i left aunt penelope's room. i walked very slowly. my room was next to hers, and the walls between were quite thin; you could almost hear a person talking in the adjoining room. i wanted to be very quiet. i wanted no one to hear me, and yet i could not bear the perfect stillness and the cramped feeling of the tiny room.
i put on my hat, snatched up my gloves and parasol, and ran downstairs. jonas met me. he looked much excited. he came up to me with his cheeks flushed.
"why, missie!" he said, "is there anything the matter?"
"no, no; nothing at all, jonas," i said. "you are preparing aunt penelope's dinner, are you not?"
"yes, missie; that is, as well as i can. i'm not at all sure about the soup, though; i am not certain that it is flavoured right. if you, missie, were to come along into the kitchen and just taste it, why—it would be a rare help, that it would."
i clenched one of my hands tightly together. it was with the utmost difficulty that i could keep down the wild words which were crowding to my lips. but aunt penelope, whatever she told me, however awful and cruel her words were, must be looked after, must be tended, must be cared for. crushing down that defiant, that worldly self which clamoured to assert itself, i followed the boy into the kitchen. i looked up an old receipt book and gave him swift directions.
"you will have dinner all ready," i said, "and if by any chance i am out—if i haven't come in, you will not wait for me, for aunt penelope must have her dinner to the minute. you understand, don't you, jonas?"
"oh, yes, miss heather. yes, i understand; but"—he looked at me longingly—"there's the telegraphic message, miss," he said.
"oh, you mean that my father is coming. i'll be back in time to see him. it's all right, jonas. don't tell aunt penelope that i am out. take her this soup, when it is ready, and, for heaven's sake! don't keep me now."
jonas's round eyes became full of wonder, but i would not glance at them. i must get out. i must go up on the heights above the little town before my father arrived. i must be by myself, whatever happened; i must be quite alone.
it was a hot day. summer was coming on in great strides. in aunt penelope's village the weather was very hot in the summer time. but the air was more or less my native air. i was glad of it. i was glad to feel its soft zephyrs blowing against my cheeks. i soon reached the high part of the town, and then i found myself on the moors. i sat down on a clump of purple heather—the flower after which i was called—and pulled a spray of the blossom and crumpled it between my fingers and watched the little delicate flowers tumbling into my lap. all my life seemed to rise up before me at that moment, and the anguish that i lived through could scarcely be surpassed. oh, aunt penelope, aunt penelope! what a dreadful thing you did when you told me that story about my father! why did you, who kept it to yourself all your days, tell it to me now? oh, it was not true! i did not believe it! long ago, on the very day when i, a little, shy, frightened girl of eight years of age, had come to live with aunt penelope, the then reigning jonas—the "buttons" in possession—had taken me to these very heights and had walked over them with me and shown me the blue of the sea and the beauty of the landscape; and i had been excited, and pleased as a child will be, particularly such a child as i was—a child with a natural and intense love of nature in her heart.
yes, i had been happy then, up on these fragrant heights; but i had come back—oh, to such misery! for my father had gone; he had left me alone with aunt penelope. i sat now on the downs, and remembered all that miserable day, my passionate, frantic pain, my mad search for my nurse, anastasia; the woman who had taken my money and had shown me how to get to the railway station; the kind friends who had met me there and had assured me that anastasia had not come by the next train; and then aunt penelope's face, which to me on that day seemed so hard and cold and cruel.
what immediately followed was a blank to me: no wonder, for i was very ill. i recalled the days, the months, the years that followed—aunt penelope's simple life and my gradual and yet sure enjoyment of it, the little things that pleased me, the tiny happenings that were all important, the little joys that were great joys to me; the school prizes; the breaking-up days; the rare occasions when i was given a new frock; the careful, thrifty life. and all the time, noble lessons were being poured into my soul, and i was being taught by the sturdy example of one very brave, very poor old woman to refuse the evil and choose the good. i recalled what took place a few months ago—my father's return, his dear, jolly, red, good-natured face, his kindly eyes, his pleasant smile, the way he had hugged and kissed me, the manner in which my heart had gone out to him; my raptures when he said that he had come to take me away, that in future i was to be his child, his little girl who was to live with him. oh, i was happy! i forgot aunt penelope in my joy. she was in bitter grief at the thought of losing me; but i was selfish, and did not mind.
