"He is coming, if you wish to know, Heather, because I asked him to come. And now, you will have the goodness to sit down by me. No, I am not hungry for dinner. I won't touch any food until you know the story I am about to tell you. Sit down where I can see your face, my child. Your father is coming, of course, because I wish it, and now I have something to say to you."

I sat down, feeling just as though my feet were weighted with lead. I was trembling all over. Aunt Penelope looked at me fixedly; she had the best heart in the world, but the expression of her face was a little hard. Her eyes seemed to glitter now as they gazed into mine.

"Aunt Penelope," I said, suddenly, "be prepared for one thing. Whatever you tell me, whatever you believe, and doubtless think you have good cause to believe, I shall never believe, never – if it means anything against my father."

"Did I ask you to believe my story, Heather?"

"No, but you expect me to, all the same," was my reply.

"I expect you to listen, and not to behave like an idiot. Now sit perfectly still and let me begin."

"It doesn't matter, if you don't expect me to believe," I said.

"Hush! I am tired, I have been dangerously ill, and am not at all strong. I must get this thing over, or I'll take to worrying, and then I shall be bad again. Well, now, about your father. You understand, of course, that he left the army?"

I nodded.

"Oh, you take that piece of information very quietly."

"He told me so himself," I said, after a pause. "Of course, I must believe what he tells me himself."

"He told you himself? That's more than I expected Gordon Grayson to do. However, he has done so, and I don't think the worse of him, not by any means the worse, as far as that point is concerned. It hasn't occurred to you, I suppose, my poor little girl, to wonder why a man like your father is no longer in the army, to wonder why every army man will have nothing to do with him, to wonder why he married a woman like Lady Helen Dalrymple, and why she is received in society and he is not?"

"How can you tell?" I asked, opening my lips in astonishment, "you weren't there to see."

"A little bird told me," said Aunt Penelope.

This was her usual fashion of explaining how certain information got to her ears: there was always a "little bird" in it; I knew that bird. I sat very still for a few minutes, then I said, as quietly and patiently as I could —

"Speak."

"It happened," said Aunt Penelope, "in India, and it happened a long time ago – the beginning of it happened before you came to live with me, Heather. Of one thing, at least, I am glad – your poor, sweet mother, my precious sister, was out of it all. She believed in your father as you believe in him; she was spared the terrible knowledge of the other side of his character."

"Oh, hush! don't say such things."

"And don't you talk rubbish. Listen to the plain words of a plain old woman, a woman who, for aught you can tell, may be dying."

"I am sure you are not, auntie; I have come back to help you to get well again."

"I am saying nothing against you, poor child; you are right enough, you do credit to my training. Had you been left to his tender mercies, God only knows what sort of creature you'd have grown into. But now I will begin, continue, and end in as few words as possible. Your father came courting your mother long years ago in a dear little seaside garrison town. He was a young lieutenant then, and was very smart, and had a way with him which I don't think he ever lost."

I thought of my darling father, with his cheerful, bluff manners, with his gay laugh, his merry smile, his ready joke. Even still he had "a way with him," although it must be sadly altered from the time when my mother was young.

"Your mother was a good bit my junior, Heather, and she and I kept a little house together. She was a very pretty girl indeed, and, of course, men admired her. We were pretty well off in those days, the pressure of penury had not come near us; we were orphans, but were left comfortably off. We used to subscribe to all the pleasant things that took place in our little town, and we occupied ourselves also in good works, and I think we were loved very much. Your father came along and got introduced to your mother, and to me, and we both took to him from the first."

"Oh, auntie, did you like him, then?"

"Like him! Of course I did. Heather, he was just the sort of man to beguile young girls to their destruction.

"Well, he cast his spell over your mother, and people began to talk about them both, and I began to get into a rage, for I knew what those soldier lads were when they liked. I knew how easy it would be for him to flirt and make love and ride away. I was determined he should not do that. Your mother could not have borne it. She was so pretty, Heather, and so clinging, and so gentle, and she had just given her whole heart to your father. So one day I asked him, after he had been with her the whole morning, and they had walked together by the seashore, and sat together in the garden, and he had read poetry to her, and she had listened with her heart in her eyes – I said to him, 'Do you know what you are doing?' He stared at me and coloured, and said, 'What?' – and then I said again, 'You must know perfectly well that a girl's heart is a sensitive thing, so just be careful what you are doing with my young sister's heart.' He coloured all over his face, and I never liked him better than when he sprang forward and took my hand and said,

"'Why, Penelope!' – I knew I ought to be shocked, but I did not even mind his calling me Penelope – 'Why, Penelope, if I could only believe that I had been fortunate enough to make any impression on your sister's heart, I'd be the happiest man on earth, for I love her, Penelope, better than my own life!' Yes, Heather, I can hear him saying those words just as though it were yesterday, and I was ever so pleased, ever so glad; the delight and joy of that moment come back to me even now. Of course, your father and mother got engaged, and everything was as right as possible. They were married, and soon after their marriage they went to India, and in about a year's time I heard of the birth of their child – of you – Heather. Your mother was very poorly after your birth, and had to be sent to the hills, up to a place called Simla. But even the air of the hills did not do her any good. She pined and pined, and faded and faded, and when you were about five years of age she died."

"I remember about

afterwards

," I said then, "I saw her after she was dead."

