CHAPTER XVIII
My father kept on holding my hand. We neither of us spoke; there aremoments when words fail us, and these happened to be some. The sun crepthigher and higher in the heavens, it beat down on us, but it wastempered by the pleasant, cool sea breezes. We were both looking intothe future, and, truth to tell, our hearts were sad. I was making up mymind, and father was making up his mind. At last I, being the youngerand more impulsive, spoke:
"It is all right, Daddy," I said. "It was a bit of a dreadful shock; Idon't pretend it was anything else. I have always put you--oh, on such apedestal! But I'll get used to it. You were tempted awfully, or youwould never have done it. I am certain of that, and--I have never beentempted at all, so, of course, I can't understand. You were tempted,poor darling, and it--it happened. It is hateful of people to stamp onyou, and crush you when you're down; but I suppose it is somethinghorrid inside of them makes them do it. Daddy, I'm not made like that.I couldn't stamp on you--I couldn't crush you. On the contrary, I havemade up my mind. You and I against the world, Daddy mine, against thewhole wide world. You won't return to London to-night; you'll stay here,and you'll write to Lady Helen, and you'll tell her that you and I haveescaped from the worst prison, and are going to live always together,and that we aren't a bit afraid of poverty, and that, in short, we'vemade up our minds. We've cut the Gordian knot. We'll be happy together,and we don't care a scrap about poverty."
"That's your firm resolve, is it, Heather?" said my father.
"It is. I have been thinking it out--I can't get away from it."
"All right. Give me a kiss, child."
I put my arms round him, and kissed him many times. Again I noticed thatthere wasn't a bit of shame in his eyes; they looked quite clear, andsteadfast, and blue, with that wonderful blue light which I think onlycomes into the eyes of men who are accustomed to face the sea and thewind, and who have lived a great deal out of doors.
"So that is your final decision?" he repeated. "I like to feel yourkisses on my cheek, Heather."
I kissed him again.
"It is," I said.
"Well, now you've to hear mine."
"Oh, yours," I said; "you won't go away from your own Heather--youcouldn't--you love her too well."
"God knows I love you, pretty one. You are the only creature on earth Ido love. I love you with all my heart and soul, and that's saying agreat deal. For the ten long years I was in prison I kept thinking andthinking of you, child. But for you I might have lost my reason; butyour little face, and your ways, and your love for me kept me--well, allright. And now I am a free man again--I mean, I am free to claim yourlove. But you haven't decided what part Carbury is to play in this."
I shivered very slightly.
"I have told you," I said. "He won't play any part. I--I'm going towrite to him. We need not talk about him any more. Yesterday you and mystepmother were opposed to my marrying him; now I also am opposed. Therewill be no marriage between us. I am all yours."
"Oh, you best child in all the world!"
"Then it's settled, isn't it, Daddy?"
"My little girl, I can't tell. It rests with Carbury himself. But mypart--you've got to hear my part now."
I felt very, very sad when he said this. I seemed to guess in advancethat a great strain and trial was about to be put upon me. My fatherlooked at me, and then he looked away. Again he took up some great, fullbells of heather and crushed them in his hand; he threw them away andturned and faced me.
"There! The worst is out. I have got to stay with her ladyship."
"Father!"
"Yes. I can't get away from it, Heather child. I can't live on nothing,nor, my little girl, can you. We are both dependent on Lady Helen forour daily bread."
"I am not--I won't be," I said.
"But you are," he answered, "and you must be; that's just it. You can'tget away from it. She holds the purse. Do you think she will unfastenthose purse strings to give you and me an allowance to live away fromher?"
"But we can live on so little," I said; "and I can work. I should loveto work."
"Well, now, Heather," said my father, "you are no fool."
"I hope I am not," I said.
"You're a very wise girl for your age."
"I hope so," I replied.
"I have watched you, and I know you are wise for your age--very. Beingso, therefore, what can you do to earn a living? Just tell me."
I sat very quiet and still. I thought over my different accomplishments.I could play a little, I could sing a little; I had a smattering ofFrench--a very slight smattering--and I was fond of good English books,history books, and books of travel, and I adored books of adventure, andI could recite a good many pieces from our best poets. But all thesethings did not form much of a cargo to take on board my ship of life. Myfather kept looking at me, with that whimsical light in his blue eyes.
"Eh, little woman? Suppose I take you at your word, how do you proposeto support yourself and me? There would be, first of all, our lodgings.We might go to Plymouth, or some other place, not too dear. We mightfind rooms--kind of country cottage rooms--by the sea, and pay, say, sixshillings a week each. It is very unlikely we'd get them for that, but Ireally want to bring you down as lightly as possible. Well, sixshillings a week for you and six shillings for me means twelveshillings, and that would mean, probably, a tiny, tiny sitting-room, andtwo of the wee-est bedrooms in all the world. Still, it might be donefor the price of twelve shillings a week. There would be extras, ofcourse--landladies greatly live by extras--and we should have to putthem down, counting coal and light, one part of the year with another,at about three shillings a week, which mounts up, our lodging and ourlight and coal, to fifteen shillings a week.