then there came my hurried journey to london; the meeting with my father, the meeting with lady helen dalrymple, and the beginning of a new life, the beginning of fresh troubles. first of all, there was my father's second marriage. i was not to have him to myself; lady helen was to share my felicity; and i hated lady helen, i recalled that time—that awful time. i thought of the great rich house in london and of what lady helen dalrymple was, and of my anguish when she told me that i must change my name, and must in future be called heather dalrymple, and never again as long as i lived heather grayson. she further informed me that my father had taken her name and was major dalrymple, not major grayson. i was wild with anger, but a look on his face made me submit. then by degrees i saw that my darling father was not at all happy. his fun had gone out of him; he no longer made a joke about everything. he sat very silent; sometimes i thought he was even a little bit afraid. then lord hawtrey appeared on the scene, and then—then! my true lover, vernon carbury.
oh! yes, i loved vernon carbury. he was all that a romantic young girl would most adore. he was so handsome and gay and chivalrous, and such a perfect gentleman; and he had such a soldierly air and such a proud, upright bearing; and he was mine. he loved me as much as i loved him. it didn't matter a bit about his being poor. lord hawtrey, kind old man, wanted to marry me; and his sister, lady mary percy, seemed to think it a very good match. but what was that to me? i loved vernon and would marry no one else. but—but—there was my father; my father who had—oh, it couldn't be true! god in heaven! it was not true.
i buried my face in my hands. i sobbed aloud. i was frantic with the grief of it, and the shame of it, and the torture of it. my father—my own father! if i had been told that lady helen had done a thing like that i should not have been surprised; but my father! it could not be; it was impossible.
suddenly i started to my feet. i would know the worst. aunt penelope believed the story, but i would never believe it unless i heard it from my father's lips, and if it was true, then of course i must give vernon up. he should not marry a girl whose father had done something to make her ashamed. much as i loved him, i felt that he must never do that; for that very reason, he must not do it—just because i loved him too well.
i had a beautiful little jewelled watch with a long gold chain which was slipped into my belt. i took it out, and looked at the time. it was a quarter past one. if i walked quickly, i could reach the railway station in time to meet my father. i would take him away with me at once. we would go up on the downs, and i would ask him point-blank if aunt penelope's story was true. he, at least, would tell me the truth. afterwards, i could decide.
i rose from my seat on the heather. i had crushed the beautiful purple heather down with my weight. but it was elastic, strong, and wiry. the winds of heaven and the sun would soon kiss it and tempt it, and rouse it to an upright position again. i had not really injured my own heather. i straightened my hat. of late i had been forced to think a good deal about dress and fashion. nobody else did at cherton. cherton was a little old-world place, and fashions put in their appearance there several years after they were seen in london.
i pulled my gloves on tidily, pushed back my tumbled hair, and went rapidly towards the railway station. i knew how to get there now. i needed no fat old woman to show me the way. i arrived just as the london express was coming in. as i have said before, it but seldom stopped at our little wayside station. but it did stop to-day. i wondered if some great people like the carringtons were returning. i did not want to see the carringtons just then. the only person, however, who stepped out of the train, and that was out of a first-class carriage, was an elderly man with white hair and a haggard expression. he was very well dressed, and carried a smart walking-stick. but there was a decided stoop between his shoulders, as though he did not care to keep himself upright. i gave a faint cry, then ran up to him. i linked my hand inside his arm.
"i thought i'd come to meet you. i am here; i am all right, you see."
"oh, i say! my darling little heather! this is first-rate. child, what a fright you have given lady helen and myself. you have been disgracefully naughty."
"you must forgive me, dad. dad, darling, you haven't come all the way from london to a little place like cherton just to scold your own heather?"
"bless you, my beauty!" was the reply. "aren't you the very joy of my heart? but all the same, you did wrong. you didn't think of what i went through last night. you forgot that, little heather. but never mind, never mind; only i'd best send a wire to her ladyship. she will be in a fume if she doesn't hear. ah! here's the telegraph office. i won't be a minute, child; you wait for me outside."
i made no response. he went in, while i stood in the fierce heat of the sunshine. i hoisted my parasol, but the heat penetrated through it. how long my father stayed in that little office! and how old and tired he looked! and yet—oh, of course, he had done nothing wrong. it was but to look into those kind blue eyes; he could not have done that thing which aunt penelope accused him of. my spirits rose. she had made a mistake. he himself would explain everything to me, of that i was quite convinced.
he came out again. he was rubbing his hands. he was in high spirits.
"upon my word, heather," he said, "we are a pair of truants, you and i. i feel like a boy let loose from school. and how is the old aunt? how is aunt penelope?"
"she is not at all well, dad. it was most providential from her point of view that i did return, for she wanted someone to look after her."
"do you mean to tell me, heather, that she is in danger?"
"she is better to-day," i answered; "but she was very ill yesterday, very ill indeed, and the doctor was a little frightened, but he is ever so pleased to-day."
