Lady Carrington and I went to St. Margaret's, Westminster, to see my
father married to Lady Helen Dalrymple. I had never witnessed a marriage
ceremony before, and thought it a very dull and dreary affair. My ideas
with regard to a bride had always been that she must be exceedingly
young and very beautiful, and now, when I saw Lady Helen, all drooping
and fragile, and in my opinion quite old, not even her beautiful Honiton
lace veil, nor her exquisite dress of some shimmering material, appealed
to me in the very least. It was with difficulty I could keep the tears
out of my eyes by fixing them firmly on the back of my father's head. I
noticed again how bald he was getting, but then his shoulders were very
broad, and he did not stoop in the least, and he had a splendid manly
sort of air. As I listened to the marriage service, I could not help
thinking of that other time, ages ago in his life, when he took my young
mother to wife, my mother who had died when I was a baby. He was young
then, and so was the bride--oh, I had no sympathy with his second
marriage!
Lady Carrington insisted on my wearing a white dress, and when the
ceremony was over, we all went to the Westminster hotel, where there
were light refreshments, and tea and coffee, and champagne, which I
hated, and would only take in the smallest sips. By and by, Lady Helen
went upstairs to change her dress. She came down again in a magnificent
"creation"--for that was the word I heard the ladies around me
describing it by--and a huge picture hat on her head. She kissed me once
or twice at the very last moment, and told me to be a good child. I
hated kisses as much as I hated her, but father, dear father, made up
for everything. He caught me in his arms and squeezed me tightly to his
breast, and said: "God for ever bless you, dear little woman!" and then
they went away, and Lady Carrington and I gazed at each other.
"Now, my dear Heather," she said cheerfully, "we are going to motor back
to my house in order to change our dresses, so as to be in time for
Captain Carbury when he brings his car round for us. You remember, dear,
that we are going to Hampton Court to-day, and we haven't a minute to
spare."
"Oh, not a minute," I replied, and I tried to feel cheered up and
excited.
After a time Captain Carbury made his appearance, and if I had no other
reason for wishing to behave bravely just then, I would not for the
world show cowardice before the man who had put me into his gallery of
heroines.
We motored down to Hampton Court, and the Captain proved himself to be a
very merry guide, so much so that I found myself laughing in spite of my
sorrow, and whenever I did so Lady Carrington gave me an approving
smile.
"I have been telling Heather about you and Dorothy, Vernon," she said,
after we had been all over the old palace, and found ourselves having
tea at one of the hotels which faced the river.
Captain Carbury gave me a quick glance, a little puzzled, a little sad,
a sort of glance which amazed me at the time, and the meaning of which I
was not to understand until afterwards.
"You must get to know Dorothy some day," he said. "I have her picture
here"--he tapped his watch-pocket--"I will show it you by and by."
As he said this, he looked full into my eyes, and I noticed more than
ever the sad expression in his. I wondered at this, and then my thoughts
wandered to Lady Dorothy Vinguard. What sort of a girl was she? Was she
nice enough to marry the man who occupied a place in my gallery of
heroes?
I spent a fairly happy fortnight with Lady Carrington. She was kindness
itself to me, and she gave me a great deal of valuable advice. She took
me to see many interesting sights, and Captain Carbury came to the house
almost every day. One day he brought Lady Dorothy to see me. I was
seated in the inner drawing-room when a tall, very pale, slender girl,
most beautifully dressed, entered the room. Her face was exactly like
that of a waxen doll; it had not a scrap of expression in it, neither
was it in the very least disagreeable. My first impression when I looked
at her was that she wanted intelligence, but then I changed my mind, for
her light-blue eyes were peculiarly watchful, and she kept looking and
looking at me, as though she would read me through. It was impossible to
tell whether Captain Carbury was devoted to her or not; she ordered him
about a good deal, and he obeyed her slightest behests. She kept all the
conversation to herself, too, and neither he nor I could edge in a
word. I never met anyone who talked so fast, and yet who seemed to say
nothing at all. Each subject she began to speak about she changed for
another before we had begun even to think of what we meant to reply.
Thus her conversation gave me at last a feeling of intense fatigue, and
I wondered how a really clever and earnest-minded man like Captain
Carbury could endure the thought of spending his life with her.
