Part 27 (2/2)
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 letter back again on her breakfast tray.
”Leave it to me,” she said. ”You're but a silly sort of child, and never half know what you ought to be doing. You want wiser heads than your own to 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 with appet.i.te.
”You do cook well, Heather,” she said. ”Although you are a society girl I 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 to attack her egg.
”Really?” I answered.
”Yes, very. You have acted with judgment and forethought; I am pleased with you, I don't attempt to deny it. Now then, what do you say to my telling 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 tell you I will do anything in the world that takes my fancy, and my fancy at the present moment is to see you through a difficult pa.s.s. I don't trust Gordon 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 the word love. To 'care for' a man is _quite_ sufficient before marriage; of course, you may do what you like afterwards--anyhow, you care for or love, 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 rubbis.h.!.+ Is he the sort of man your dear mother, my blessed sister, would have approved of your marrying? Think carefully 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 heart and soul!”
”Poof, child, poof! You're in love and that's a horrid state for any girl to be in; it's worse in a girl than in a man. You haven't a likeness of him by any chance, have you?”
”No, he never gave me his photograph, but he's very--I mean he is quite handsome.”
”You needn't have told me that, for, of course, I know it. He is handsome in your eyes. You have no photograph, however, to prove your words; you are just in love with this youth, and your father wants you to return because he and that grand lady of his intend you to marry the old gentleman with the money. What sort is the old man? Is he in trade, in the b.u.t.ter 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 a countess?”
”I don't know--perhaps I should; I don't want to marry him.”
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