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."
