CHAPTER XXI
While Aunt Penelope talked my heart beat very hard. From time to time Icould not help glancing at Vernon. Was he guessing my thoughts--was heunderstanding?
He stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. Once or twicehe whistled a little, he whistled a bar of a popular melody; then hethrust his hands into his pockets, turned swiftly round, took up anewspaper, flung himself into a chair, and pretended to read. I mighthave felt vexed with him, I might even have accused him of want ofsympathy, if I had not suddenly noticed that he was holding the paperupside down--he was not reading at all. He was in reality as excited andtroubled as I was myself. My heart warmed to him with a great glow whenI observed this. I felt what good, what splendid friends we would be inthe future, how like nobody else in all the world he was, and what alucky, very lucky, girl I was to have won him. But no--even at the riskof losing my own happiness I would not leave my father to the merciesof Lady Helen. Unless that matter could be put right, I would not marrymy darling Vernon. The thought brought a great soreness into my heart,and I felt the tears pricking my eyes from behind, and I was glad whenour time of suspense was over, for the same flunkey who had opened thedoor for us now appeared, standing on the threshold of the little roomwhere we had taken refuge, and said:
"Lady Helen's compliments, and she will be pleased to give you anaudience, Miss Dalrymple."
"I am coming, too. Does her ladyship know?" inquired Aunt Penelope.
"She said Miss Dalrymple," replied the man.
"Nonsense!" said Aunt Penelope. "We'll all come, my good man. Will youhave the kindness to show the way? Now march, please; although you'rewearing such a smart livery, you're not nearly such a good servant as myboy Jonas."
The man's name was Robert, and he was one of the most superior servantsof the house, and I really felt annoyed with Aunt Penelope for attackinghim in this fashion. He got very red, but then his eyes met mine, andsomething in my eyes must have begged of him to be patient, for hecertainly was patient, and then, without another word, he went beforeus, and we three followed, and a minute or two later we were in LadyHelen's presence.
I was at once relieved and surprised to find that my father was notthere. It happened to be a very hot day; it was now July, and London wassuffering from a spell of intensely hot weather. Lady Helen'ssitting-room looked very cool and inviting. There were soft, bluey-greenblinds draped across the windows--the effect was a sort of bluey-greymist, at once refreshing and becoming. There were quantities of flowersin the room, so much so that Aunt Penelope began to sniff at once. Shesniffed audibly, and said in a loud aside to Vernon:
"No wonder the poor woman looks ill; such a strong smell of flowers isbad for anyone."
Lady Helen herself was in a most wonderful make-up that morning. She hada very elegant figure, notwithstanding her years. She was dressed in theextreme height of the prevailing mode, and looked--that is, until thefull light of day shone upon her--like a woman who was between forty andfifty, at most. She must have been wearing a completely new arrangementon her head; I cannot call it her own hair, for I happened to know thatit was only hers in the sense that she had honestly paid for it. It wasof a pale golden shade; when last I saw her she was wearing chestnutcurls. This _coiffure_ was arranged in the most becoming manner on thetop of her head, and fell in soft little ringlets round her ears andabout her neck. Her dress was of the "coat and skirt" style, cut intailor fashion, and extremely smart. On the back of her golden head shewore an enormous black crinoline hat, trimmed with great ostrich tips;altogether her appearance was too wonderful for Aunt Penelope to bearlong with patience. She was standing up as we entered the room, and nowshe came quickly towards us.
"How do you do, Heather?" she said to me. "I am quite willing to see youagain, but this lady and this gentleman!"
"You know me very well, Lady Helen," said Vernon. "I am that CaptainCarbury who stood by your brother's death-bed--who hold his writtenconfession, and who is about to marry Heather Grayson."
"All nonsense, all nonsense!" said Lady Helen.
"But I thought----" I began.
Lady Helen looked at Aunt Penelope.
"It does not matter what you think, Heather; you are only a child. May Ibe informed who this lady is--the lady who has dared to come into mypresence uninvited?"