"you have been nursing her, then?"
"yes, i have. but oh, daddy, i am glad to see you again!"
"and i to see you," was the reply. "a pair of truants out from school—eh, little girl, eh, eh?"
"yes, daddy; oh, yes, daddy."
i slipped my hand inside his arm. i might not have done this if i had been quite certain about that story of aunt penelope's; but then i was doubting it more and more each moment. i was firmly convinced that there was not a syllable of truth in it, and i had him quite to myself, and i could soon talk him round with regard to vernon. of course, he would not wish me to marry an old man like lord hawtrey when there was a young man like vernon carbury longing to have me, longing to clasp me to his heart as his true love—his true wife. daddy was not worldly-minded—of that i was certain.
we walked down the steep hill about which i had got directions from the fat woman, and plunged into the little town.
"i suppose we'd best get to your aunt's at once, child?" said my father.
"no," i answered; "i want us to come up on the downs first. are you frightfully, frightfully hungry? for if you are, we can buy some cakes and eat them up on the downs."
"well, i am not disinclined for a meal; but i'll tell you what we will do. we will go on the downs first, and afterwards we will visit the best restaurant in cherton. come along, little woman; let's march. eh, dear! it's a good thing to stretch one's legs. it's an awful matter to have to confess, heather, but i'm about sick of that everlasting motoring. i'd give a good deal to be rid of it once and for all. but there! that is high treason. lady helen wouldn't like me to talk like that; and she is a good soul, you know, heather—a right, good, generous creature. she doesn't mind how much she spends on a person. she has never stinted you, has she, heather? come now, confess the truth."
"oh, no," i replied, "she has been horribly, terribly generous."
"child! what on earth do you mean?"
"i will tell you when we get on the downs."
he looked at me in a surprised sort of way, opened his lips as if to speak, then remained silent. i found i was walking too quickly for him; i was obliged to slacken my steps. i was surprised at this, for in all my long experience i had considered him one of the very strongest of men, a man who would never be tired, who was possessed of unbounded vitality, with such a great, strong flood of life in him that nothing of the ordinary sort could extinguish it. nevertheless, he panted now and puffed as i walked with him up towards the downs.
"why, dad!" i cried, "is this too much for you?"
"i expect so," he answered. "it's that beastly motoring—i never can stretch my legs. upon my word, i am losing my muscle; i shall be a worn-out, rheumatic old man in no time—it's all helen's fault."
"you ought to play golf," i said; "men of your age, not old men—of course, you're not old—but men of your age spend hours at golf, and that keeps them active. that's what you ought to do—it is, really and truly."
"it is, really and truly," he repeated, looking at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "so that's your way of looking at it, miss heather, and you think her ladyship will approve of my playing golf, and you think she'll approve of my absenting myself from her for long hours every day?"
"oh, i don't know—oh, i can't bear it!" i said.
my voice was choked, there came a lump in my throat. after a moment i said, in a totally different sort of voice:
"we'll walk slowly, darling. darling, i understand."
"bless the child! of course she understands," he replied, and he squeezed my arm in his old, affectionate manner.
thank god! we were on the top at last. the beautiful fresh air came towards us, laden with salt from the sea, laden with freshness, and purity, and beauty. my father's tired eyes brightened; he stretched himself and looked about him. there was a lot of sunshine flooding the place, and there was no sort of shade, but neither he nor i minded that.
"come where the heather is most purple," i said. "now, here—here's a bed for you and another for me. stretch yourself; i'll lie close to you. isn't it just lovely?"
"upon my word, it is, heather; it's heavenly."
"daddy, i wonder sometimes why you called me heather?"
"it was your mother's wish—your first mother, i mean."
"oh, father, i could not have two mothers; you know that it would be impossible!"
"so it would. well, it was your mother's—your real mother's wish. fact is, she was very ill when you were born, and there was a bit of scotch blood in her; she had lived in aberdeenshire. she was all aberdeen in every sort of way, through and through, in her nature, i mean; canny, and straight and true, like the real, best scotch folks. after you were born she had a sort of fever, and she saw purple heather all around her—the heather of the moors. so she begged of me to call the child 'heather,' and i did. you are called after the moors in aberdeenshire—a very respectable sort of ancestress, too, eh, heather, my love, eh, eh?"
"yes, father."
my father had now recovered his breath; he sat upright and looked at me; he took my hand.
"i have something to say to you," was his remark.
i looked back at him and nodded. our joyful time together was over now; our time of pain had begun. i knew this fact quite well. i nodded to him emphatically.
"and i have something to say to you."
"well, heather, i, being the elder, have the privilege of my years, have i not?"
