Part 20 (2/2)
I sprang to my feet and confronted him.
”Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I said. ”If you are rich, rich like that, think what good you ought to do with your money; think what grand use you ought to make of it; think of the people who are out of employment, and the poor young people--girls especially--who are so shamefully underpaid, and think of the hospitals that need more funds, and the big, great charities that are crying aloud for more help! If you want to be happy, to use your money right, you ought to give to all of these, and you ought to learn to give with discrimination and judgment.
When I lived in the country Aunt Penelope taught me a lot about the right giving of charity, so I can understand. You need not be quite so frightfully rich if you give of your abundance to those who have much less; and if you not only give of your money, but of yourself, of your life, of all, or a greater part of your time, you'll be just awfully happy. People who do that sort of thing invariably are. Aunt Penelope says so, and she ought to know.”
”Your Aunt Penelope must be a very wise woman. I should like to meet her; and that is a most brilliant idea. I wonder if it could be carried into effect?”
”Surely there is nothing to prevent it.”
”Then, little Heather Grayson, will you help me to carry it into effect?”
”I wish I could; but how can I? I am such a very young girl.”
I began to find him less interesting than I had done a minute ago. I pushed a big sofa-pillow between my back and the edge of the sofa; I pined for eleven o'clock on the following day.
”I must make my meaning plain,” he said. ”I want someone just like you, young, and pure, and innocent, and, I believe, holy--to help me, to live with me, to be my--oh! I want someone whom I could train and--whom I could love.”
”A sort of companion,” I said, in some amazement; ”or, perhaps, you mean an adopted daughter; but then, you see, I am father's daughter, although he has married Lady Helen.”
”Ah, poor child!” he said. ”I can quite see that you are your father's daughter, although he has married Lady Helen. But tell me--do you really think me old enough to be your father?”
”But, of course--yes, Lord Hawtrey, you are.”
”Perhaps I am; on the other hand, perhaps I am not. But, after all, little Miss Heather, the question of age scarcely matters. Deep in my heart there lives eternal youth, and now and then--oh, by no means always--but now and then, and especially when I am with you, it comes to the surface. Eternal youth is a beautiful thing, and when I see you, little Miss Grayson, and watch your innocent country ways, it visits me; it is like a cool, refres.h.i.+ng fountain, bubbling up in my heart.”
”But aren't we perhaps talking fairy talk?” I said, pulling one of the roses out of its position in front of my dress and letting it fall to the floor.
He got very red, but nevertheless he kept himself well in control.
”I want you to think it over,” he said. ”I know you will be unprepared for what I mean to say. I want you as my wife. I can give you all the outward things that the hearts of most women desire--I can give you wealth, and beautiful dresses, and a lovely house--several lovely houses--to live in; and I can make the best, and the greatest, and the cleverest people your friends. I can take you far away, too, from this flash and glitter. Little child, I can help to save you. Will you be my wife? Don't--at least to-night--say no. I promise to make you the best, the most devoted of husbands. I shall love you as I never loved woman, and you will soon get accustomed to my grey hairs, and to the fact that I am forty years of age. Don't say no, little Heather. I have loved you with my whole heart, from the first moment I saw you.”
I knew that, in spite of myself, my eyes opened wide, so wide that presently they filled with tears, and the tears dropped down and splashed on the roses which I had put on with such pride. I knew now from where the flowers had come. I hated the roses; I loathed their heavy perfume. I rose abruptly.
”Lord Hawtrey,” I said, ”I ought to thank you, but I am too young and confused, and--and--oh, I must say it!--too _distressed_! You don't want to force me to this?”
”No. You must come to me of your own free will.”
”I believe you are a very good man,” I said; ”I am sure of it, and I thank you very much; but you must understand that to me you seem like a father, and I can never, never think of you in any other light. You will forgive me, but I cannot say any more--I can never say any more. I do like you, but I can never say anything more at all.”
I did not touch his hand. I walked slowly towards the door; Lord Hawtrey opened it for me; I pa.s.sed out. He bent his head in acknowledgment of my ”Good night,” and then, as I was going upstairs, I noticed that he shut the drawing-room door very softly.
CHAPTER XIII
When Lady Helen went to the opera or the theatre, or to special b.a.l.l.s or suppers, she invariably was late for breakfast the next morning, and on these occasions my father generally had his breakfast with her in her bedroom. Lady Helen would not put in an appearance until lunch time, and I therefore would have the morning all to myself. After that eventful day and after that almost sleepless night, I was quite certain that I should not find anyone waiting for me in the breakfast-room. To my astonishment, however, both Lady Helen and my father were there. They looked at me when I came in, my father with anxiety and affection, Lady Helen with a world of meaning in her knowing, worldly old face.
On the night before I had torn the roses with feverish haste from my dress, stuck them into a great bowl of water, and desired Morris to take them away; I said that the perfume gave me a headache, and that I did not wish to see them again. She obeyed me in some astonishment, raising her brows a trifle.
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