Part 29 (2/2)
He himself would explain everything to me, of that I was quite convinced.
He came out again. He was rubbing his hands. He was in high spirits.
”Upon my word, Heather,” he said, ”we are a pair of truants, you and I.
I feel like a boy let loose from school. And how is the old aunt? How is Aunt Penelope?”
”She is not at all well, Dad. It was most providential from her point of view that I did return, for she wanted someone to look after her.”
”Do you mean to tell me, Heather, that she is in danger?”
”She is better to-day,” I answered; ”but she was very ill yesterday, very ill indeed, and the doctor was a little frightened, but he is ever so pleased to-day.”
”You have been nursing her, then?”
”Yes, I have. But oh, Daddy, I am glad to see you again!”
”And I to see you,” was the reply. ”A pair of truants out from school--eh, little girl, eh, eh?”
”Yes, Daddy; oh, yes, Daddy.”
I slipped my hand inside his arm. I might not have done this if I had been quite certain about that story of Aunt Penelope's; but then I was doubting it more and more each moment. I was firmly convinced that there was not a syllable of truth in it, and I had him quite to myself, and I could soon talk him round with regard to Vernon. Of course, he would not wish me to marry an old man like Lord Hawtrey when there was a young man like Vernon Carbury longing to have me, longing to clasp me to his heart as his true love--his true wife. Daddy was not worldly-minded--of that I was certain.
We walked down the steep hill about which I had got directions from the fat woman, and plunged into the little town.
”I suppose we'd best get to your aunt's at once, child?” said my father.
”No,” I answered; ”I want us to come up on the Downs first. Are you frightfully, frightfully hungry? For if you are, we can buy some cakes and eat them up on the Downs.”
”Well, I am not disinclined for a meal; but I'll tell you what we will do. We will go on the Downs first, and afterwards we will visit the best restaurant in Cherton. Come along, little woman; let's march. Eh, dear!
it's a good thing to stretch one's legs. It's an awful matter to have to confess, Heather, but I'm about sick of that everlasting motoring. I'd give a good deal to be rid of it once and for all. But there! that is high treason. Lady Helen wouldn't like me to talk like that; and she is a good soul, you know, Heather--a right, good, generous creature. She doesn't mind how much she spends on a person. She has never stinted you, has she, Heather? Come now, confess the truth.”
”Oh, no,” I replied, ”she has been horribly, terribly generous.”
”Child! What on earth do you mean?”
”I will tell you when we get on the Downs.”
He looked at me in a surprised sort of way, opened his lips as if to speak, then remained silent. I found I was walking too quickly for him; I was obliged to slacken my steps. I was surprised at this, for in all my long experience I had considered him one of the very strongest of men, a man who would never be tired, who was possessed of unbounded vitality, with such a great, strong flood of life in him that nothing of the ordinary sort could extinguish it. Nevertheless, he panted now and puffed as I walked with him up towards the Downs.
”Why, Dad!” I cried, ”is this too much for you?”
”I expect so,” he answered. ”It's that beastly motoring--I never can stretch my legs. Upon my word, I am losing my muscle; I shall be a worn-out, rheumatic old man in no time--it's all Helen's fault.”
”You ought to play golf,” I said; ”men of your age, not old men--of course, you're not old--but men of your age spend hours at golf, and that keeps them active. That's what you ought to do--it is, really and truly.”
”It is, really and truly,” he repeated, looking at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes. ”So that's your way of looking at it, Miss Heather, and you think her ladys.h.i.+p will approve of my playing golf, and you think she'll approve of my absenting myself from her for long hours every day?”
”Oh, I don't know--oh, I can't bear it!” I said.
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