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!
