Aunt Penelope got better very quickly; having turned the corner, there
were no relapses. Whether it was my society or whether she was easier
and happier in her mind, or whatever the cause, she lost her cough, she
lost her weakness, and became very much the Aunt Penelope of old. I
watched her with a kind of fearful joy. I was glad she was so much
better, and yet I trembled for the day, which I knew was approaching,
when I must return to Hanbury Square. Aunt Penelope used to look at me
with the steadfast gaze which I had found very trying when a little
child, but which I now appreciated for its honesty and directness. It
was as though she were reading my very heart.
Meanwhile, no letters of any sort arrived; not one from my father, not
one from Captain Carbury. I pretended to be very glad that Vernon did
not write, but down deep in my heart of hearts I know that I was sorry;
I know, too, that my heart beat quicker than usual when the postman's
knock came to the door, and I know that that same heart went down low,
low in my breast, when he passed by without any missive for me.
At last there came an evening when Aunt Penelope and I had a long talk
together. On that evening we settled the exact day when I was to return
to my father and to Lady Helen. We were able to talk over everything now
without any secret between us, and that fact was a great comfort to me.
Once she spoke about my dear father's sin, but when she began on that
subject I stopped her.
"When you forgive, is it not said that you ought also to forget?"
"What do you mean, Heather?"
"Well, you have forgiven him, haven't you?"
"I never said I had."
"I think you have, and I think you must; and as you have forgiven, so,
of course, you will absolutely forget."
She made no reply for a long time. Then she rose, kissed me lightly on
the forehead, and said:
"You are a good child, Heather, you take after your poor mother. Now go
out and help Jonas with the tea."
I went out, and it was that very day that an extraordinary thing
happened--that thing which, all of a sudden, changed my complete life.
Jonas and I were in the kitchen; we were excellent friends. I was busy
buttering some toast, which he was making at the nice, bright, little
fire. Tea had been made and it was drawing on the top of the range.
There was a snowy-white cloth on the little tray, and when enough
buttered toast had been made I was going to carry the tray into the
drawing-room, for Aunt Penelope liked me to do this, in order to save
Buttons and give him more time to "look after the garden," as she
expressed it. We were so employed, and were fairly happy, although we
both knew quite well that I must shortly take my leave, and that the
little house would have to do without me--that Jonas would have nobody
to help him, and that Aunt Penelope would miss me every hour of the day.
Well, as we were thus occupied, I suddenly heard someone run up the
steps which led to the front door. There were four or five steps, rather
steep ones. The person who ascended now must have been young and agile,
for there was quite a ringing sound as each step was surmounted. Then
there came a pull at the bell and a sharp, very quick "rat-tat" on the
front door.
"Miss Heather, who can it be?" said Jonas.
He had his toasting-fork in his hand and a great slice of tempting brown
toast, which he was just finishing, on the edge of it; his round, very
blue eyes were fixed on my face. For no earthly reason that anyone can
tell I felt myself changing colour, and I knew that my heart began to
beat in a very queer and excitable way.
"What can it be?" repeated Jonas. "It's a man, by the step. I'll take a
peep out by the area."
"Oh no, Jonas, you mustn't," I said; but I might as well have spoken to
the wind. Jonas, toasting-fork, toast and all, were out of sight. The
next minute he came tiptoeing back.
"It's as smart a young gent as I ever laid eyes on," he said. "Miss
Heather, for the Lord's sake slip upstairs and put on your best
'Sunday-go-to-meeting' dress and tidy your 'air, miss, it's ruffled from
doing things in the kitchen, and take the smut off your cheek,
and--there! I mustn't keep him waiting any longer. He be a bloomin' fine
boy and no mistake."
"Let me pass you, Jonas; I'll go first," I said, and in this fashion we
both left the kitchen, I rushed to my room--I wasn't above taking a
hint from Jonas; soon one of my pretty frocks, which I used to wear at
Lady Helen's, was on once more, a white embroidered collar encircled my
throat, my hair was tidily arranged, the obnoxious smut removed, and I
came slowly downstairs. Jonas was waiting for me on the bottom step.
