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, _most_
astounding. 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.
"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! _How_ can 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 is _quite_ sufficient 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.
"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 about _afterwards_," 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."