Part 29 (1/2)
I put on my hat, s.n.a.t.c.hed up my gloves and parasol, and ran downstairs.
Jonas met me. He looked much excited. He came up to me with his cheeks flushed.
”Why, missie!” he said, ”is there anything the matter?”
”No, no; nothing at all, Jonas,” I said. ”You are preparing Aunt Penelope's dinner, are you not?”
”Yes, missie; that is, as well as I can. I'm not at all sure about the soup, though; I am not certain that it is flavoured right. If you, missie, were to come along into the kitchen and just taste it, why--it would be a rare help, that it would.”
I clenched one of my hands tightly together. It was with the utmost difficulty that I could keep down the wild words which were crowding to my lips. But Aunt Penelope, whatever she told me, however awful and cruel her words were, must be looked after, must be tended, must be cared for. Crus.h.i.+ng down that defiant, that worldly self which clamoured to a.s.sert itself, I followed the boy into the kitchen. I looked up an old receipt book and gave him swift directions.
”You will have dinner all ready,” I said, ”and if by any chance I am out--if I haven't come in, you will not wait for me, for Aunt Penelope must have her dinner to the minute. You understand, don't you, Jonas?”
”Oh, yes, Miss Heather. Yes, I understand; but”--he looked at me longingly--”there's the telegraphic message, miss,” he said.
”Oh, you mean that my father is coming. I'll be back in time to see him.
It's all right, Jonas. Don't tell Aunt Penelope that I am out. Take her this soup, when it is ready, and, for Heaven's sake! don't keep me now.”
Jonas's round eyes became full of wonder, but I would not glance at them. I must get out. I must go up on the heights above the little town before my father arrived. I must be by myself, whatever happened; I must be quite alone.
It was a hot day. Summer was coming on in great strides. In Aunt Penelope's village the weather was very hot in the summer time. But the air was more or less my native air. I was glad of it. I was glad to feel its soft zephyrs blowing against my cheeks. I soon reached the high part of the town, and then I found myself on the moors. I sat down on a clump of purple heather--the flower after which I was called--and pulled a spray of the blossom and crumpled it between my fingers and watched the little delicate flowers tumbling into my lap. All my life seemed to rise up before me at that moment, and the anguish that I lived through could scarcely be surpa.s.sed. Oh, Aunt Penelope, Aunt Penelope! What a dreadful thing you did when you told me that story about my father! Why did you, who kept it to yourself all your days, tell it to me now? Oh, it was not true! I did not believe it! Long ago, on the very day when I, a little, shy, frightened girl of eight years of age, had come to live with Aunt Penelope, the then reigning Jonas--the ”b.u.t.tons” in possession--had taken me to these very heights and had walked over them with me and shown me the blue of the sea and the beauty of the landscape; and I had been excited, and pleased as a child will be, particularly such a child as I was--a child with a natural and intense love of nature in her heart.
Yes, I had been happy then, up on these fragrant heights; but I had come back--oh, to such misery! For my father had gone; he had left me alone with Aunt Penelope. I sat now on the Downs, and remembered all that miserable day, my pa.s.sionate, frantic pain, my mad search for my nurse, Anastasia; the woman who had taken my money and had shown me how to get to the railway station; the kind friends who had met me there and had a.s.sured me that Anastasia had not come by the next train; and then Aunt Penelope's face, which to me on that day seemed so hard and cold and cruel.
What immediately followed was a blank to me: no wonder, for I was very ill. I recalled the days, the months, the years that followed--Aunt Penelope's simple life and my gradual and yet sure enjoyment of it, the little things that pleased me, the tiny happenings that were all important, the little joys that were great joys to me; the school prizes; the breaking-up days; the rare occasions when I was given a new frock; the careful, thrifty life. And all the time, n.o.ble lessons were being poured into my soul, and I was being taught by the st.u.r.dy example of one very brave, very poor old woman to refuse the evil and choose the good. I recalled what took place a few months ago--my father's return, his dear, jolly, red, good-natured face, his kindly eyes, his pleasant smile, the way he had hugged and kissed me, the manner in which my heart had gone out to him; my raptures when he said that he had come to take me away, that in future I was to be his child, his little girl who was to live with him. Oh, I was happy! I forgot Aunt Penelope in my joy. She was in bitter grief at the thought of losing me; but I was selfish, and did not mind.
