We said very little to each other that night at the comfortable little
hotel. I think we were all very tired. Aunt Penelope went early to bed,
Vernon and I stayed downstairs and talked about our future. We talked
languidly, however; our thoughts were not even with our own happy future
at that moment. I was thinking all the time of my father, and I know
well that Vernon was thinking of him also. Aunt Penelope went to bed
between nine and ten o'clock; it was between ten and eleven when the
door of the private sitting-room was flung open and a servant announced:
"Major Grayson," and my dear father came in. His face was flushed, and
his eyes looked feverishly bright. He came up to us both with his hands
extended.
"My dear, good, kind children," he said; then he paused for a minute
until the waiter had shut the door. Then he took me into his arms and
kissed me half a dozen times, and then he wrung Vernon's hand and said,
"My dear boy--my good boy!" Afterwards we all got a little calmer and
sat down, I sinking close to father's side and Vernon standing opposite
to us.
"Come, now," said father, after a minute's pause, "you must give it all
up, you know. Yes, Vernon, my boy, you must give it up, and so must that
dear Pen, and so must my little Heather. I am but fulfilling a promise
made long years ago. You none of you understand. I'll pull along
somehow, in some kind of fashion, but I won't drag that poor woman's
name into the dust. You see, my children, she doesn't know what it
means, but I do. I have plenty of strength in me--the great strength of
innocence, which supported me all through my terrible period of
imprisonment, and also the strength which is but seldom given to a
woman. Anyhow, she is not to suffer; I put down my foot. She has told me
all; I found her in a terrible state; I had to send a doctor to her. She
is in bed now; he was obliged to give her a soothing draught. Children,
both of you, I shall live in your happiness, and my own does not matter.
I can't desert Helen Dalrymple, and, what's more, I won't!"
"Oh, Daddy!" I said. "Oh, Daddy!"
I laid my head on his shoulder and began to sob.
"I can't live without you," I whispered, and I pressed my lips to his
rough cheek and kissed him. He put his arm round me very firmly.
"You will live and be very happy, little girl. And now, look here; I
could not leave our house in Hanbury Square until Helen was asleep, then
I thought I'd come round and have a talk with you. When she wakens she
must be told that you are not going to do anything. She will drop you
out of her life, Heather, and so much the better--yes, so much the
better. I can get a promise out of her that I shall come and see you now
and again, and when I do come I can assure you, my two dear young
people, I shall be as jolly as a sand-boy; you won't have anything to
complain of on that score. But while I'm here I'll just hold to the
bargain I made long years ago."
"Oh, father, father!" I said. "Why did you make it? Why did you do it?
Why did you sacrifice yourself for her and for that man?"
"Hush, child! You can't read all a man's motives. At that time I--I
really cared for Lady Helen. Not, perhaps, Heather, as I loved your
mother, but I was fond of her, undoubtedly; and if this trouble had
never come I should probably have married her. She loved me too. I'll
tell you one or two things I left out the other day. I had proposed to
her long before that fearful scandal came to our ears in connection with
her brother. She had refused me. I had begged and prayed her to be my
wife, but she had firmly refused. Then I got into debt; I always was an
extravagant slap-dash sort of person. I was very unhappy, and I brought
you back to England--you remember that time, don't you, little woman?"
"Oh, yes," I said, trying to bring my thoughts back to the distant past.
"She wanted me to do so. She thought it very bad to have a child as old
as you in India. I settled with your aunt to keep you. My debts haunted
me and although Lady Helen refused to marry me, she lent me money to pay
my debts. I went back to India, and then the thunderclap came. Lady
Helen's brother would undoubtedly have been arrested if I had not thrown
myself into the breach. I thought out a plan very quickly; I liked Helen
and I pitied her, and I did not think my own life worth saving. I went
to Helen and told her that I could put the officers of justice off the
scent and get the crime fastened on myself, and I would do so on
condition that she married me when I came out of prison. She agreed,
and there we are. Now, my dear Heather, as that's the story, I could not
go back from my bargain now."
"It was a very bad bargain for you," I could not help saying. I trembled
very much, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.