"you have," i said.
i was glad of this. i was a coward at that moment, and wanted to put off the evil day.
"well, now, little girl, a straight question requires a straight answer. why did you leave your mother's house and mine yesterday, and go away without saying a word to anybody? do you think you acted kindly or well to lady helen or myself?"
"i acted as i only could act under the circumstances," was my reply.
"but tell me why, heather."
"you know what you did, father. you sent away the man i loved. i love him with all my heart and soul and strength. you sent him away. then you and lady helen spoke to me; you said i was to give him up. i don't—i mean that kind of thing would never make me give him up, never! i could not live in the house with lady helen. she wanted me to marry lord hawtrey; father, i will never marry him—he knows it. you, father, you and lady helen, did your utmost to break my heart, but my heart is my own as my life is my own. i could no longer stay with you. father, i have chosen; i have come back to the poor life, to the humble life, to the little life at cherton, to aunt penelope's house and to aunt penelope's home once more. i don't want grandeur, i don't want what lady helen calls a high position—i should hate it, i should loathe it; it would be torture to me. father, i won't have it!"
he was quite silent, but, just as i had done that morning, he began to pull up pieces of purple heather and to scatter the little bells on the grass by his side. his eyes were lowered.
"i hate the world!" i said.
after a long pause, he spoke.
"bless you, heather."
"father!"
"for saying those words," he continued.
"oh, father, i knew you agreed with me in your heart of hearts."
"i do, but i am tied and bound—yes, child, tied and bound. i can't escape; i can never escape; never, never!"
"father, i am coming to your part of all this in a few minutes, but first i want to speak about myself. do you dislike the man i love? you don't know him; i do. i have seen him often at the carringtons. he is strong, and brave and upright; he is not rich, but neither is he poor; he could marry me without taking any fortune with me; he could marry me, yes, me, just as i stand, and we should be happy—happy as the day is long. father, i won't have that old man, and, what is more, i know that he won't have me. i will tell you what i did yesterday. you and lady helen between you broke my heart—oh, i had an awful time! i don't blame you much, but i must—i must say that i blame you a little. i sat in my room until you went out, and then i determined that whatever happened i would live my own life, that i would not be tied and bound to that awful, dreadful stepmother of mine. i saw that she was ruining you, that she was destroying your happiness, that she was making your life a hell to you, and i vowed that she should not destroy mine. i wondered who could help me, i wondered and wondered, and at last a bold thought occurred to me, and i determined to go into the lion's den."
"child, what do you mean?"
i put my hand on his; his hand was fat and flabby, not the firm, brown, muscular hand that i used to remember.
"i went to lord hawtrey," i said very quickly.
he snatched his hand away, stood upright, and looked at me.
"what! you went to hawtrey—to his house?"
"yes. i found his address on a visiting card. i went there in a taxi-cab; he was out, but i waited for him—he came in presently, he was very nice—oh, yes! i saw him for a minute or two. i said i wanted to speak to him; he told me he could not attend to me then or in his own house, but he would send his sister to me."
"thank goodness!" said my father.
"her name was lady mary percy. she was a nice woman; she came and she took me to her house, and there and then i told her everything. i told her about vernon and about—about her brother, and what her brother had said to me. she was kind, although she said one or two strange things. i could not quite understand her, and some of the things she said stuck in my mind. she seemed to think that i had refused the greatest match in england."
"and so you have, you most silly of all little heathers."
"oh, no, daddy! the greatest match in all england i have not refused; i have accepted vernon carbury. he is the best husband in all the world for me."
"it is amazing what love will do," said my father then. "i felt something like that for your mother—eh! but that was a long time ago!"
"then, of course, you understand," i said, nestling up to him, "you are my darling old dad, and you quite understand."
"i don't, not a bit; and yet, at the same time, i do. well, go on. you were at lady mary percy's when you left off talking. how, in the name of fortune, did you get here?"
"i left her after a bit. i would not go back to you, so i came to aunt penelope. i took the train here; i had money; and it was quite simple. i found my darling auntie very ill, but the sight of me has made her better. the doctor was so glad when i came back, and so was poor little jonas—the buttons, you know, dad—you remember the buttons?"
"yes, yes; of course, i remember him."
"auntie is in bed, very weak."
"then she won't want to see me," said my father, restlessly.
"yes; of course she will; she is expecting you. but now, i want to say something to you. i must say it; oh, daddy, i must."
his face turned white. he pulled his soft hat a little over his eyes and looked fixedly at me.
"well, heather, speak. you—you're no coward."