"Then, my dear little Heather, there comes that important thing, food,for the bravest of all little girls would get very hungry at times, andif she didn't get hungry she wouldn't be worth her salt. There'd be yourbreakfast, my dear, and my breakfast, and your snack in the middle ofthe day, and your tea in the afternoon, and your dinner in the evening;and I don't think the shopkeepers would give us bread, and butter, andmilk, and beef, and mutton, and vegetables, and all those sort of thingsfor nothing--I have an impression that they wouldn't. Of course I may bewrong, but that is my impression, and I have a pretty good knowledge ofthe world. I don't think, dear, that even at starvation price we couldbe fed under something like another fifteen shillings to a pound aweek. Now, my little Heather, how are you to earn, say, one poundfifteen shillings a week--to say nothing of the expense of note-paper,and stamps, and envelopes, and dress?"
"Oh, I have heaps of dress," I said. "There are a great many dresses ofmine at the house in London."
"Which have been supplied to you by Lady Helen. I don't really know, ifwe made this great severance from her, whether we should have any rightto take those dresses from her or not--I am inclined to think not, ifyou ask me. However, suppose you don't want dress for the time being, atleast you will want shoe leather, and gloves, and trifles of that sort.My dear, we can't put down our living, between us, however hard we try,at less than two pounds a week, and that means over a hundred pounds ayear. Now, Heather child, I have nothing a year--nothing!"
He stretched out both his arms as he spoke.
"Oh, yes; I am supposed to be one of the richest of old men. I can drivein my motor-car, and I can have a horse, and I can go here, there, andeverywhere. I can live in the softest rooms, and I can eat the mostdainty food, and I can curse luxury in my heart as you curse it inyours; but I haven't a penny piece to get away from it--not a pennypiece; and, as far as I can tell, no more have you."
"Couldn't we live here with Aunt Penelope?" I said.
My voice was very weak and faint. A good deal of my courage was beingtaken out of me.
"As if we would, Heather! Think how that brave woman supported youduring the long years when I was in prison, and could not earn ahalfpenny! No, no, Heather; no, no! It was partly to relieve your auntthat I married her ladyship, and,
Heather child, I can't get away fromher now--I can't--and I am greatly afraid you can't either."
"But she won't have me," I said; "she'll have you back, of course, butnot me; and, father, darling, I _can't_ go back!"
"She would have you if I pleaded," said my father, "and if I could tellher you had quite given up young Carbury. She has taken a dislike tothat poor boy, God alone knows why--but I think I can manage it. Yousee, it's this way. Her ladyship has a great horror of anythingapproaching a scandal; I never knew anyone with such a downright horrorof it; upon my word, in her case it amounts to a downright sin--itdoes, really. Well, there she is, hating scandal, and if you left herthere'd be no end of talk, for in your way you have paid her well forall the luxuries she has showered upon you. People have been civil toher, not for her sake--who would look at a frowzy old woman likeher?--yes, child, I say it; I don't mind what I say to you--but a greatmany people would want to look at your dear, fresh little face; and itis just because of that same dear little face that so many people havecome to her ladyship's 'At Homes'; and it is because of that same littleface that you and Lady Helen have been asked out so much. She knows itwell enough; she knows why she's popular. I can easily get her to letthe old life go on, and you shan't be worried with--with that poorfellow Hawtrey. I said to myself, when she was so full of it, 'I don'tbelieve the child will consent,' but there, she told me I was wrong. Shesaid there wasn't a girl in England who'd refuse a match like that; andeven I allowed myself to be persuaded that that was the case."
"But, oh, father, wouldn't you have hated it?"
"No, child, not altogether; there might have been worse fates for you.He's a good man, is Hawtrey; he'd have treated you well; he'd have beenvery kind to you. I have heard before of girls marrying men old enoughto be their fathers, and being happy with them. I dare say if youngCarbury had not come in the way you'd have taken him, for there isn'this like in England for chivalry and kindness of heart."
"But he did come," I said.
"Yes; youth naturally mates with youth--it's the true story of life. I'mnot blaming you a bit, Heather--not in my heart, I mean. I had topretend to blame you, of course, the other day."
Here my father rose to his feet.
"You shan't be worried about Hawtrey," he said, "and I'll promise thatCarbury shall not cross your path. But I don't think there is any helpfor it; you'll have to come back with me. I'll stay here to-night; I'lltelegraph to her ladyship again, and tell her that you are all right,and that we are coming back to-morrow morning. I'd rather have you inthe house than not in the house, for even though we can't often talk toeach other we can at least understand each other."
"But Aunt Penelope is ill; even if I could agree to what you wish, AuntPenelope is very ill. I ought not to leave her now."