"But we must keep our bargains, whether they are good or bad, Heather,"
whispered my father to me. "That is the law of life: as we sow we shall
reap. And I am not altogether unhappy, not since this good fellow has
found out the truth and I am cleared in his eyes, and in the eyes of
you, my child, and in my sister-in-law's eyes. Nothing else greatly
matters. Heather, you are in the morning of your days, I am in the
evening of life. When we come to the evening of life nothing concerns
us, except so to live that we may fear God and do His commandments, and
so fulfil the duty of man. That's about all, child. I am more grateful
to you than I can say, and more than grateful to you, Carbury. Give poor
dear Pen my love when she wakes, and tell her that it is quite all
right--yes, quite all right. I am in the evening of life, and I will do
my duty worthily to the very end."
As father said the last words he got up. He took me in his arms and
kissed me; there was a solemnity about his kiss, and his dear, bright
blue eyes looked softer than I had seen them for a long time.
"Heather, you're the image of your mother," he said abruptly. "And
she--bless her memory!--she was the one woman in all the world for me."
Then he wrung Vernon's hand and went away. We could not detain him. I
sat up for a little longer with Vernon, and then I went upstairs to bed.
Vernon was staying in an hotel not far away.
All that long night I lay awake, not for one minute could I slumber. My
past seemed to come before my eyes, it seemed to torture me. I felt
somehow as though I were passing into a region of great darkness, as
though I were going--I, myself--through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death. What right--oh, what right had I to be happy when my father, my
darling father, was thought so cruelly of by the world! I felt I could
not bear it. I got up, I paced the floor, I drank cold water, I went to
bed again, I tried every dodge for coaxing sleep to come to me, but
sleep would not obey my mandate. At last morning broke, and with the
first blush of dawn I got up. I was downstairs and in the breakfast-room
when Vernon appeared. He brought in some beautiful roses; he laid them
on my plate.
"Have you told Aunt Penelope yet?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "I have not seen her since last night."
Just at that moment my dear auntie entered the room.
"Well, children," she said, "I hope you have slept well. I have. I have
got a great accession of strength and am determined to go right through
with this matter. We'll wait here, as promised, until twelve o'clock,
then we'll go straight to my solicitors, and, hey, presto! the thing is
done. That fine madam will be down on her knees to us before the day is
over. I know the sort--horrible, painted wretch!"
"You will have some breakfast before you do anything else, won't you?"
said Vernon.
He took the head of the breakfast table. Really nothing could ever
discompose Captain Carbury. He poured out tea and coffee for us both.
Aunt Penelope ate her breakfast with appetite; then she desired me to
sit by the window and watch.
"We have given her till twelve o'clock, but the woman may send round
long before then, that's what I am expecting."
I looked at Vernon. The waiter had removed the breakfast things; we had
the room to ourselves. Vernon went and shut the door, then he came up to
Aunt Penelope and took her hand.
"Twelve o'clock won't make any difference, my dear friend," he said.
"Why, what on earth do you mean, Vernon?" was her remark. "You surely
are not backing out of it!"
"Heather and I can have nothing to do with it."
"You and Heather? what nonsense you talk! I don't believe I am hearing
you aright."
"Yes, you are. Major Grayson was here last night; he came after you had
gone to bed. He doesn't wish it done; he says he will abide by his
bargain. He is as brave a soldier as I have ever come across, and for my
part I don't see why he should be deprived of his laurel wreath."
"Oh, what are you talking about!" said Aunt Penelope. "His laurel
wreath! Why, you know as well as I do that he's cashiered from the
army. And you call that a glory, or whatever else you consider a laurel
wreath!"
"In the eyes of God he is a hero, and he doesn't much mind what man
says. Now, I'll tell you everything. You've got to listen--you can't go
against a noble spirit like his."
Aunt Penelope fidgeted and trembled. A great spot of pink colour came on
one of her cheeks, leaving the other pale.
"Well, have your say," she murmured. "Have your say, I'm sure I don't
care."