"It's you he's asked for, miss--he's a captain in the harmy, no less.
Carbury his name be. I 'as took in the tea, and my missus is chatting
with him as lively and pleasant as you please. You go in, miss; you're
all right now, you look like any queen. Ring if you want me, Miss
Heather; don't you be doing things yourself when a gent like that's in
the house. Ring and give your orders properly, same as if there was
twenty Jonases here instead of one. I'm not tired, not a bit of it; I'm
real pleased to see you looking so perky, miss."
I put out my hand and touched his; he grasped mine in a sort of pleased
astonishment, and tears absolutely moistened his eyes.
"Go in and prosper, miss," he said, and then he dashed downstairs.
I entered the drawing-room.
There was no one like Vernon. He had a trick of making friends with
people in about two minutes and a half. It could never be said of Aunt
Penelope that she was a person who was brought quickly round to be cosy
and confidential and friendly with anyone; it had taken me the greater
part of my life to know the dear old lady as she really ought to be
known, and yet, here was Vernon, seated on a low chair facing the tea
table, and absolutely pouring out tea for himself and Aunt Penelope! He
looked up as I entered, threw down the sugar tongs with a slight
clatter, came towards me and gave my hand a squeeze.
"She's much too weak, Heather, to be bothered making tea, so I thought
I'd do it."
"He is making it very nicely, Heather, my dear," said Aunt Penelope,
"and I don't see why he should not go on. I'm quite interested in
Captain Carbury's stories about the army; it is so long since I have met
a soldier. I assure you, Captain Carbury, in my young days I hardly ever
met anyone else."
"And a very great advantage for the army, madam," said Vernon, with that
pleasant twinkle in his eyes which would have made an Irish girl call
him "a broth of a boy" at once.
I sat down; I found it difficult to talk. Aunt Penelope took no notice
of me; she kept up a ceaseless chatter with Vernon. He was in the best
of spirits; I never saw anything like the way he managed her. What could
he have said to her during those very few minutes while I was changing
my dress and tidying my hair and getting that smut off my cheek?
The tea came to an end at last, and then the dear old lady rose.
"Heather," she said, "I am a little tired, and am going to lie down. You
can entertain Captain Carbury. Captain, I have not the least idea what
this dear child of mine has ordered for supper, but whatever it is I
hope you will share it with us. We should both like you to do so."
"Thank you, I shall be delighted," he replied, and then Aunt Penelope
went out of the room. The moment she had gone Vernon looked at me and I
looked at him.
"Oh, you have done wrong," I said, "you know you have done wrong!"
"Shall we have our little talk," he said, in his calmest voice, "before
or after Buttons removes the tea-things?"
"Oh, what do the tea-things matter?" I replied. "Let them stay. Vernon,
you oughtn't to have come here."
"Oughtn't I? But I very well think I ought. Why shouldn't a man come to
see the girl who has promised to marry him?"
"Vernon, you know--you got my letter?"
"I did certainly get a letter--an extraordinarily dear, sweet, pathetic
little letter. Well, my dear, I have acted on it, that's all."
"Acted on it, Vernon! What do you mean?"
He put his hand into his pocket and took the letter out.
"Come and sit close to me on the sofa, Heather."
"No, no; I can't; I daren't!"
"But you can and dare. Do you suppose I am going to stand this sort of
thing? You are the girl I am going to marry. Heather, what nonsense you
are talking! Kiss me this minute!"
"Vernon, you know I daren't kiss you."
"And I know you dare and shall and will. Come, this minute--this very
minute."
"Oh, Vernon! Oh, Vernon!"
Before I could prevent him his arms were round me and his lips were
pressed to mine. The moment I felt the touch of those lips I ceased to
struggle against his will and lay passive in his arms. My heart quieted
down, and a great peace, added to a wonderful joy, filled me.
"Vernon, dear Vernon!"
"Say 'darling Vernon'; that's better than dear."
"Oh, well, if I must--darling Vernon!"
"Say 'your very own Vernon,' whom you will marry."
