Part 8 (2/2)

”I hope I shall always act as a lady,” I said, and I felt my cheeks growing crimson and a feeling of hatred rising within me towards Lady Helen; ”but if acting as a lady,” I continued, ”means eating more than is good for you, I don't see it, father, and I may as well tell you so first as last.”

”Bless you, child,” said father, ”bless you! I don't want to annoy you.

Now, I'll tell you what your day is to be. Lady Helen will take you and get you measured for some smart dresses, and then you are to lunch at the Carringtons. Lady Carrington has been kind enough to send round this morning to invite you. She and Sir John are staying at their very smart house at Prince's Gate, Kensington. Lady Helen will put you down there in her motor, and then she and I will call for you later in the day. You will enjoy being with Lady Carrington. She is the sort of woman you ought to cultivate.”

”Lady Carrington used to live not far from Hill View,” I said. ”Once I met her and she--she was going to be kind to me, when Aunt Penelope stepped in and prevented it.”

”Eh, dear,” said my father, ”now what was that? Tell me that story.”

I did not like to, but he insisted. I described in as few words as possible my agony of mind after parting with him, and then my determination to find Anastasia, who, according to his own saying, was to come by the next train. I told him once again how I ran away and how I reached the railway station, and how the train came in and Lady Carrington spoke to me, as also did Sir John, but there was no Anastasia, and then Aunt Penelope came up, and--and--I remembered no more.

”You were a troublesome little mite that day,” said my father, kissing me as he spoke, and pinching my cheek. ”Well do I recall the frenzy your poor aunt was in, and the telegrams and messages that came for me; well do I recollect the hunt I had for Anastasia, and how at last I found her and brought her to see you, and how you quieted down when she sat by your bedside. Well do I remember how often I sat there, too.”

”I remember it, too,” I said, ”only very dimly, just like a far-off dream. But, father, dear father, why didn't Anastasia stay?”

”Your aunt would not have her, child.”

”And why didn't you stay? Why did you come when I could not recognise you and keep away when I could?”

”_n.o.blesse oblige_,” was his answer, and he hung his head a little and looked depressed.

But just then there came a rustling, cheerful sound in the pa.s.sage outside, and Lady Helen, her dress as gorgeous as it was the night before, with a very _outre_ picture hat, fastened at one side of her head, and with her eyes as bright as two stars, entered the room. She floated rather than walked up to father's side, took his two hands, then dropped them, and said, in her high-pitched, very staccato voice:

”How do you do, Major? You see, I could not wait, but have come for the dear little _ingenue_. I am quite ready to take you off, Heather, and to supply you with the very prettiest clothes. Your father has given me _carte blanche_ to do as I please--is not that so, Major?”

”Yes,” answered my father, bowing most gallantly and looking like the very essence of the finest gentleman in the land. ”I shall be glad to leave Heather in such good hands. You will see that she is simply dressed, and--oh, I could not leave the matter in better hands. By the way, Lady Helen, I have had a letter this morning from Lady Carrington; she wants the child to lunch with her. Will you add to your many acts of goodness by dropping her at Prince's Gate not later than one o'clock?”

”Certainly,” said Lady Helen.

”I shall have lunch ready for you, dear friend,” said my father, ”at a quarter past one precisely at the Savoy.”

”Ah, how quite too sweet!” said Lady Helen. She gave the tips of her fingers to father, who kissed them lightly, and then she desired me to fly upstairs and put on my hat and jacket. When I came down again, dressed to go out, I found Lady Helen and father standing close together and talking in low, impressive tones. The moment I entered the room, however, they sprang apart, and father said:

”Ah, here we are--here we are! Now, my little Heather, keep up that youthful expression; it is vastly becoming. Even Lady Helen cannot give you the look of youth, which is so charming, but she can bestow on you the air of fas.h.i.+on, which is indispensable.”

Father conducted us downstairs and opened the door of the luxurious motor-car. Lady Helen requested me to step in first, and then she followed. A direction was given to the chauffeur, the door was shut behind us, father bowed, and stood with his bare, somewhat bald head in the street. The last glimpse I had of him he was smiling and looking quite radiant; then we turned a corner and he was lost to view.

”Well, and what do you think of it all?” said Lady Helen. ”Is the little bird in its nest beginning to say, 'Cheep, cheep'? Is it feeling hungry and wanting to see the world?”

”All places are the world,” I answered, somewhat sententiously.

”For goodness' sake, child,” said Lady Helen, ”don't talk in that prim fas.h.i.+on! Whatever you are in the future, don't put on airs to me. You are about the most ignorant little creature I ever came across--it will be my pleasure to form and mould you, and to bring you at last to that state of perfection which alone is considered befitting to the modern girl. My dear, I mean to be very good to you.”

”That is, I suppose, because you are so fond of father,” I said.

She coloured a little, and the hand which she had laid for a moment lightly on my hand was s.n.a.t.c.hed away.

”That kind of remark is terribly _outre_,” she said; ”but I shall soon correct all that, my dear. You won't know yourself in one month from the present time. Child of nature, indeed! You will be much more likely to be the child of art. But dress is the great accessory. Before we begin to form style and manner we must be dressed to suit our part in this world's mummer show.”

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