But when Vernon had done speaking, there was my dear old auntie crying
as though her heart would break. I was about to comfort her, or at least
to try to do so, when there came a hasty knock at the door. A servant
appeared with a telegram on a salver. Vernon tore it open, it was
addressed to him, and had been brought across from his hotel. His face
turned pale.
"There is no answer," he said to the man, who withdrew. Then he put his
hand on my shoulder, and with his other hand he drew Aunt Penelope to
her feet.
"I have something to tell you both," he said. "We are sent for; we have
to go to Hanbury Square. There has been a very bad accident. I cannot
quite understand this telegram, but he is hurt. His motor came into
collision with another last night, and he was thrown out and hurt rather
badly on his head. It may not be a great deal; it may be--everything. We
are to go at once."
Now I knew why I had lain awake all that long night, why I had felt
instinctively that there was a dark cloud coming up and up and
enveloping my sky. I did not say a word. There are times when one cannot
shed tears, tears are so inadequate. I ran upstairs and put on my hat
and jacket, and Aunt Penelope stumbled after me and got into her outdoor
things, and Vernon had a carriage at the door, and in a few minutes we
were off.
A few minutes later we found ourselves in Hanbury Square. There were two
doctors' carriages at the door, but they moved away to make room for us.
We entered. The servants looked distracted, the solemn sort of order
which always prevailed in that great house was lacking on that special
morning. An elderly man, with a fine head and a shock of snow-white
hair, was coming down the stairs. He turned in the hall and looked at us
three, and especially he looked at me.
"Am I right or wrong," he said, "but do you happen to be the young lady
my patient is calling out for?"
"Father," I said. "My father; you are speaking of my father?"
"I am speaking of Major Dalrymple."
"He is my father."
"And his name is Grayson," snapped Aunt Penelope.
The doctor took no notice of her, but he put his hand on mine.
"You've got to be very brave, my dear," he said. "I'm glad you have
come. He is ill, you know; in fact, rather bad; in fact, very bad. Come
softly, I'll take you up to his room."
I followed the doctor. We went up to the first floor. The doctor turned
the handle of a door. There was a spacious room; within it looked like a
hospital ward. Most of the furniture had been removed, the floor was
covered with white linen, stretched very tightly over the thick carpet.
A narrow bedstead had been drawn out into the centre of the room, the
curtains had been removed. There was a table covered with white cloths,
on which bottles had been placed. There were two trained nurses moving
softly about the room.
A man lay stretched on his back in the centre of the bed. I went quickly
up to him.
"Now, show courage, don't give way," said the doctor.
I knelt down by the man and looked into his eyes.
"I said you'd come."
His voice was so low I could scarcely recognise it, but his eyes smiled
at me. There never were such blue eyes, there never was anyone in all
the world who could smile as sweetly as my father. I knelt by him
without speaking one word. The doctor stood behind me without moving.
Presently my father raised his voice a trifle.
"Leave us two quite alone," he said.
The doctor and the nurses immediately went out. When there was no one
else present my father said:
"Stoop very low, Heather."
I did stoop.
"I said last night 'the evening of life'--the night has come. You will
keep my secret always? Promise."
"Yes," I said.
He smiled at me again and then closed his eyes.
The doctor came back. Suddenly he bent forward and put his hand on my
father's hand and felt where his pulse ought to be, and then he said to
me:
"Come away, my dear," and I went.
They asked me downstairs, those two who waited, what my father had said,
and what had happened, but I only replied: "I will keep his secret--we
must all keep it--for his dear sake."
I have kept it to this day. I am a happy wife and mother now, and the
old things are passed away. I never see Lady Helen, and I am glad of
that. I like to forget that she ever came into my life, and into
father's. Father, of course, is very happy, happier than any of us. I
talk to my children about him on Sunday evenings, and we wonder together
what he is doing in the land where there are no secrets, and where no
one is misunderstood.
PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.
* * * * *
_BOOKS FOR YOUNG WOMEN_
BETTY OF THE RECTORY
By L. T. MEADE
FLAMING JUNE
By MRS. G. DE HORNE VAIZEY
WILD HEATHER
By L. T. MEADE
CASSELL AND CO., LTD.