Wild Heather Part 25

"No, child, you have not done wrong; nevertheless, you have done something that the world would not approve of. Now, I want you to come away to my house. I live in another part of London; in my house you can see my brother if you wish, but why do you not confide in me? I should like to be your friend."

I looked straight up at her. After all, she was nearer to my own age.

Could I not tell her? I said impulsively:

"I will go away to your house with you and I will tell you there, and you can advise me what I ought really to do."

"Yes, I am sure that will be much the wisest plan. And now let us talk of other matters."

She began to chat in a light, winsome voice. After a time she begged of me to excuse her and went downstairs. She came back again in a few minutes.

"I have told my brother that you would tell me what you intended to say to him, and he is quite pleased with the idea," she said, "and my carriage is now at the door, so shall we go?"

"Yes," I answered.

We went downstairs together. We entered a very luxurious carriage, which was drawn by a pair of spirited bay horses. In a few minutes we found ourselves in another part of fashionable London. I cannot even to this day recall the name of the street. The house was not at all unlike Lord Hawtrey's house; it was furnished with the same severity, and the same excellent taste. Lady Mary took me into a little boudoir, which was dest.i.tute of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. But it had many flowers, and, what I greatly enjoyed, a comfortable sense of s.p.a.ce. My hostess drew a cushioned chair forward and desired me to sit in it; I did so. Then she seated herself and took one of my hands.

"Your story, Miss Heather Dalrymple?" she said.

"I will tell you," I answered. "Perhaps you will be dreadfully angry, but I cannot help it, you must know. I am eighteen and Lord Hawtrey is forty. I think Lord Hawtrey one of the best men in all the world; he is so kind and he has such a beautiful way with him. Last night he dined at our house and afterwards he came to see me quite by myself, and he spoke as no other man ever spoke to me before, only you must understand, please, and not be angry, that I could not do what he wanted. He wanted a very young girl like me, a girl who knows nothing at all of life, to--to marry him. Do you think that was fair or right, Lady Mary Percy?"

Lady Mary's brown eyes seemed to dance in her head. It was with an effort she suppressed something which might have been a smile or might have been a frown. After a minute's silence she said gently:

"It altogether depends on the girl to whom such a speech is addressed."

"I know that," I answered, "but this girl, the girl who is now talking to you ... I cannot even try to explain to you what a simple life I have lived--just the very quietest, and with a dear, dear old lady, who is poor, and doesn't know anything about the luxuries of the rich people of London. She has brought me up, during all the years I have been with her, to think nothing whatsoever of riches; she has got that idea so firmly into my mind that I don't think it can be uprooted. So whatever happens, I am not likely to care for Lord Hawtrey because he is rich, nor to care for him because he is a n.o.bleman or has high rank, or anything of that sort. I said to him last night: 'You don't want to force me to be your wife,' and he answered, 'You must come to me of your own free will.' Well, it is just this, Lady Mary. I can never come to him of my own free will, never, never!"

"He told me, child," said Lady Mary, in a quiet, low, very level sort of voice, "that he had spoken to you. I was a good deal astonished; I thought the advantages were on your side. You must forgive me; you have spoken frankly to me, it is my turn to speak frankly to you--I thought the disadvantages were on his side. A very young, innocent, ignorant girl, I did not think a suitable wife for my brother, but he a.s.sured me that he loved you, he a.s.sured me also that there was something about you which wins hearts. That being the case, I--well, I said no more. Now you speak to me as though I earnestly desired this marriage. I do not earnestly desire it--I don't wish for it at all."

"Then you will prevent it? How splendid of you!" I said, and I bent forward as though I would kiss her hand.

She moved slightly away from me. She was in touch with me, but not altogether in touch at that moment.

"I will tell you what has really happened," I said. "I must. I admire your brother beyond words, I know how tremendously he has honoured me, and I think somehow, if things were different, that I might feel tempted to--just to do what he wants. But things are so circ.u.mstanced that I cannot possibly do what Lord Hawtrey wishes, for I love another man. He is quite young, he--he and I love each other tremendously. He asked me this morning to be his wife and I accepted him. I was in the Park when I met him, and he asked me there and then. We walked home together, my maid was with us, so I suppose it was all right. This is a very queer world, where there seems no freedom for any young girl. I brought Vernon Carbury----"

"Whom did you say?"

"Captain Carbury, I mean. I brought him into the room with my father and mother--or my stepmother--and--he told them what he wanted. They sent me away--I was rather frightened when they did that--and when they had him all alone they spoke to him and they told him that he was to go out of my life, because, Lady Mary, your brother, Lord Hawtrey, was to come in. They said that they wanted me to marry your brother, and I won't--I can't--and I much want you to help me in this matter."

"Upon my word!" said Lady Mary. She rose abruptly and began to pace the room. "You are the queerest girl I ever met! There must be some queer sort of witchery about you. On a certain night you are proposed to by my brother Hawtrey, the head of our house, one of the richest men in England, and certainly one of the most n.o.bly born. You snub him, just as though he were a n.o.body. On the following morning you receive a proposal from Vernon Carbury, he who was engaged to Lady Dorothy Vinguard."

"Yes, but all that is at an end," I said.

"I know, I know. Dorothy is not a perfectly silly girl like you, and she is marrying a man older and richer and greater than Carbury. And so you have fallen in love with him? Yes, I know; those blue eyes of his would be certain to make havoc in more than one girl's heart. It is a pretty tale, upon my word it is, and out of the common. Now you have confided things to me, I don't think Hawtrey will trouble you any more; perhaps I can see to that. Would you like to go back home--and before you go, is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, oh, no," I said, "you have made me quite happy!"