Then there came my hurried journey to London; the meeting with my father, the meeting with Lady Helen Dalrymple, and the beginning of a new life, the beginning of fresh troubles. First of all, there was my father's second marriage. I was not to have him to myself; Lady Helen was to share my felicity; and I hated Lady Helen, I recalled that time--that awful time. I thought of the great rich house in London and of what Lady Helen Dalrymple was, and of my anguish when she told me that I must change my name, and must in future be called Heather Dalrymple, and never again as long as I lived Heather Grayson. She further informed me that my father had taken her name and was Major Dalrymple, not Major Grayson. I was wild with anger, but a look on his face made me submit. Then by degrees I saw that my darling father was not at all happy. His fun had gone out of him; he no longer made a joke about everything. He sat very silent; sometimes I thought he was even a little bit afraid. Then Lord Hawtrey appeared on the scene, and then--then! my true lover, Vernon Carbury.
Oh! yes, I loved Vernon Carbury. He was all that a romantic young girl would most adore. He was so handsome and gay and chivalrous, and such a perfect gentleman; and he had such a soldierly air and such a proud, upright bearing; and he was mine. He loved me as much as I loved him. It didn't matter a bit about his being poor. Lord Hawtrey, kind old man, wanted to marry me; and his sister, Lady Mary Percy, seemed to think it a very good match. But what was that to me? I loved Vernon and would marry no one else. But--but--there was my father; my father who had--oh, it couldn't be true! G.o.d in heaven! it was not true.
I buried my face in my hands. I sobbed aloud. I was frantic with the grief of it, and the shame of it, and the torture of it. My father--my own father! If I had been told that Lady Helen had done a thing like that I should not have been surprised; but my father! It could not be; it was impossible.
Suddenly I started to my feet. I would know the worst. Aunt Penelope believed the story, but I would never believe it unless I heard it from my father's lips, and if it was true, then of course I must give Vernon up. He should not marry a girl whose father had done something to make her ashamed. Much as I loved him, I felt that he must never do that; for that very reason, he must not do it--just because I loved him too well.
I had a beautiful little jewelled watch with a long gold chain which was slipped into my belt. I took it out, and looked at the time. It was a quarter past one. If I walked quickly, I could reach the railway station in time to meet my father. I would take him away with me at once. We would go up on the Downs, and I would ask him point-blank if Aunt Penelope's story was true. He, at least, would tell me the truth.
Afterwards, I could decide.
I rose from my seat on the heather. I had crushed the beautiful purple heather down with my weight. But it was elastic, strong, and wiry. The winds of heaven and the sun would soon kiss it and tempt it, and rouse it to an upright position again. I had not really injured my own heather. I straightened my hat. Of late I had been forced to think a good deal about dress and fas.h.i.+on. n.o.body else did at Cherton. Cherton was a little old-world place, and fas.h.i.+ons put in their appearance there several years after they were seen in London.
I pulled my gloves on tidily, pushed back my tumbled hair, and went rapidly towards the railway station. I knew how to get there now. I needed no fat old woman to show me the way. I arrived just as the London express was coming in. As I have said before, it but seldom stopped at our little wayside station. But it did stop to-day. I wondered if some great people like the Carringtons were returning. I did not want to see the Carringtons just then. The only person, however, who stepped out of the train, and that was out of a first-cla.s.s carriage, was an elderly man with white hair and a haggard expression. He was very well dressed, and carried a smart walking-stick. But there was a decided stoop between his shoulders, as though he did not care to keep himself upright. I gave a faint cry, then ran up to him. I linked my hand inside his arm.
”I thought I'd come to meet you. I am here; I am all right, you see.”
”Oh, I say! My darling little Heather! This is first-rate. Child, what a fright you have given Lady Helen and myself. You have been disgracefully naughty.”
”You must forgive me, Dad. Dad, darling, you haven't come all the way from London to a little place like Cherton just to scold your own Heather?”
”Bless you, my beauty!” was the reply. ”Aren't you the very joy of my heart? But all the same, you did wrong. You didn't think of what I went through last night. You forgot that, little Heather. But never mind, never mind; only I'd best send a wire to her ladys.h.i.+p. She will be in a fume if she doesn't hear. Ah! here's the telegraph office. I won't be a minute, child; you wait for me outside.”
I made no response. He went in, while I stood in the fierce heat of the suns.h.i.+ne. I hoisted my parasol, but the heat penetrated through it. How long my father stayed in that little office! And how old and tired he looked! and yet--oh, of course, he had done nothing wrong. It was but to look into those kind blue eyes; he could not have done that thing which Aunt Penelope accused him of. My spirits rose. She had made a mistake.