"Well, perhaps not; perhaps your aunt ought to be considered. In thatcase I would go back myself to-night--it would be best for me to do so;her ladyship might want me, and I know I'd be in the right to go back,and as quickly as possible. Well, we'll go and see your aunt now; only,before we visit her, I want you to make me a promise. You will come toLondon--you will take up the old life for my sake?"
I looked him in the eyes.
"Do you want this very, very badly?" I said.
"I want it more than anything on earth."
"And wanting it so badly," I said very sadly, "you yet would havepretended to be glad if I had said 'Yes' to Lord Hawtrey?"
"I might have, there's no saying. I'd have had your house to come tothen; but that's out of the question, and needn't be thought of. You'llcome back to me, Heather, when your aunt can spare you?"
"Yes, I will come," I said, and then I kissed him, and we walked slowlyback from the Downs, my hand clasped in his.
Aunt Penelope was better; the doctor had been again, and was pleasedwith her. Jonas, in his very best suit, his face shining with soap andwater, gave us the good news on our arrival. There was a nice littlelunch waiting for us in the tiny dining-room, and my father, as heexpressed it, was "downright hungry."
"Delicious, this cold beef and salad tastes," he said. "Upon my word,there's nothing like plain food; one does get sick to death of made-updishes."
I helped him to the best that my aunt's little table could afford, andthen I ran softly up to her room. She was lying high up in bed, her eyeswere bright, and she was watching for me.
"Well, child; well?"
"You are better, aren't you, auntie?"
"Better? I am all right, child; what about yourself?"
"I am quite well, of course."
"Heather, is that poor man, your father, downstairs?"
"He is."
"Has he expressed a wish to see me?"
"He has come back for the purpose."
"I will see him; only he must be quiet, in order to prevent my coughing.If I start coughing again I may get really bad; you tell him that.Heather, my love, you're not going to leave me, are you?"
"Not at present, at any rate," I said.
"Kiss me, dear. You are a very good girl; you take after your mother.You have got her patient, steadfast light in your eyes. Now send thatfather of yours up, and tell him, whatever he does, to be careful thathe doesn't set me coughing."
I ran downstairs, and gave my father Aunt Penelope's message. He said:
"Poor old girl! I'll be careful, right enough," and then he went softlyand slowly upstairs. I watched until he was out of sight; then I ranquickly into the little drawing-room. I had not a minute to lose, and Iwould not delay. I would not postpone setting a seal on my own fate fora single moment.
There was the little room, looking just as of old. I had dusted it andtidied it that morning, and put a few fresh flowers in one or two vases,and made it look quite gay and pretty. I knew where Aunt Penelope kepther note-paper; I opened her Davenport and took out a sheet now andbegan to write. I wrote straight to Vernon Carbury. My letter was veryshort.
"I have to give you up, Vernon," I wrote; "there is no other way out. My father, Major Grayson, has told me his true story. I never heard it until to-day. I understand everything now, and I wish you, Vernon, clearly to understand that I, Major Grayson's daughter, take his shame, and bind it on me, and not for all the world will I loosen that badge of shame from my heart. So, because of this very thing, I can never be your true wife. You are a brave soldier of the King, and my father has been cashiered, because of a crime, from the King's Army. Is it likely that you and I can be husband and wife? Good-bye, dear. It gives me dreadful pain to write this letter, but all the same, I am glad we have met, and that you have put me into your gallery of heroines, as I have put you into my gallery of heroes. Forget me soon--find a girl who has no shame to bind round her heart, and be happy. Dearest darling, best beloved,--Your little
"HEATHER."
I knew his address, and put it on the letter. I stamped it, and ran outwith it myself. Jonas saw me going, and called after me:
"Miss Heather, I'll post that for you."
"No, thank you," I answered; "I'd like to go."
The letter was dropped into the post-box before my father camedownstairs again after his interview with Aunt Penelope. His face waspale, and he looked tired.
"Upon my word, this has been a trying day to me. She's the best ofwomen, Heather; I don't wonder you're proud of her. She reminds mewonderfully of your poor mother; not in appearance, of course, for Inever saw your mother except with the glint and the glamour of youth onher face; but she's what your poor mother would have been had she lived.She's a right-down good woman. She wants you to go on living with her,but I have got her to see reason, and she is satisfied that you shallreturn to me as soon as she is well. Take care of her, child--here's aten-pound note to spend on her, and when you want more money you haveonly to write to me."
"But--but I thought you had no money?" I answered.
"I have, and I haven't. As long as I live with Lady Helen I have moremoney than I know what to do wi
th. Don't take that little drop of honeyout of my cup. I can spend that money as I please, and no questionsasked; and now, my child, I'm going back to London. I'll write to you ina day or two; you needn't fear her ladyship, she'll go on giving you agood time, and some day perhaps you'll marry."
"No," I said. "You know that--father--you know that I won't."
"Well, well, there's no saying, and a girl of your age can't prophesywith regard to the future. Good-bye, little girl. God bless you! Youhave comforted me as you alone could to-day."