my young
life, and I don't think, as far as I remember, that his eyes ever met
mine.
And now last, but by no means least, I put Captain Carbury into my
gallery of heroes, and as I did so I felt my heart beating with
pleasure, and I looked full up into my hero's face and smiled at him
with such a look of contentment, admiration, and satisfaction that he
smiled back again.
"What a nice child you are," he said. "I wonder what you are thinking
about?"
Some visitors had now come in and had joined Sir John and Lady
Carrington in the drawing-room, and Captain Carbury and I were alone.
"You ought to be very proud," I said, lowering my voice to meet his.
"What about?" he asked.
"Why, this," I answered; "I have done you a tremendous honour."
"Have you, indeed? I can assure you I am pleased and--quite flattered.
But do tell me what it is."
"I have just put you, Captain Carbury, into my gallery of heroes."
"You have put me into what?" said the young man. He sat down by my side
and lowered his voice. "You have put me into what, Miss Grayson?"
"I have a gallery," I said, "and it is full of heroes. It, of course,
lives in my imagination. You have just gone in; those who go in never
come out again. There are a great many people in my gallery."
"Oh, but I say, this is interesting, and quite fascinating. Please tell
me who else holds that place of vantage."
I mentioned the Duke of Marlborough and Sir Walter Raleigh and a few of
the heroes of old, but I said nothing about father, nor about the pale
curate, although I did mention Jonas.
"Who is Jonas?" asked Captain Carbury.
"Jonas is no longer in this world. When he was here he was a very great
hero."
"But what was he? Army, navy, church, or what?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort," I answered; "he was only our Buttons, and he
had one shoulder much higher than the other. I put him in because he
bore the pain of his livery so bravely. You see, he had to wear his
livery, or Aunt Penelope would have dismissed him. He wore it because he
wanted the money to help his mother. I call him a real hero--don't you?"
"I do. And what have I done, may I ask, to be such a privileged
person?"
"You haven't done much yet," I answered, "but I think you can do a great
deal. For instance, if there was a big war against England, I think
you'd fight and probably get your V.C."
"Bless you, child, you talk very nicely. Do you know, I have never met a
little girl who talked like this before. I hope we shall see much more
of each other, Miss Grayson."
"I hope we shall," I answered.
"I come here a good deal," continued Captain Carbury. "I am a sort of
cousin of Lady Carrington's, and she always treats me as though I were
her son. There are no people in the world like the Carringtons. By the
way, you must be excited, coming up to town just in time for your----"
"In time for what?" I asked.
"Is it possible you don't know?" he said. And he looked full at me with
his dark and serious eyes. Just then Lady Carrington came up.
"I am going to take Heather away now for a little time," she said.
"Thank you so much, Vernon, for trying to entertain her. We will expect
you to dinner this evening--no, I'm afraid Heather won't be here; she
will be much occupied for the next few days."
"Well, good-bye, Miss Heather, and thank you so much for putting me into
the gallery," said the Captain, and then he left the room.
"He is a very nice man," I said, when he had gone and I was back in the
drawing-room. "Do you know many men as nice as Captain Carbury, Lady
Carrington?"
"No, I do not," said Lady Carrington, not laughing at my remark, as some
women would have done, but pondering over it. "He is one of the
best--that is all I can say about him."
I looked across the room. The visitors had gone; Sir John had taken his
leave; Captain Carbury was no longer there.
"I want to ask you a question," I said, looking full up into Lady
Carrington's face. "Captain Carbury said something to me."
"Yes, dear child. What?"
"He supposed I was glad or excited or something, at being in time
for--and then he stopped. Please, Lady Carrington--I see you know it by
your eyes--what is it I am in time for?"
"I was going to speak to you about that," said Lady Carrington, with
extreme gravity.
"Please do," I said.
She took my hand and pressed it between both her own.
"Sir John and I," she said, "have never been blessed with a little
daughter of our very own, so we want you, as much as your father and
mother can spare you, to come and be with us. We want you morning, noon,
and night--any day or any hour."
"My father and _mother_!" I said, raising my voice to a shriek. "Lady
Carrington, who are you talking about?"
"Of course, dear, she will be only your stepmother."
"Whom do you mean?" I asked. "Please say it out quickly. Is father going
to marry? No, it can't be--it shan't be! What is it, please, Lady
Carrington--please say it quickly?"
"For many reasons I am sorry, Heather, but we must make the best of
things in this world, dear, not the worst. Your father is to be married
on Monday next to Lady Helen Dalrymple."
I sat perfectly still after she had spoken. Her news came on me like a
mighty shock--I felt quite stunned and cold. At first, too, I did not
realise any pain. Then, quickly, and, as it seemed to me, through every
avenue in my body at the same moment, pain rushed in--it filled my heart
almost to the bursting point. It turned sweetness into bitterness and
sunshine into despair. Father! Father! Father! Had I not waited for him,
all during the long years? And now!
I felt so distracted that I could not keep still. I stood up and faced
Lady Carrington; she put out her hand to touch me--I pushed her hand
away. I began to pace up and down the floor. After a few minutes Lady
Carrington followed me. Then I turned to her, almost like a little
savage. I said:
"Is there anywhere in this big, grand, horrid house where I can be quite
alone?"
"Yes, Heather, you shall be quite alone in my bedroom," said Lady
Carrington.
I had no manners at that moment, no sense of civility.