"My name, madam, is Miss Despard, and I am real own aunt to HeatherGrayson. Heather Grayson's mother, the first wife of Major Grayson,happened to be my sister. I presume therefore, madam, that I have aright over this young girl, more particularly as she lived with me, andI trained her, and educated her from the time she was eight years olduntil she was eighteen."
"Ah, yes," said Lady Helen in a soft voice; "that dreadful time, thoseten terrible years!"
"We all know the story of those years; you are, of course, aware ofthat," said Captain Carbury at that moment.
Lady Helen gave him a quick glance.
"Yes," she said suddenly. "You observe my dress. I am in mourning for mydear one."
Her voice trembled for a minute. I looked at her and saw that she wasreally sorry for the man who was dead.
"He is in his grave," she continued, "poor, dear Gideon! We did what wecould for him, your father and I. Now our one desire is to let his poorbones rest in peace."
"Perhaps it is, madam," said Vernon just then, "but there are otherpeople who have a say in the matter. Now, Heather, it is time for you tospeak."
I looked at Lady Helen and took my courage in my hands.
"Stepmother----"
"Oh! You acknowledge that I am your stepmother? Well, what have you tosay for yourself? You have been a nice stepdaughter to me!"
"I could not help it," I said. "I never intended to be nasty to you."
"Well, I don't wish to complain. But who gave you all the good thingsyou enjoyed, your dress, your home, your fun, your pleasure, your goodtime all round? Answer me that question--who gave you those things?"
"You did."
"Ah! I'm glad you acknowledge it."
"Of course I acknowledge it."
"And do you think you have behaved well to me in return? Because I didthe very best possible for you and because a needy, poor man, almost apauper, for he has practically no private means, came and demanded yourhand, and your father and I considered it an improper and unsuitablerequest, you took the bit between your teeth, and, without a word,without a hint, ran away. Never shall I forget our return from Brightonand the agony that your poor father, whom you profess to love, was in.You ran away. Why did you run away?"
"Because I couldn't do what you wanted."
"And you did even worse," continued Lady Helen, "for I have discoveredeverything. You had the audacity, the impropriety--you, a young girl--togo to Lord Hawtrey's, and to try to interview him. Oh, yes; I have heardthat story, and I know what it means; and a nice meaning it has for you,miss--a very nice meaning, indeed!"
"You broke my heart and went away to the country and took father withyou," I said. "I could think of no one else. I went to him because Iknew he was a gentleman, and would act as such."
"Suppose we come to the matter in hand," interrupted Vernon, who wasgetting impatient at all this dallying.
"Yes, that's right, Vernon; that's right. Keep her to the point,"exclaimed Aunt Penelope.
I looked back at them both. Aunt Penelope's bright eyes were like littlepin points in her head; they were fixed on Lady Helen's got-up face. Shehad really never before, in the whole course of her life, met such awoman. She was studying her from every point of view.
"I have come here, stepmother," I said, "to tell you that I--I--know allthe story with regard to my--my darling father. Vernon has told me, andVernon and I have made up our minds to marry, and father has given hisconsent, and we mean to be married, if all comes right, in about----"
"Best say a week, Heather," interrupted Vernon.
"In about a fortnight from now," I continued.
"Well, if you must put it off so long," he remarked, leaning
back in hischair.
"But the question I have come here to-day to ask is this," I continued."What is to become of my father?"
"The more proper thing for you to say, Heather Dalrymple, is this: Whatis to become of the man who has had the good fortune to marry Lady HelenDalrymple?"
"But I don't think it a good fortune at all," I said. "Oh, Lady Helen,I must speak the truth; I can't beat about the bush any longer. My dear,my darling father is not a bit happy, not a bit! He did what he did--oh!it was so noble of him!--to--save your brother--I know the whole story.Oh, he was a hero! But must all his life be sacrificed because he is ahero? Your brother is in his grave; give my own dad back his freedom;let him come and live with Vernon and me!"
"Upon my word, I never heard of such a request in all my life!"
