CHAPTER XVI
When Aunt Penelope had finished her little meal, I proceeded to getfresh linen from the linen cupboard upstairs, and fresh, clean towels; Ialso went down to the kitchen and brought up a big can of hot water, andthen I proceeded to wash her face and hands and to change her linen andmake her bed, and altogether refresh the dear old lady. How I loveddoing these things for her! I felt quite happy and my own troublereceded into the background with this employment. When I had done allthat was necessary, the doctor, the same who had attended me so often inmy childish ailments, came in. He was delighted to see me, and gave me amost hearty welcome.
"Miss Heather," he said, "you are good. Now this is delightful--now Ihave 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 inany other way if she were to try for a hundred years. The doctorexamined her, felt her pulse, took her temperature, said that she wasdecidedly better, ordered heaps of nourishment, and desired me to followhim downstairs.
"What possessed you to come back, Miss Grayson?" he said, when we foundourselves together in the little drawing-room.
I told him that I had not come back because the news of Aunt Penelope'sillness had reached me, but for a quite different reason, and one whichI could not divulge, even to him.
"But that is very strange," he said, "for I wrote three days ago to askyour father to send you back immediately. I was quite tired outexpecting you and wondering at your silence. I would not tell the dearold lady for fear of disappointing her. Your coming back of your ownaccord 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 forAunt Penelope, and that she shall want for nothing as long as I canobtain it for her."
"Good girl; you are a good girl, Heather," he replied; "you are doingthe right thing, and God will bless you. I may as well tell you that Iwas exceedingly anxious about your aunt this morning. You see, she hadnobody to look after her; that boy did his best, but he couldn't beexpected 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 oldwoman, is your aunt, Miss Heather, but a most worthy soul. Well, it'sall right now, and my mind is much relieved."
I went upstairs a few minutes later to find Aunt Penelope sitting up inbed and looking wonderfully fresh and cheerful.
"Now just sit down by me, Heather," she said, "and tell me the news. Whyhave you come back? I made up my mind that I'd keep my vow and promiseto 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 allproud of yourself for having made such a vow."
"Well, I made it, and I'm the last sort of woman to break my word. Butyou have come back, so it's all right now. Did you dream about me oranything of that sort?"
"Oh, no," I answered. "I came back, dear auntie--I came back of my ownaccord."
"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Heather, child, I am not very strong, andyou 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 thefact is, I don't think, Auntie Pen, dear, I don't think I love mystepmother very much."
"Thank the Lord for that!" exclaimed Miss Penelope. "She must be ahorror, 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 nowthat you are here, you must promise to stay with me until the worst isover; you will promise, won't you? I don't pretend to deny, child, thatI have missed you a good bit, yes, a very great deal. I am a proud oldwoman, 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 tohave returned."
"I am not too weak to learn the truth," said Aunt Penelope. "I have, inmy humble opinion, the first right to you, for it was I who trained youand who gave you what little education you possess; therefore I holdthat I have a right. What did that woman do, why did you run away fromher? As to your father, poor chap--well, of course, he's bound heart andsoul 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 itfirmly--"don't--don't tell me to-night."
She looked at me out of her hard, bright eyes, then seemed to collapseinto herself, then said slowly--
"Very well, I won't, I won't tell you to-night, that is, if you promiseto 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 mytime and my money on dress and grand things; you taught me not to wastesuch a short, valuable, precious thing as life. Oh, Aunt Penelope, inthat house people do nothing but kill time, and my Daddy is in it--myown 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 hisstrength and spirit--and--people have hinted things about him!"
Aunt Penelope nodded her head.
"They're likely to," she answered. "Major Grayson could not expectmatters to be otherwise."
"But, auntie, that is one of the hardest things of all. My darlingfather is not even called Major Grayson--he has to take the name ofDalrymple."
"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Does he dare to be ashamed of his father'shonest 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 whocame to it, and I hardly ever saw father, and I lived my own life. LadyCarrington was very kind to me, and I went to her when I could, but mystepmother 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 friendvery often. Still, I had no idea of deserting father and of going backto 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 fewwords. 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 neverfell 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 isgood. You would love him, too--but there's another man----"
"Two! God bless me!" said Aunt Penelope. "In my day a girl thoughtherself lucky if she found one man to care for her, but two! It doesn'tsound proper."
"The other man is rich, and--oh, he's nice, he's awfully nice, only heis old--I won't tell you his name, there is no use--but Lady Helenwanted me to marry the rich old man, and to give up the young man whom Ilove, and--and father seemed to wish it, too--and somehow, auntiedarling, 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 cheeryvoice, "until the Lord wills to show me clearly the right in thismatter. You marry an old man whom you don't love, my sister's childexposed to such torture as that!--child, I am glad you came to me, youanyway showed a gleam of common sense."