"Vernon, I can't. I will not tie you to me and to shame."
"Of course you won't, you poor darling; but suppose--now I think this is
about the stage when the hero and heroine had best sit on the sofa, or
the heroine may perhaps faint."
"Vernon, what are you talking about?"
"We are quite comfortable now," he said.
He drew me very close to him, and put his arm round my waist.
"You little angel!" he said, "you darling! When I marry you I marry
_honour_, not shame. Yes--honour, not shame. I marry the bravest girl on
earth and the daughter of the bravest gentleman in His Majesty's army."
"Vernon, what do you mean?"
"I will tell you. Now you stay quite quiet and listen. Are you aware of
the fact--perhaps you are not--that that dear Lady Helen, that precious
stepmother of yours, has a brother who was in the army?"
"Has she?" I asked. "I didn't know."
"Well, I happen to be aware of the fact. He was a good-for-nothing, if
anyone was in all the world. His name was Gideon Dalrymple. Surely your
father has sometimes spoken to you about Colonel Dalrymple?"
"Never," I said.
"Well, it doesn't greatly matter; you're not likely to hear a great deal
about him in the future--he is the sort of person whose history people
shut up; but before that time comes I--have some work to do in
connection with that same excellent officer in His Majesty's army."
"Stop!" I said suddenly. I bent forward and looked into his eyes; my own
were blazing with excitement, and my cheeks must have been full of
colour.
"Vernon, I recall a time, it comes back to me. I went unexpectedly into
a room where my father and stepmother were seated. I saw my darling
father in a rage, one of the few rages I have seen him in since his
marriage. I heard him say to her: 'Your brother will not enter this
house!' Can he be the same man?"
"Beyond doubt he is. Well, now, I will tell you that when I first knew
you I also knew, as did most people who were acquainted with your
father, something of his story. I knew that he had gone through a time
of terrible punishment; that he had been cashiered; that he was supposed
to have committed a very heinous crime--in short, that he was the sort
of person whom no upright soldier would speak to."
"Yes," I said, trembling very much; "that is what one would think, that
is what I said in my letter. Only you understand, Vernon, that I am on
his side--he and I bear the same shame."
"Little darling, not a bit of it. There's no shame for you to bear. But
let me go on. You remember that day when I met you in Hyde Park?"
"_The_ day?" I said.
"_The_ day, Heather. You and I walked back to the house in Hanbury
Square together. You were sent out of the room. I had a long talk with
your stepmother and with your father--no matter now what was said. I was
beside myself for a time, but I made up my mind then that whatever
happened I'd woo you and win you and get you and keep you! Something
else also haunted me, and that was the fact that your father, Major
Grayson, was not in the least like the sort of man I had expected him to
be. I have, Heather, I believe, the power of reading character, and if
ever there was a man who had a perfectly beautiful, honourable
expression, if ever there was a man who could _not_ do the sort of thing
which Major Grayson had been accused of doing, that man was your father.
Before I left the house I was as certain of his innocence as I was of my
own."
"You darling!" I said. I stooped and kissed his hand.
"Then I thought of you, and I said to myself: 'She's Major Grayson's
worthy daughter,' and--I gave myself up to thinking out this thing.
People can go to the British Museum, Heather, and can read the
newspapers of any date, so I went there on the following morning and
read up the whole of your father's trial. I read the evidence for and
against him, and I discovered that there was a great deal of talk about
a Gideon Dalrymple--the Honourable Gideon Dalrymple, as he was called.
He was mixed up in the thing. I went farther into particulars, and
discovered that this man was the brother of Lady Helen. I sat and
thought over that fact for a long time. I took it home to my rooms with
me and thought it over there; I thought it over and over and over, but I
could not see daylight, only I was more and more certain that your
father was innocent.