"But you will do it," I said. "There need be no scandal; you can goabroad or anywhere you like, and I am sure father will visit yousometimes, and no one need think anything about that, and--and you knowyou're not really fond of father, because if you were you would not makehim so terribly unhappy. Oh, do let him come and live with us!"
"You take my breath away! You are the most audacious, dreadful girl Iever came across. What do you take me for?"
"Lady Helen, I know you have a heart somewhere."
She looked at me. The rims round her eyes were blackened, her eyebrowswere artificially darkened, her face was powdered--could I get at anysoul behind that much bedecked exterior? Bedecked, do I call it?Disfigured is the word I ought to use.
"Lady Helen," I said suddenly, "give my father his happiness! Don't, oh,don't be cruel to him any longer, I beg of you, I beseech of you!"
"Child, don't make a fool of yourself." Lady Helen rose.
"Listen, you good people," she said. "This little Heather Dalrymple, mystepdaughter, would never have thought of such an absurd and ridiculousscheme but for you; you, Miss Despard, and you, Captain Carbury, thoughtthis thing out. You wanted to drag me before the world as a womanseparated from her husband; you thought to disgrace me before the eyesof the world, and you imagined that I would obey the whim of a child. Iknow better. Heather, I distinctly and once for all refuse yourrequest."
"Then, madam, it is my turn to say something," cried Vernon.
"You must say it pretty quickly, sir, for my motor-car will be round ina few minutes."
"I fear your car must wait. You have an important matter to listen to.It is this. You love your brother, and we all, even the most hardened ofus, have a feeling of respect towards the dead. But I can at leastassure you that there is such a thing as even greater respect for theliving who have been wronged, and the entire story of Major Grayson'sconduct shall be published before the world unless you agree to whatthis young lady proposes. He will come out very much a hero, I fancy;but your conduct in the matter will not be quite so gratifying to youand your friends."
"I echo every single word that Captain Carbury says!" exclaimed AuntPenelope. "I am very outspoken, and from first to last I have alwaysdetested everything I have heard about you, Lady Helen; and now that Isee you I hate you more than ever. It would give me sincere pleasure todrag your crime into the light. What right had you to work on thefeelings of the most tender-hearted of men in order to save your brotherfrom the shame and the punishment his sin deserved? My poor noblebrother-in-law volunteered to take your wicked brother's place. Why,Lady Helen, it was a Christ-like deed! The least he can get for the restof his days, poor fellow, is peace and happiness. Oh, yes, you canrefuse, but the moment you do so the whole of this affair shall beplaced in the hands of my solicitors, for I am determined that mybrother-in-law and my niece's father shall no longer be consideredunworthy to be a true soldier of our late Queen."
"You can leave me," said Lady Helen. "Go at once, all three of you;don't attempt to stay another moment in my presence. You drive me mad!Go--go--go! Oh, I shall have hysterics! I--Heather, ring the bell; mymaid must come to me; I feel the attack coming on. Oh, you awful people!Heather, you can stay if you like; you don't mean to be cruel, I knowyou don't. I who have suffered so sorely--I who am broken-hearted! Butleave me, you two others; leave me at once--at once!"
"Not until my niece goes with me do I stir one step out of this room,"said Aunt Penelope.
"Well, Heather child, if you must go you must. Oh, try to turn theirwicked, cruel hearts! but I--yes I----"
"What do you mean to do?" said Vernon. "You haven't told us that yet."
"Nothing, I tell you--nothing. You can't be so cruel--so monstrous!"
"Miss Despard's address is 90A, Torrington Square, W.C.," said Vernon,in his calmest voice; "that address will find her and Heather and me anytime between now and noon to-morrow. If at noon to-morrow we have notheard from you, we shall be forced to draw our own conclusions--namely,that you have refused to consider Heather's most natural petition, thatshe should be allowed to make her father happy. It will then be our dutyto put the matter absolutely into the hands of Messrs. Fenchurch andGrace, Miss Despard's solicitors."
Lady Helen sank back again in her chair, her eyes shone with feverishhate.