"And you have taken me in," I answered, "and I'm ever so happy; it ishome to be back with you."
Thus ended my first evening with Aunt Penelope. That night I slept againin my little old bed in my tiny chamber, and so kindly do we revert tothe old times and to the things of youth that I felt more at home inthat little bed and slept sounder t
here than I had done since I left it.I had gone out into the world, and the world had treated me badly. I wasnot destined, however, to stay long in peace and quietness at AuntPenelope'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 teaand 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 onthe mend that morning: she said she had slept very well. As I stood byher bedside she calmly read the letter, then she handed it to me; I alsoread 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 letterback again on her breakfast tray.
"Leave it to me," she said. "You're but a silly sort of child, and neverhalf know what you ought to be doing. You want wiser heads than your ownto 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 withappetite.
"You do cook well, Heather," she said. "Although you are a society girlI 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 toattack her egg.
"Really?" I answered.
"Yes, very. You have acted with judgment and forethought; I am pleasedwith you, I don't attempt to deny it. Now then, what do you say to mytelling 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 tellyou I will do anything in the world that takes my fancy, and my fancy atthe present moment is to see you through a difficult pass. I don't trustGordon 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 theword love. To 'care for' a man is _quite_ sufficient before marriage; ofcourse, you may do what you like afterwards--anyhow, you care for orlove, 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 dearmother, my blessed sister, would have approved of your marrying? Thinkcarefully 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 heartand soul!"
"Poof, child, poof! You're in love and that's a horrid state for anygirl to be in; it's worse in a girl than in a man. You haven't alikeness of him by any chance, have you?"
"No, he never gave me his photograph, but he's very--I mean he is quitehandsome."
"You needn't have told me that, for, of course, I know it. He ishandsome in your eyes. You have no photograph, however, to prove yourwords; you are just in love with this youth, and your father wants youto return because he and that grand lady of his intend you to marry theold 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 acountess?"
"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 girlbegins on the subject of her sweethearts she never stops, and I haveplenty of things to attend to. Here's a list of provisions I wrote outearly 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 buyeverything. Here's thirty shillings; you oughtn't to spend anything likeall that. But pay for the things down on the nail the minute you havepurchased them. Now then, off with you, and I will consider the subjectof your sweethearts. Upon my word, to think of a mite like you havingtwo!"
I left Aunt Penelope's room and went out and bought the things sherequired. She had a troublesome lot of commissions, and they took mesome 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 itjust 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 medicinehe ever heard of, and that my chest is much better, and I am practicallyout 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 verywhite.
"He is coming, if you wish to know, Heather, because I asked him tocome. And now, you will have the goodness to sit down by me. No, I amnot hungry for dinner. I won't touch any food until you know the story Iam about to tell you. Sit down where I can see your face, my child. Yourfather is coming, of course, because I wish it, and now I have somethingto say to you."
I sat down, feeling just as though my feet were weighted with lead. Iwas trembling all over. Aunt Penelope looked at me fixedly; she had thebest heart in the world, but the expression of her face was a littlehard. Her eyes seemed to glitter now as they gazed into mine.
"Aunt Penelope," I said, suddenly, "be prepared for one thing. Whateveryou tell me, whatever you believe, and doubtless think you have goodcause to believe, I shall never believe, never--if it means anythingagainst 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 sitperfectly 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 allstrong. I must get this thing over, or I'll take to worrying, and then Ishall be bad again. Well, now, about your father. You understand, ofcourse, 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 mustbelieve 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 anymeans the worse, as far as that point is concerned. It hasn't occurredto you, I suppose, my poor little girl, to wonder why a man like yourfather is no longer in the army, to wonder why every army man will havenothing to do with him, to wonder why he married a woman like Lady HelenDalrymple, and why she is received in society and he is not?"
"How can you tell?" I asked, opening my lips in astonishmen
t, "youweren't there to see."
"A little bird told me," said Aunt Penelope.
This was her usual fashion of explaining how certain information got toher ears: there was always a "little bird" in it; I knew that bird. Isat very still for a few minutes, then I said, as quietly and patientlyas I could--
"Speak."
"It happened," said Aunt Penelope, "in India, and it happened a longtime 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, myprecious sister, was out of it all. She believed in your father as youbelieve in him; she was spared the terrible knowledge of the other sideof his character."
"Oh, hush! don't say such things."
"And don't you talk rubbish. Listen to the plain words of a plain oldwoman, 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 wellagain."