"Then I got your letter, and that letter was just enough to stir me up
and to make me wild, to put me into a sort of frenzy. So at last I said
to myself: 'There's nothing like bearding the lion in his den,' and one
day, quite early in the morning, I called at the house in Hanbury
Square. I asked to see Lady Helen Dalrymple, and as I stood at the door
a boy came up with a telegram. The telegram was taken in, and I was also
admitted, for I gave the sort of message that would cause a woman of her
description to see me. She was in her boudoir, and she came forward in a
frenzy of distraction and grief, and said: 'What do you want? Go away! I
am in dreadful trouble; I won't see you--it's like your impertinence to
come here!'
"'I won't keep you long,' I said. 'I want to get at once from you
Colonel Gideon Dalrymple's private address, for I have something of the
utmost importance to talk over with him.'
"'What?' she screamed. 'You can't see him--you can't possibly see him.
He's very ill. I've just had a telegram from a nursing home where he is
staying. I am on my way to see him myself. My poor, poor brother!'
"'Oh, then, if he is ill, of course he'll confess,' I said. 'I may as
well go with you. He has got to confess, sooner or later, and the sooner
he does it the better.'"
"Vernon! You said _that_ to her?"
"Yes, Heather; I said all that."
"Oh, you had courage. But what did you mean?"
"I knew quite well what I meant. I had gathered a few facts together
from those papers, and I meant to put the screw on when I saw the
victim. Was not I working for home, and love, and wife? Was I likely to
hesitate? Was I not working for a good man's honour? What else is a
soldier worth if he can't make the best of such a job as I had set
myself?
"Well, the long and short of it was this, Heather. That woman got as
meek as a mouse. I put the screw on her right away, and she was so
frightened she hardly knew what to do; so terrified was she that in less
than ten minutes I could do anything with her, and in a quarter of an
hour she and I were going in her motor-car to the home where the
Honourable Gideon was lying at the point of death, owing to a fresh
attack of his old enemy, D.T. We both saw him together, and the moment I
looked at his face I said to myself: 'You're the boy; you have got the
ugly sort of face that would be capable of doing that sort of low-down,
mean thing.'
"Afterwards I saw him alone; I put the screw on at once, but quite
quietly. The doctor had said that he couldn't possibly recover, and I
said that it would be much better for him to ease his conscience. So he
did ease it, with a vengeance. He was in such a mortal funk at the
thought of dying that he told me the whole thing. It was he who forged
the cheque and took the money, and he and Lady Helen between them got
your father to bear the brunt of the blame--in short, to act as the
scapegoat. You see, your father was half mad about Lady Helen then, and
she could do anything with him: he was badly in debt, too, and half off
his head with trouble. Your father spent ten years in penal servitude,
and all for the sake of a woman who was not worth her salt. It was
arranged between them that he was to save her brother, and that she
would marry him and take his part, and give him of her enormous wealth
when he came out of prison. It was a nicely-arranged plan, and why he
ever yielded to it is more than I can make out; but guilty--he was never
guilty.
"When that precious Gideon had told his story, I got in proper witnesses
and had it all written down, and he put his signature to it, and I had
that signature witnessed. After that I did not bother much about him; he
died in the night.
"I went to Lady Helen next day, and told her what was to be expected. I
said: 'Your husband's honour has to be cleared.' She was in an awful
funk, but I did not care. I never saw anyone in such a state; I don't
know what she did not promise me. She said I might marry you, and
welcome, and that she'd settle ten, or even twenty thousand pounds on
you. As if either of us would touch a farthing of her money! But in the
end your father himself came to the rescue, and said that if you knew he
was innocent, and I knew he was innocent, he was accustomed to the
opinion of the world, and he would be true to Lady Helen as long as he
lived. It was quixotic of him--much too quixotic; but there, that's how
things stand. Oh, of course, I forgot--your Aunt Penelope is to know,
and we may be married as soon as ever we like--to-morrow by special
licence, if we can't wait any longer, but anyhow as soon as possible.
There, little Heather. Now, haven't I a right to kiss you? And what
nonsense you did talk in your sweet little letter, your precious letter,
which I will keep, all the same, until my dying day!"
Vernon put his arm round me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. My
first sensation was one of absolute peace. Oh! my light and happy heart!
Oh! my father--my hero once again!