"Leave me, you terrible people!" she said. "Go, all of you!"
We went.
CHAPTER XXII
We said very little to each other that night at the comfortable littlehotel. I think we were all very tired. Aunt Penelope went early to bed,Vernon and I stayed downstairs and talked about our future. We talkedlanguidly, however; our thoughts were not even with our own happy futureat that moment. I was thinking all the time of my father, and I knowwell that Vernon was thinking of him also. Aunt Penelope went to bedbetween nine and ten o'clock; it was between ten and eleven when thedoor of the private sitting-room was flung open and a servant announced:"Major Grayson," and my dear father came in. His face was flushed, andhis eyes looked feverishly bright. He came up to us both with his handsextended.
"My dear, good, kind children," he said; then he paused for a minuteuntil the waiter had shut the door. Then he took me into his arms andkissed me half a dozen times, and then he wrung Vernon's hand and said,"My dear boy--my good boy!" Afterwards we all got a little calmer andsat down, I sinking close to father's side and Vernon standing oppositeto us.
"Come, now," said father, after a minute's pause, "you must give it allup, you know. Yes, Vernon, my boy, you must give it up, and so must thatdear Pen, and so must my little Heather. I am but fulfilling a promisemade long years ago. You none of you understand. I'll pull alongsomehow, in some kind of fashion, but I won't drag that poor woman'sname into the dust. You see, my children, she doesn't know what itmeans, but I do. I have plenty of strength in me--the great strength ofinnocence, which supported me all through my terrible period ofimprisonment, and also the strength which is but seldom given to awoman. Anyhow, she is not to suffer; I put down my foot. She has told meall; I found her in a terrible state; I had to send a doctor to her. Sheis in bed now; he was obliged to give her a soothing draught. Children,both of you, I shall live in your happiness, and my own does not matter.I can't desert Helen Dalrymple, and, what's more, I won't!"
"Oh, Daddy!" I said. "Oh, Daddy!"
I laid my head on his shoulder and began to sob.
"I can't live without you," I whispered, and I pressed my lips to hisrough cheek and kissed him. He put his arm round me very firmly.
"You will live and be very happy, little girl. And now, look here; Icould not leave our house in Hanbury Square until Helen was asleep, thenI thought I'd come round and have a talk with you. When she wakens shemust be told that you are not going to do anything. She will drop youout of her life, Heather, and so much the better--yes, so much thebetter. I can get a promise out of her that I shall come and see you nowand again, and when I do come I can assure you, my two dear youngpeople, I shall be as jolly as a sand-boy; you won't have anything tocomplain of on that score. But while I'm here I'll just hold to thebargain I made long years ago."
"Oh, father, father!" I said. "Why did you make it? Why did you do it?Why did you sacrifice yours
elf for her and for that man?"
"Hush, child! You can't read all a man's motives. At that time I--Ireally cared for Lady Helen. Not, perhaps, Heather, as I loved yourmother, but I was fond of her, undoubtedly; and if this trouble hadnever come I should probably have married her. She loved me too. I'lltell you one or two things I left out the other day. I had proposed toher long before that fearful scandal came to our ears in connection withher brother. She had refused me. I had begged and prayed her to be mywife, but she had firmly refused. Then I got into debt; I always was anextravagant slap-dash sort of person. I was very unhappy, and I broughtyou back to England--you remember that time, don't you, little woman?"
"Oh, yes," I said, trying to bring my thoughts back to the distant past.
"She wanted me to do so. She thought it very bad to have a child as oldas you in India. I settled with your aunt to keep you. My debts hauntedme and although Lady Helen refused to marry me, she lent me money to paymy debts. I went back to India, and then the thunderclap came. LadyHelen's brother would undoubtedly have been arrested if I had not thrownmyself into the breach. I thought out a plan very quickly; I liked Helenand I pitied her, and I did not think my own life worth saving. I wentto Helen and told her that I could put the officers of justice off thescent and get the crime fastened on myself, and I would do so oncondition that she married me when I came out of prison. She agreed,and there we are. Now, my dear Heather, as that's the story, I could notgo back from my bargain now."