"I am saying nothing against you, poor child; you are right enough, youdo credit to my training. Had you been left to his tender mercies, Godonly knows what sort of creature you'd have grown into. But now I willbegin, continue, and end in as few words as possible. Your father camecourting your mother long years ago in a dear little seaside garrisontown. He was a young lieutenant then, and was very smart, and had a waywith him which I don't think he ever lost."
I thought of my darling father, with his cheerful, bluff manners, withhis gay laugh, his merry smile, his ready joke. Even still he had "a waywith him," although it must be sadly altered from the time when mymother was young.
"Your mother was a good bit my junior, Heather, and she and I kept alittle house together. She was a very pretty girl indeed, and, ofcourse, men admired her. We were pretty well off in those days, thepressure of penury had not come near us; we were orphans, but were leftcomfortably off. We used to subscribe to all the pleasant things thattook place in our little town, and we occupied ourselves also in goodworks, and I think we were loved very much. Your father came along andgot introduced to your mother, and to me, and we both took to him fromthe first."
"Oh, auntie, did you like him, then?"
"Like him! Of course I did. Heather, he was just the sort of man tobeguile young girls to their destruction.
"Well, he cast his spell over your mother, and people began to talkabout them both, and I began to get into a rage, for I knew what thosesoldier lads were when they liked. I knew how easy it would be for himto flirt and make love and ride away. I was determined he should not dothat. 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 heartto your father. So one day I asked him, after he had been with her thewhole morning, and they had walked together by the seashore, and sattogether in the garden, and he had read poetry to her, and she hadlistened with her heart in her eyes--I said to him, 'Do you know whatyou are doing?' He stared at me and coloured, and said, 'What?'--andthen I said again, 'You must know perfectly well that a girl's heart isa sensitive thing, so just be careful what you are doing with my youngsister's heart.' He coloured all over his face, and I never liked himbetter than when he sprang forward and took my hand and said,
"'Why, Penelope!'--I knew I ought to be shocked, but I did not evenmind his calling me Penelope--'Why, Penelope, if I could only believethat I had been fortunate enough to make any impression on your sister'sheart, 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 thosewords just as though it were yesterday, and I was ever so pleased, everso glad; the delight and joy of that moment come back to me even now. Ofcourse, your father and mother got engaged, and everything was as rightas possible. They were married, and soon after their marriage they wentto India, and in about a year's time I heard of the birth of theirchild--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 eventhe air of the hills did not do her any good. She pined and pined, andfaded 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 wasdead."
"Well, you needn't tell me, the knowledge would be harrowing," said AuntPenelope. "After your mother's death I wrote to Gordon, proposing toadopt you, and begging of him to send you to me at once. He refusedrather shortly, I thought, and said that he preferred you to be nearhim, and that he knew a family who would keep you in the hills duringthe hot weather. So the next few years went by. Then, when you wereabout eight years old I got a letter from your father. He said he wascoming back to London, that he wanted to come on special business, andalso that he had now changed his mind, and would bring you to me, if Ihad not changed my mind about having you. Of course I had not, and hebrought you, and that was the end of that story. You were left with meand you fared well enough. While your father was in London I saw himseveral times, and I marked a great change in him, and what I considereda great deterioration of character. He knew the woman he has since madehis wife even then, and often spoke of her. She was in society inCalcutta, where his regiment was stationed, and he often met her. Heused to mention her in almost every letter he wrote, and I was fairlysick of her name, and also of the name of her brother. I told Gordon soin one of my letters. I said that Lady Helen's brother might be the bestman on earth, but that he was nothing at all to me, and that if hewanted to write about him he had better choose another correspondent.
"Then, all of a sudden, without the slightest warning, the blow of blowsfell. Your father was arrested on a charge of forgery; he had forged acheque for a considerable sum of money. Oh, I forget all theparticulars, but he had been made secretary to the golf and cricketclubs, and held, so to speak, the bank--in fact, he made away with themoney, but he was caught just in time, and was tried by the laws ofIndia, and sentenced to prison--penal servitude, in short. Of course,such a frightful disgrace carried its own consequences. He was cashieredfrom the army, they would have nothing whatever to do with him. His termof imprisonment was over late last autumn. I often used to wonder whatwould happen when he was free, and to speculate as to what your feelingswould be when you saw him again. I used to make myself miserable abouthim. Well, you met, as you know, and he carried off everything with ahigh hand, and insisted on taking you away with him, and insistedfurther on marrying Lady Helen Dalrymple. It seems she stuck to him whenall his other friends deserted him. He has lived through his punishmentas far as the law of the land is concerned, but he will never outlivehis disgrace, and there isn't a true soldier in the length and breadthof the land who will speak to him. Well, that's his story, and I wasobliged to tell you. Now, you can run away and change your dress--oh, Iforgot, you have no dress to change into. Well, you can tidy your hairand 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 forthe present."