He went out of the room after a time, and then she told me, with a great
yawn, that he was a perfect lover, and that she herself was intensely
happy.
"You, of course, will fall in love and get engaged some day," she said.
"You are rather good-looking, in the old-world style; personally, I
admire the up to date sort of beauty myself, and so, I know, does
Vernon. He hates the people who are, as he expresses it, 'all fire and
flash in the pan.' That is, I am sure, how he would describe you, if he
troubled himself to describe you at all."
"I don't think he would," I said, turning very red. I longed to tell
this haughty girl that I was in his gallery of heroines, but I felt
instinctively that such a piece of information would only make her
jealous, and therefore I refrained.
By and by Captain Carbury returned, and they both went away. She
certainly was very dainty. She was like a piece of exquisite china, and,
as I said afterwards to Lady Carrington, when she wanted to get my
opinion with regard to her:
"I felt almost afraid to look at her, for fear she should break."
Lady Carrington laughed at my description, and said she did not know
that I was such a keen observer of character.
This was my very last day with my kindest of friends, for on the next I
was to go to Lady Helen's house in Hanbury Square. I knew nothing
whatever with regard to this part of London, nor where the smartest
houses were, nor where the "classy people," as they called themselves,
resided, but Lady Carrington informed me that Hanbury Square was in the
very heart of the fashionable world, and that Lady Helen's house was one
of the largest and handsomest in the whole square.
"But why is it called Lady Helen's house?" I asked. "Surely it is my
father's."
"Of course it is," she replied, and she looked a little grave, just as
though she were holding something back. How often I had seen that look
in her face--and how often, how very often, had it puzzled me, and how
completely I had failed to understand it. I did love Lady Carrington;
she was good to me, and when I bade her good-bye the next morning the
tears filled my eyes.
"Now understand, Heather," she said, "that whenever you want me I am at
your service. A new life is opening before you, my child, but I shall,
of course, be your friend, for your dead mother's sake, and for----"
"Yes, yes?" I cried. "Say the rest, say the rest!"
"And, little Heather, for the memory of what your father was."
"I don't understand you," I said; "you hint and hint things against my
own darling father--oh! don't do it again! Speak out if you must, but
don't hint things ever again!"
"Think nothing of my words," said Lady Carrington; "forget that they
were uttered. Don't turn against me, little Heather; you may need my
friendship."
I was, indeed, to need that friendship, and right soon. But I felt
almost angry with Lady Carrington as I drove away.
Certainly the house in Hanbury Square was very smart; it had all been
newly got-up, in preparation for the bride. There was new paint outside,
and new paint and beautiful wainscots and soft papers within, and there
were flower-boxes at every window, and the floors were covered with
heavy-piled carpets, and there were knick-knacks and flowers and very
costly furniture greeting one at each turn. It was a big house, in short
a mansion, with front stairs and back stairs, and rooms innumerable. A
very lovely room had been set aside for me. It was called the
"Forget-me-not" room, and was on the first floor. I had a bathroom, with
hot and cold water laid on, quite to myself; I also had a dressing-room,
with a wonderful toilet table and wash-hand stand and appliances for the
toilet. And in my bedroom was a great wardrobe made of walnut wood, and
the beautiful little bed had lace-trimmed pillow-slips and sheets. Until
I entered this room I had never even imagined such luxury.
A very neat, quiet-looking girl, who told me her name was Morris, met me
on the threshold of my room.
"I am your special maid, miss," she said. "Lady Helen said I was to do
everything in my power to help you."
"But you are not Anastasia," I replied.
The girl started back, and stared at me.
"Who is Anastasia, miss?" she asked, after a minute's pause.
"Oh," I answered, "Anastasia is my dear old nurse; she brought me home
from India years and years ago, and afterwards I lost her. I want father
to find her again for me, for I really wish her to be my maid."
"You will perhaps speak to my mistress, miss," replied Morris, in a
demure voice.
"Why so?" I asked. "I shall speak to my father, Major Grayson."
The girl made no answer, but I noticed that a smile, a peculiar smile,
lingered round her lips.
"Perhaps, miss," she said, after a pause, "I had best begin to unpack
your trunks, for her ladyship and the Major may be here by tea time,
and, of course, you will like to be ready to meet them, and you'd wish
me to arrange your hair, and help you on with your afternoon frock
before they come."