"It was a very bad bargain for you," I could not help saying. I trembledvery much, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.
"But we must keep our bargains, whether they are good or bad, Heather,"whispered my father to me. "That is the law of life: as we sow we shallreap. And I am not altogether unhappy, not since this good fellow hasfound out the truth and I am cleared in his eyes, and in the eyes ofyou, my child, and in my sister-in-law's eyes. Nothing else greatlymatters. Heather, you are in the morning of your days, I am in theevening of life. When we come to the evening of life nothing concernsus, except so to live that we may fear God and do His commandments, andso fulfil the duty of man. That's about all, child. I am more gratefulto you than I can say, and more than grateful to you, Carbury. Give poordear Pen my love when she wakes, and tell her that it is quite allright--yes, quite all right. I am in the evening of life, and I will domy duty worthily to the very end."
As father said the last words he got up. He took me in his arms andkissed me; there was a solemnity about his kiss, and his dear, brightblue eyes looked softer than I had seen them for a long time.
"Heather, you're the image of your mother," he said abruptly. "Andshe--bless her memory!--she was the one woman in all the world for me."
Then he wrung Vernon's hand and went away. We could not detain him. Isat up for a little longer with Vernon, and then I went upstairs to bed.Vernon was staying in an hotel not far away.
All that long night I lay awake, not for one minute could I slumber. Mypast seemed to come before my eyes, it seemed to torture me. I feltsomehow as though I were passing into a region of great darkness, asthough I were going--I, myself--through the Valley of the Shadow ofDeath. What right--oh, what right had I to be happy when my father, mydarling father, was thought so cruelly of by the world! I felt I couldnot bear it. I got up, I paced the floor, I drank cold water, I went tobed again, I tried every dodge for coaxing sleep to come to me, butsleep would not obey my mandate. At last morning broke, and with thefirst blush of dawn I got up. I was downstairs and in the breakfast-roomwhen Vernon appeared. He brought in some beautiful roses; he laid themon my plate.
"Have you told Aunt Penelope yet?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "I have not seen her since last night."
Just at that moment my dear auntie entered the room.
"Well, children," she said, "I hope you have slept well. I have. I havegot a great accession of strength and am determined to go right throughwith this matter. We'll wait here, as promised, until twelve o'clock,then we'll go straight to my solicitors, and, hey, presto! the thing isdone. That fine madam will be down on her knees to us before the day isover. I know the sort--horrible, painted wretch!"
"You will have some breakfast before you do anything else, won't you?"said Vernon.
He took the head of the breakfast table. Really nothing could everdiscompose Captain Carbury. He poured out tea and coffee for us both.Aunt Penelope ate her breakfast with appetite; then she desired me tosit by the window and watch.
"We have given her till twelve o'clock, but the woman may send roundlong before then, that's what I am expecting."
I looked at Vernon. The waiter had removed the breakfast things; we hadthe room to ourselves. Vernon went and shut the door, then he came up toAunt Penelope and took her hand.
"Twelve o'clock won't make any difference, my dear friend," he said.
"Why, what on earth do you mean, Vernon?" was her remark. "You surelyare not backing out of it!"
"Heather and I can have nothing to do with it."
"You and Heather? what nonsense you talk! I don't believe I am hearingyou aright."
"Yes, you are. Major Grayson was here last night; he came after you hadgone to bed. He doesn't wish it done; he says he will abide by hisbargain. He is as brave a soldier as I have ever come across, and for mypart I don't see why he should be deprived of his laurel wreath."
"Oh, what are you talking about!" said Aunt Penelope. "His laurelwreath! Why, you know as well as I do that he's cashiered from thearmy. And you call that a glory, or whatever else you consider a laurelwreath!"
"In the eyes of God he is a hero, and he doesn't much mind what mansays. Now, I'll tell you everything. You've got to listen--you can't goagainst a noble spirit like his."
Aunt Penelope fidgeted and trembled. A great spot of pink colour came onone of her cheeks, leaving the other pale.