"i don't think i am. it began first in this way," i said. "it was something lady mary said; these were her words. she said: 'you are, of course, aware of the fact that hawtrey must have loved you beyond the ordinary love of an ordinary man when he made up his mind to take as a wife the daughter of major grayson?'"
"so he must; that's true enough, heather."
"father, oh, father! do you think i listened to those words tamely? i said: 'my father is the best man in all the world.' lady mary looked at me; at first she was angry, then a softened expression came over her face. she said: 'you poor little girl!' and then she said: 'have you never suspected why he married lady helen dalrymple?' oh, father, it was after those words i came here, for i was determined to find out, and to-day—oh, my own daddy, i did find out! i asked aunt penelope."
"she told you—my god! she told you!"
"she did, but i don't believe it—it isn't true."
"give me your hand, heather."
i gave it. i had some little difficulty in doing so, for a cold, icy, terrible doubt was flooding my mind, flooding my reason, flooding my powers of thought.
"keep it up," said my father to me. "be brave, right on to the end. tell me what she said. you are my daughter and—once i was a soldier; tell your soldier father what she said."
"oh, daddy, daddy, she said that you, you, my father—had—oh, it's so awful!—that you were arrested in india on a charge of forgery—you had made away with a lot of money—you were cashiered from the army and—you were imprisoned. all the time while i was picturing you a brave soldier, filling your post with distinction and pride, you were only—only—in prison! oh, daddy, it isn't true—it could not have been true; she said it was true, she said that your term was over last autumn, and that you came straight here to see me, and that, in some extraordinary way, you had money, and you carried everything off with a high hand, and insisted on taking me away with you, and the next thing she heard was that you had married lady helen dalrymple. she says, daddy, that you will never outlive your disgrace, and there isn't a soldier in the length and breadth of the land who will speak to you!"
i laid my head down on his coat sleeve. sobs rent my frame. there was an absolute silence on his part. he did not interrupt my tears for a moment, nor did he say one single word of contradiction. after a minute or so he remarked, very quietly:
"now, you will stop crying and listen."
i sat upright. i looked at him out of glassy eyes; he gazed straight back at me; there was not a scrap of shame about his face; i wondered very much at that, and then a wild, joyful thought visited me. he could clear himself, he could show me that this disgraceful story was all a lie.
"now, stop crying," he said again. "whatever i did or did not do, i was a soldier and fought the queen's battles when she was alive—god bless her!—and i was accounted a brave man."
"you were never a forger—you never saw the inside of a prison?"
"those are your two charges against me, heather?"
"not mine, not mine," i said; "i just want you to tell me the truth."
"well, as a matter of fact, i was accused of forgery."
my eyes fell, i trembled all over.
"i was had up for trial; i stood in the prisoner's dock. i was convicted by jurymen, and a judge of our criminal courts proclaimed my sentence. the case was a particularly aggravated one, and my sentence was severe—i was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude—i lived all that time in prison. not a pleasant life. ah! it's spoiled my hands a good bit—have you never remarked it?"
"now that you speak, i—do remark it," i said.
"and of course i was cashiered," he continued.
i nodded.
"well, i have answered you."
"you have," i said.
"is there anything else you'd like to know?"
"yes. why did you marry lady helen?"
"why, that was part of the bond."
"the bond?" i said.
"the fact is, we understood each other. she had been very fond of me, poor woman, and she stuck to me through my disgrace, and when i came out of prison she was willing to do the best possible for me and for you. of course, you can understand that without marriage i could not accept her services, so—i married her. i don't go about with her a great deal, you will have observed that?"
"yes, and i have wondered," i said.
"but she has been good to you. she has taken you about."
"oh, yes. i hated going about with her."
"she was anxious, and so was i, that you should marry well. she held out to me as the bait—your salvation."
"what do you mean?"
"exactly what i say. when i entered into that worst prison of all, it was for your sake."
"father—oh, father!"
"it is true, child. there, it's out. it is the worst prison of all—god help me! and now, at the end, you desert me!"
"no, i won't," i said, flinging my arms round his neck; "no, i never will! it doesn't matter what you did, i'll stick to you—i will, i will, i will!"
"my little girl, my own little girl! but she won't have you back except on her own terms; she only wants you in order to get you well married, to have the éclat and fuss and glory of a great marriage; that's her object. you have refused hawtrey; i doubt if she'll forgive that."
i was clinging close to him, i was holding his hand.
"can't we both leave her?" i whispered. "can't we go away and be very poor together, and forget the world?"
"child, there is your lover, carbury."
i gave a quick, sharp sigh.
"i can't think of him now," i said.
"oh, child, he proposed for you, knowing everything."
"i won't marry him," i said, "i am going to stay with you in that worst prison."