"I know the way to your bedroom," I said. I dashed upstairs without
waiting for her to lead me; I rushed into the room, I turned the key in
the lock, and then I flung myself on the floor. I was alone, thank God
for that! How I beat out my own terrible suffering, how I fought and
fought and fought with the demon who rent me, I can never describe to
any mortal. No tears came to my relief. After a time I sat up. I had so
far recovered my self-possession that I could at least remain quiet. I
went stealthily towards the big looking-glass; I saw my reflection in
it, my little pale face, my dark hair in its orderly curls--those curls
which even my tempest of grief could scarcely disarrange, my neat,
snuff-coloured brown dress--so old-fashioned and therefore none so
beloved. That morning I had gone shopping with _her_--I had allowed her
to buy me dresses on dresses, and hats and toques, and muffs, and
gloves, and shoes--oh! I would not touch one of her things! I felt at
that moment that I could have killed her! To be torn from father, to
find him again and then to lose him, that was the crudest stroke of all!
I looked at my wan face in the glass and hoped that I should die soon;
that was the only thing left to wish for--to live in such a way that I
should die soon. I thought that I might effect this by a course of
starvation. I would begin at once. To-day was Thursday--if I ate nothing
at all from the present moment until Monday, there was a good chance of
my dying on Monday. That would be the best plan.
There came a tap at the room door.
"It is I, dear," said Lady Carrington.
I even hated kind Lady Carrington at that moment. Had she not given me
the news? I went unwillingly and slowly towards the door. I unlocked it
and she entered.
"That is right," she said, looking at me and suppressing, as she told me
afterwards, a shocked exclamation, "you are calmer now, darling."
"I cannot speak of it," I said.
"Dear child, no one wants you to; and I have been arranging with your
father that you are to stay with me for the present."
"Oh, I don't want that," I said, a great lump rising in my throat; "I
want to be with him while I can have him. There is only between
now--this Thursday--until Monday. I'd like to be with him for that
little time."
"But you won't, dear Heather. He will be occupied almost entirely with
Lady Helen Dalrymple."
"Then it doesn't matter," I said. "Did you say they were downstairs,
Lady Carrington?"
"Yes; they are in the drawing-room; they are waiting for you. They asked
me to break it to you, and I did my best."
"I am quite ready to--to see them," I said.
When we reached the drawing-room a servant flung open the door. Lady
Carrington went first and I followed.
My father was standing with his profile towards me; he was looking at a
newspaper, and I think, just for a second, he was rather shy, although I
could not be sure. Lady Helen, however, made up for any awkwardness on
his part. She rushed at me and clasped me in her arms.
"Dear little daughter!" she said. "Now you know everything; in future
you will be my own little daughter. Think what a splendid time we'll
have together! Why, I'll take you everywhere--you won't know yourself.
Just tell her, Gordon, what a right good time she'll have with me."
"Jove! I should think so," said my father.
I struggled out of her arms. If I had remained in that hateful embrace
for another moment I might have slapped her. I flung myself on father's
neck, and kissed him many times, and then, all of a sudden, I began to
whisper in his ear.
"Eh, eh? What, what?" he said. "Child, you're tickling me. Oh, you want
to speak to me alone! Helen, you won't mind?"
"No, dear, I won't mind."
Lady Helen looked at me out of those strange dark eyes of hers. Her face
was brimming all over with good humour, but I know she was not pleased
with me at that moment. I had repulsed her advances, and now I was
taking father away.
"Here is a little room," said Lady Carrington, "you can both have it to
yourselves."
She opened a door, and father and I entered. The moment we were alone I
ceased to whisper and stood before father, just a little way off, but at
the same time so close that he could see me well.
"I have heard the news, Dad," I said.
"Well, and isn't it just rippin'?" he said. "Don't you congratulate
me--I, a poor beggar--to get a wife like that, and you--a mother like
that!"
"She will never be my mother, father, if you marry her a hundred times."
"Come, come, that is so _bourgeoise_, that kind of speech is so
completely out of date; but Helen will explain to you. Now, what is it
you want, little Heather? I'm sure Helen has spent enough money on your
little person to satisfy you for one morning."
"Was it her own money she spent?" I asked.
"Gracious, child!" cried my father. "What other money could she spend?"
"Why, yours--I thought it was yours," I said, with a sob.
"Mine!" he said. "I haven't a stiver in the world to bless myself with.
But there, I am a rich man for all that. Helen is rich, and what is hers
is mine, and she's going to do the right thing by you, Heather--the
right thing by you."
"Daddy," I said, very slowly, "I waited for you during all the years
while I was growing up, and yesterday I found you again--or rather, I
ought to say a few days ago, when you came to see me at Hill View, and
now again I have lost you."
"_Bourgeoise, bourgeoise_," muttered my father; "those words are
Penelope's words. She'd be sure to speak to you like that."
"Lady Carrington has asked me to stay here, and I should like to do it,"
I replied; "I am not going to wear any of the clothes _she_ bought--no,
not one, not one! But if you would come to see me to-morrow evening,
perhaps we might have one long, last chat together. That is what I
really wanted to ask you. Will you promise me, Dad?"
"Dear me, how afflicting!" said my father. "How afflicting and
sentimental and unnecessary--and after all I have lived through! I
didn't know you'd grow up that sort of child; you were such a jolly
little thing when I took you down to your aunt. It's your aunt who has
spoilt you. You can stay here, of course, if you prefer this house to
the Westminster. Helen won't like it; she has got a box for us at the
opera to-night."
"I can't go," I said.
"Very well. She would hate to see a dismal child, and your clothes won't
be ready for a day or two--at least, most of them--so perhaps you had
better stay here. I'll just go and speak to Lady Carrington."
Father left the room. By and by Lady Carrington came back alone.
"They've gone, dear," she said, "and I have made arrangements with Major
Grayson that you are to stay with us during the honeymoon, so that
altogether you will be with us for quite a month, my child. Now, during
that month I want you to be happy and to make the best of things. Do you
hear me?"
"Yes. I think I shall be happy with you. But oh! I have got a blow--I
have got a blow!" I said.