"Well, have your say," she murmured. "Have your say, I'm sure I don'tcare."
But when Vernon had done speaking, there was my dear old auntie cryingas though her heart would break. I was about to comfort her, or at leastto try to do so, when there came a hasty knock at the door. A servantappeared with a telegram on a salver. Vernon tore it open, it wasaddressed to him, and had been brought across from his hotel. His faceturned pale.
"There is no answer," he said to the man, who withdrew. Then he put hishand on my shoulder, and with his other hand he drew Aunt Penelope toher feet.
"I have something to tell you both," he said. "We are sent for; we haveto go to Hanbury Square. There has been a very bad accident. I cannotquite understand this telegram, but he is hurt. His motor came intocollision with another last night, and he was thrown out and hurt ratherbadly on his head. It may not be a great deal; it may be--everything. Weare to go at once."
Now I knew why I had lain awake all that long night, why I had feltinstinctively that there was a dark cloud coming up and up andenveloping my sky. I did not say a word. There are times when one cannotshed tears, tears are so inadequate. I ran upstairs and put on my hatand jacket, and Aunt Penelope stumbled after me and got into her outdoorthings, and Vernon had a carriage at the door, and in a few minutes wewere off.
A few minutes later we found ourselves in Hanbury Square. There were twodoctors' carriages at the door, but they moved away to make room for us.We entered. The servants looked distracted, the solemn sort of orderwhich always prevailed in that great house was lacking on that specialmorning. An elderly man, with a fine head and a shock of snow-whitehair, was coming down the stairs. He turned in the hall and looked at usthree, and especially he looked at me.
"Am I right or wrong," he said, "but do you happen to be the young ladymy patient is calling out for?"
"Father," I said. "My father; you are speaking of my father?"
"I am speaking of Major Dalrymple."
"He is my father."
"And his name is Grayson," snapped Aunt Penelope.
The doctor took no notice of her, but he put his hand on mine.
"You've got to be very brave, my dear," he said. "I'm glad you havecome. He is ill, you know; in fact, rather bad; in fact, very bad. Comesoftly, I'll take you up to his room."
I followed the doctor. We went up to the first floor. The doctor turnedthe handle of a door. There was a spacious room; within it looked like ahospital ward. Most of the furniture had been removed, the floor wascovered with white linen, stretched very tightly over the thick carpet.A narrow bedstead had been drawn out into the centre of the room, thecurtains had been removed. There was a table covered with white cloths,on which bottles had been placed. There were two trained nurses movingsoftly about the room.
A man lay stretched on his back in the centre of the bed. I went quicklyup to him.
"Now, show courage, don't give way," said the doctor.
I knelt down by the man and looked into his eyes.
"I said you'd come."
His voice was so low I could scarcely recognise it, but his eyes smiledat me. There never were such blue eyes, there never was anyone in allthe world who could smile as sweetly as my father. I knelt by himwithout speaking one word. The doctor stood behind me without moving.Presently my father raised his voice a trifle.
"Leave us two quite alone," he said.
The doctor and the nurses immediately went out. When there was no oneelse present my father said:
"Stoop very low, Heather."
I did stoop.
"I said last night 'the evening of life'--the night has come. You willkeep my secret always? Promise."
"Yes," I said.
He smiled at me again and then closed his eyes.
The doctor came back. Suddenly he bent forward and put his hand on myfather's hand and felt where his pulse ought to be, and then he said tome:
"Come away, my dear," and I went.
They asked me downstairs, those two who waited, what my father had said,and what had happened, but I only replied: "I will keep his secret--wemust all keep it--for his dear sake."
I have kept it to this day. I am a happy wife and mother now, and theold things are passed away. I never see Lady Helen, and I am glad ofthat. I like to forget that she ever came into my life, and intofather's. Father, of course, is very happy, happier than any of us. Italk to my children about him on Sunday evenings, and we wonder togetherwhat he is doing in the land where there are no secrets, and where noone is misunderstood.
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