I took some keys out of a little bag I wore at my side.
"Do as you please," I said.
I sat on a low chair and watched her. Then I said, suddenly:
"I am horribly sick of dress!"
"Oh, miss!" remarked Morris, raising her placid face to mine, for she
was on her knees by this time, unfastening my largest trunk, "I did
think that young ladies lived for their dress."
"Well, I am not one of those young ladies," was my reply. "I never
thought of dress until a few weeks ago. I used to put on the dress I was
to wear when I first got up in the morning, and I never thought of it
again until I took it off to go to bed."
"You must have lived in a very quiet way, miss."
"I lived in a sensible way," I replied.
"I should not like it for myself, miss."
"Perhaps not, perhaps you are vain--I can't bear vain people."
The girl coloured, and bent again over the trunk. I rested my elbows on
my knees, pressed my hands against my cheeks, and stared at her.
"I don't wish to offend you, Morris," I said; "I want us two to be
friends."
"Thank you, miss."
"But I do wish to say," I continued, "that I consider it awfully
frivolous to have to put on a special dress for morning, and another
dress for afternoon, and yet another dress, just when tea comes in, and
another dress for dinner. Privately, I think it quite wicked, and I am
sure you must agree with me."
"It is what's done in society, miss," answered the girl. "They all do
like that, those who move in the best society."
She began to unpack rapidly, and I watched her. I reflected within
myself that I had left Hill View with no clothes except the ones I was
wearing, and what were contained in my tiny trunks. Now I had several
big trunks, and they were crammed, pressed full, with the newest and
most wonderful dresses; and besides the dresses there were mantles, and
coats, and opera cloaks, and all sorts of the most exquisite, the most
perfect underclothing in the world. Morris was a quick lady's maid; she
evidently understood her duties thoroughly well. She had soon unpacked
my trunks, and then she suggested that I should wear a dress of the
palest, most heavenly blue, in order to greet her ladyship and Major
Grayson. I said, "Is it necessary?" and she replied, "Certainly it is,"
and after that I submitted to her manipulations. She helped me into my
dress, arranged my hair in a simple and very becoming manner, and then
she looked at me critically.
"Am I all right now?" I asked.
"Yes, miss, I think you will do beautifully."
I thanked her, and ran downstairs. There were three, or even four
drawing-rooms to the house, each one opening into the other. I chose the
smallest drawing-room, ensconced myself in an easy-chair, and tried to
imagine that I was about to enjoy everything; but my heart was beating
horribly, and I came to the conclusion that every one of the four
drawing-rooms was hideous. They were not the least like the reception
rooms at Lady Carrington's. There the furniture was rich, and yet
simple; there was no sense of overcrowding, the tables were not laden
with knick-knacks, and there were comparatively few chairs and lounges,
only just enough for people to use. The walls were undecorated, except
by one or two pictures, the works of masters. There were not more than
two pictures in each room, for Lady Carrington had assured me that
pictures were the richest ornaments of all, and I fully agreed with her.
Now these rooms were totally different--the chairs, the tables, the
sofas, the lounges, the grand piano, the little piano, the harpsichord,
the spinning-wheel, the pianola, gave one a sense of downright
oppression. The walls were laden with pictures of every sort and
description--some of them I did not admire in the very least; and there
was old china and old glass, very beautiful, I had little doubt, but to
me extremely inharmonious. I discovered soon that what these rooms
needed was a sense of rest. There was not a single spot where the eye
could remain quiet; wherever one looked one felt inclined to start and
exclaim, and jump up and examine. I came to the conclusion that I
preferred Aunt Penelope's very plain little drawing-room at home to
this.
By and by an exceedingly tall young man in smart blue livery threw open
the folding doors, and another equally tall young man in the same livery
entered with a silver tray. The man who first came into the room pulled
out a table and placed the tray on it, and presently a third man
appeared with quantities of food. The first man poked up the fire, the
second acquainted me with the fact that tea was quite ready, and
afterwards the three left the room, closing the door softly behind them.
Their velvet tread oppressed me; I wanted the door to bang; I wanted
to hear a good, loud, wholesome noise.