"Well, you needn't tell me, the knowledge would be harrowing," said Aunt Penelope. "After your mother's death I wrote to Gordon, proposing to adopt you, and begging of him to send you to me at once. He refused rather shortly, I thought, and said that he preferred you to be near him, and that he knew a family who would keep you in the hills during the hot weather. So the next few years went by. Then, when you were about eight years old I got a letter from your father. He said he was coming back to London, that he wanted to come on special business, and also that he had now changed his mind, and would bring you to me, if I had not changed my mind about having you. Of course I had not, and he brought you, and that was the end of that story. You were left with me and you fared well enough. While your father was in London I saw him several times, and I marked a great change in him, and what I considered a great deterioration of character. He knew the woman he has since made his wife even then, and often spoke of her. She was in society in Calcutta, where his regiment was stationed, and he often met her. He used to mention her in almost every letter he wrote, and I was fairly sick of her name, and also of the name of her brother. I told Gordon so in one of my letters. I said that Lady Helen's brother might be the best man on earth, but that he was nothing at all to me, and that if he wanted to write about him he had better choose another correspondent.

"Then, all of a sudden, without the slightest warning, the blow of blows fell. Your father was arrested on a charge of forgery; he had forged a cheque for a considerable sum of money. Oh, I forget all the particulars, but he had been made secretary to the golf and cricket clubs, and held, so to speak, the bank – in fact, he made away with the money, but he was caught just in time, and was tried by the laws of India, and sentenced to prison – penal servitude, in short. Of course, such a frightful disgrace carried its own consequences. He was cashiered from the army, they would have nothing whatever to do with him. His term of imprisonment was over late last autumn. I often used to wonder what would happen when he was free, and to speculate as to what your feelings would be when you saw him again. I used to make myself miserable about him. Well, you met, as you know, and he carried off everything with a high hand, and insisted on taking you away with him, and insisted further on marrying Lady Helen Dalrymple. It seems she stuck to him when all his other friends deserted him. He has lived through his punishment as far as the law of the land is concerned, but he will never outlive his disgrace, and there isn't a true soldier in the length and breadth of the land who will speak to him. Well, that's his story, and I was obliged to tell you. Now, you can run away and change your dress – oh, I forgot, you have no dress to change into. Well, you can tidy your hair and wash your hands, and by that time we'll be ready for dinner. Now, off with you, and be sure you have your hair well brushed. Good-bye for the present."

CHAPTER XVII

I left Aunt Penelope's room. I walked very slowly. My room was next to hers, and the walls between were quite thin; you could almost hear a person talking in the adjoining room. I wanted to be very quiet. I wanted no one to hear me, and yet I could not bear the perfect stillness and the cramped feeling of the tiny room.

I put on my hat, snatched 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. Crushing down that defiant, that worldly self which clamoured to assert 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 surpassed. 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 "Buttons" 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 passionate, 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 assured 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, noble lessons were being poured into my soul, and I was being taught by the sturdy 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! God 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 fashion. Nobody else did at Cherton. Cherton was a little old-world place, and fashions 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-class 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 ladyship. 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 sunshine. 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. 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 ladyship 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.

My voice was choked, there came a lump in my throat. After a moment I said, in a totally different sort of voice:

"We'll walk slowly, darling. Darling, I understand."

"Bless the child! of course she understands," he replied, and he squeezed my arm in his old, affectionate manner.

Thank God! we were on the top at last. The beautiful fresh air came towards us, laden with salt from the sea, laden with freshness, and purity, and beauty. My father's tired eyes brightened; he stretched himself and looked about him. There was a lot of sunshine flooding the place, and there was no sort of shade, but neither he nor I minded that.

"Come where the heather is most purple," I said. "Now, here – here's a bed for you and another for me. Stretch yourself; I'll lie close to you. Isn't it just lovely?"

"Upon my word, it is, Heather; it's heavenly."

"Daddy, I wonder sometimes why you called me Heather?"

"It was your mother's wish – your first mother, I mean."

"Oh, father, I could not have two mothers; you know that it would be impossible!"

"So it would. Well, it was your mother's – your real mother's wish. Fact is, she was very ill when you were born, and there was a bit of Scotch blood in her; she had lived in Aberdeenshire. She was all Aberdeen in every sort of way, through and through, in her nature, I mean; canny, and straight and true, like the real, best Scotch folks. After you were born she had a sort of fever, and she saw purple heather all around her – the heather of the moors. So she begged of me to call the child 'Heather,' and I did. You are called after the moors in Aberdeenshire – a very respectable sort of ancestress, too, eh, Heather, my love, eh, eh?"

"Yes, father."

My father had now recovered his breath; he sat upright and looked at me; he took my hand.

"I have something to say to you," was his remark.

I looked back at him and nodded. Our joyful time together was over now; our time of pain had begun. I knew this fact quite well. I nodded to him emphatically.

"And I have something to say to you."

"Well, Heather, I, being the elder, have the privilege of my years, have I not?"

"You have," I said.

I was glad of this. I was a coward at that moment, and wanted to put off the evil day.

"Well, now, little girl, a straight question requires a straight answer. Why did you leave your mother's house and mine yesterday, and go away without saying a word to anybody? Do you think you acted kindly or well to Lady Helen or myself?"

"I acted as I only could act under the circumstances," was my reply.

"But tell me why, Heather.

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Wild Heather

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