Yes, I was at home in my father's house, but truth to tell, I had never
felt less home-like in the whole course of my life. I poured myself out
a cup of tea, and ate a morsel of bread and butter. Suddenly, before I
had finished my first cup of tea, I heard quick sounds in the hall;
there were footsteps, and several voices speaking together; people
seemed to be rushing hither and thither, and I heard a staccato voice
mingling with the tones of a deep one, a deep one that I knew and loved.
Then the voices and the footsteps came nearer, until a big man and a
lady entered the outer drawing-room and came straight into the little
room where I was sitting. The man smiled all over his face, said,
"Hallo, little woman!" caught me up in his arms and kissed me; the lady
said coldly, "How do you do, child? Pour me out a cup of tea, and be
quick; I am fainting with exhaustion. Gordon, will you go upstairs and
take your great-coat off, and then come down and have tea like a
Christian?"
"Oh, but he must stay," I answered, for I was feeling his face and
kissing him over and over, and rubbing my cheek against his.
[Illustration: "'Oh, but he must stay,' I answered".]
"Gordon, please go at once," said his wife.
My hands were released, the blue eyes of Major Grayson looked full into
mine. Certainly father's eyes were the most wonderful in all the world.
They seemed to me to hold within their depths a mixture of every sort of
emotion, of fun, of reluctant, half ashamed, half pleased, half boyish
penitence, of sorrow, of a pathos which was always there and always half
hidden, and also of a queer and indescribable nobility, which,
notwithstanding the fact that I had not seen him for years, and
notwithstanding the other fact that he had married a worldly woman when
he might have made me so happy, seemed to have grown and strengthened on
his face. He kissed one of his hands to me, raised Lady Helen's jewelled
hand to his lips, bowed to her, smiled, and departed.
"He has charming manners," she said, and then she turned to me.
"Bring me food, child," she said; "I want you to wait on me to-day; I am
tired; we had a very rough crossing. To-morrow I shall take you in hand,
but you are tremendously improved already. Yes, your father has
delightful manners--we shall win through yet; but it will be a battle."
"What do you mean by 'winning through'?" I asked.
"Nothing that you need interfere about," she answered, a little sharply;
"only listen to me once for all. I am not Lady Helen Dalrymple for
nothing, and when I stoop to conquer I do conquer. Now then, fetch me
the cake basket; I am ravenously hungry and have a passion for
chocolate."
I gave her what she required, and she ate without looking at me, her
sharp eyes wandering round and round the room.
"Why, how hideous!" she suddenly exclaimed. "How more than wrong of
Clarkson! I gave orders that the curtains in this room were to be
rose-pink; those dull blue abominations must come down; we won't have
them--they'd try anyone's complexion. Child, for goodness' sake don't
stare! And yet, come and let me look at you. That blue dress suits you;
but then you are young, and you have a complexion for blue."
She patted my hand for a minute, then she yawned profoundly.
"I am glad to be home," she said. "A honeymoon when you are no longer
young is fatiguing, to say the least of it, and I am sick of hotel
life. I have already sent out my 'At Home' invitations, and for the next
few days the house will be crammed every afternoon. You will have to be
present--why, of course, you will--don't knit your brows together like
that. I mean to be a good stepmother to you, Heather. Ah, here comes
Gordon. Gordon, you look very presentable now. Sit close to me on this
sofa, and let Heather give you some tea. It's nice to have one's own
girl to wait on one, isn't it?"
"Profoundly nice," said the Major; "exquisitely nice. To think that we
have a child of our very own, Helen!"
"I don't think about it," replied Lady Helen. "It isn't my custom to
wear myself out going into raptures, but, Gordon, I am very seriously
displeased about those curtains."
"Curtains, dear--what ails them? I see nothing wrong in them."
"But I do. I told Clarkson's people rose-colour, soft rose-colour, and
they sent blue--I will never get anything at Clarkson's again."
"They must be changed, sweetest one," replied my father.
I was giving him a cup of tea just then, and my hand shook. My
stepmother noticed this; she said, in a sharp voice:
"Heather, get me a fan; that fire will spoil my complexion."
I fetched her one. She held it between herself and the fire.
"By the way, Gordon," she said suddenly, "we had better tell the child
now."
"Oh, what?" I asked in some astonishment and also alarm.
"Really, Heather, you need not give way to such undue excitement. A year
of my training will completely change you. I only wished to mention the
fact that your name is no longer Grayson; in future you are Heather
Dalrymple. Your father and I have agreed that you both take my name;
that is a thing often done when there is a question of money. I hold the
purse strings. I am a very generous person as regards money; Major,
dear, you can testify to that."
"I can, Helen. There never was your like, you are wonderful."
"You therefore are little Heather Dalrymple in future," continued my
stepmother, "and your father and I are Major and Lady Helen Dalrymple.
It's done, child, it's settled; the lawyers have arranged it all.
Grayson is a frightful name; you ought to be truly thankful that it is
in my power to change it for you. You need not even wait for your
marriage; the change takes place at once."
"But I prefer my own name," I answered. "I don't want to have your name.
Father, please speak--father, I am not Heather Dalrymple!"
"Oh, make no fuss about it, child," replied my father. "I have long ago
come to the wise conclusion that nothing wears one out like making a
fuss. Now, my dear, good, sweet, little Heather, I grieve to have to
tell you that your disposition promises to land you in old age before
your time. You fuss about everything. You fussed yourself almost into
your grave when I was obliged to leave you with Penelope Despard, and
yet how good poor old Pen was to you all the time! And then you were
very impolite to your new mother when you heard that I was about to be
married."
"Oh, I am willing to forget and forgive all that," said Lady Helen. "The
child was young and taken by surprise. We enter to-day a new world. I do
my best for her; she must do her best for me. If you are a good girl,
Heather, you will see what a happy life you will have as my daughter."
"Please, please, father," I said, suddenly, "may I have Anastasia to be
my maid? There is a girl upstairs who calls herself Morris, and she says
she is my maid, but I really do want Anastasia back."
"Ask her ladyship, and do it in a pretty way," said my father, and he
gave my hand a playful pinch.
"And this carpet," muttered Lady Helen. "I particularly said that the
carpet was to be of a pale green, that sort of very soft green which
sets off everything, and it is--goodness gracious!--it is a sort of pale
blue, not even the tone of the curtains. How atrocious! Yes, Heather,
yes--what is it?"
"I do want to ask you, please," I said, "if Anastasia may come back?"
"Anastasia?" said Lady Helen. "I have never heard of her. Who is she?"
"She used to be my nurse when I was in India, and she sailed with father
and me in the good ship _Pleiades_. Oh, father! don't you remember the
charm you gave me, and how we talked of gentle gales and prosperous
winds? And, father, here's the charm, the dear old charm!"
"When you talk to me," said Lady Helen, "you will have the goodness to
look at me. You want the woman--what did you say her name was?"
"Anastasia. It's quite a nice name," I answered. "I want her to be my
maid instead of Morris."
"To be your maid?"
"Please, please, Lady Helen."
"Can she sew? Can she make blouses? Can she arrange hair fashionably?
Can she put on your dress as it ought to be put on? I may as well say at
once that I don't intend to take a pale, gawky girl about with me. You
must look nice, as you can and will, if you have a proper maid, and I
attend to your clothes. Can she alter your dresses when they get a
little _outré_? In short, is the woman a lady's maid at all?"
"She used to be my nurse, and I love her," I answered stoutly.
"I cannot possibly have her back. Don't speak of it again. And now,
Heather, I have something else to say. When you address me you are not
to call me 'Lady Helen,' you are to say 'Mother.' The fact is, I can't
stand sentimental nonsense. Your own mother has been in her grave for
many years. If I am to act as a mother to you, I intend to have the
title. Now say the word; say this--say, 'Please, mother, may I go
upstairs to my private sitting-room, and may I leave you and father
alone together?' Say the words, Heather."
I turned very cold, and I have no doubt my face was white.
"Yes, Heather, say the words," cried father.
His blue eyes were extremely bright, and there was a spot of vivid
colour on both his cheeks. He looked at me with such a world of longing,
such an expression of almost fear, that for his sake I gave in.
"I will do what you wish for my father's sake," I said, slowly. "I am
not your child, and you are not my mother. My mother is in her grave,
and when she lived her name was Grayson, not Dalrymple; but if it makes
father happy for me to say 'mother,' I will say it."
"It makes me most oppressively happy, my little Heather," cried my
father.
"Then I will do it for you, Daddy," I said.
Lady Helen frowned at me. I went slowly out of the room.