"I am glad of that. You are a very strange girl; I suppose you will marry Captain Carbury some day. You are, of course, quite unaware of the fact that Hawtrey must have loved you beyond the ordinary when he made up his mind to take as a wife the daughter of Major Grayson?"

I sprang to my feet.

"What do you mean by those words?"

"Don't you know, child, don't you know?"

"I know nothing, except that my father is the best man in all the world."

Lady Mary looked at me, at first with scorn, then a strange, new, softened, pitying expression flashed over her face.

"You poor little girl!" she said. "Have you never suspected, have you never guessed, why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple, and why he took her name, and why----"

"Don't tell me any more," I said, "please don't, I would rather not know. Good-bye--you have been kind, you have meant to be very kind, but you are hinting at something quite awful--all the same, I will find out--yes, I will find out! My father do a mean thing! Indeed, you little know him. Good-bye, Lady Mary."

"Stay, child; the carriage must take you home."

"No, I will walk," I said.

My heart was burning within me. I really thought that I should break down, but although I heard Lady Mary ring her bell, and pa.s.sed an astonished servant coming up the stairs in answer to her summons, I managed to get into the street before she could interfere. I was glad of this. I must walk, I must get away from myself, I must find out once for all what terrible thing was the matter--what secret there was in my father's life.

I walked and walked, and was so absorbed in myself and my own reflections, that I was quite oblivious of the fact that people glanced at me from time to time. I had not the manner of a London girl, and did not wear the dress of the sort of girl who walks about London unattended. At last I came to a big park--I think now it must have been Regent's Park, but I am by no means sure. The trees looked cool and inviting, the gra.s.s was green, there were broad paths and, of course, there were flowers everywhere. It occurred to me then, as I entered the park and sat down on a low seat not far from the water, that I could not possibly do better in existing circ.u.mstances than go back to Aunt Penelope. If I could only see Aunt Penelope once more I should know what to do, and I should force her to tell me my father's story.

"It is positively wrong to keep it from me," I thought; "I cannot act in the dark, I cannot endure this suspense; whatever has happened, he is right, he is good, he is splendid and n.o.ble. Nothing would induce me to believe anything against him."

I took my purse out of my pocket, and opening it, spread its contents on the palm of my hand. I had three pounds in my purse, plenty of money, therefore, to go back to the dear little village where I had been brought up.

CHAPTER XV

I think G.o.d gave me great courage that day, for I really acted like a girl who was accustomed to going about by herself, who knew her way about London, and who was saving with regard to money matters. I had come out of one of the richest houses in London; I had left a house where I was attended all day and practically half the night, where my slightest wish was considered, where the most beautiful clothes were given to me, and the most lovely things--that is, to all appearance--happened to me. I went out of that awful house, which I hated, which I loathed, just because it was so rich, so stifling with luxury, and felt that each minute I was becoming a woman, and that soon, very soon, I should be quite grown up.

I got to Paddington Station and took the first train to Cherton. Cherton is not far from a great centre, and, as a rule, you have to change trains and get into a "local" before you can arrive at the little old-world place. I travelled third, of course, and had quite an interesting journey. My compartment was full and I enjoyed looking at my companions. They were the sort of people who do travel third--I mean they were the sort of people who have a right to travel third. A great many ladies now go third-cla.s.s when they ought to go second or first, but these people had a right to their third-cla.s.s compartment, and thoroughly they seemed to enjoy themselves. They brought parcels innumerable; some of them brought birds in cages. There was a small, sharp-looking boy who had a pet weasel in his pocket. The weasel thrust out his head now and then and looked at us with his cunning bright eyes, and then darted back once more into his place of shelter. The boy looked intensely happy with his weasel; in fact, the creature seemed to comprise all his world. I managed to enter into conversation with the boy, and he told me that he was going to Cherton to be apprenticed to an old uncle of his; he was to learn the boot and shoe business and was to make a good thing of it, so that he might be rich enough to help his father and mother by and by. He had nice, honest, brown eyes, and when I asked him his name he said that he was called Jack Martin, but that most of his friends called him Jack Tar. They all thought he would fail--all except Sam--but Sam prognosticated his success. I asked the boy who "Sam" was, and he answered in his simple, direct way:

"Why, he's my best pal, lydy."

I liked the little fellow when he answered in that fashion, and told him in a low voice that I was also going to Cherton, that I had spent many years in that little, out-of-the-world village, and that I was going to seek my aunt. He was much interested, and we became so chummy that he offered me the loan of "Frisky," as he called the weasel, for a short time, if I'd be very kind to it. I thanked him much for the honour he meant to confer on me, but explained that I was not in the habit of carrying weasels about with me, and perhaps would not understand "Frisky's" manners.

"He's a rare 'un for giving you a nip," said the boy in reply, "but Lor'

bless yer, that don't matter. There's nothing wicious about he."

The other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, and even more so in "Frisky," who by and by extended his peregrinations from one person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and putting away with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like a well-behaved weasel of independent mind. The boy said he hoped "Frisky"

would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the women sympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.

"And why not?" said one very burly-looking farmer. "I'd a whole nest of 'em once, and purtier little dears I never handled."

The third-cla.s.s carriage was, indeed, packed full; the endless luggage, the boxes little and big, boxes that went on the rack and boxes that would not go on the rack, but stuck out all over the narrow pa.s.sage and got into everyone's way. There were shawls, and a pretty bird in a cage, and a white rabbit in another cage, and bundles innumerable. But everyone talked and laughed and became chatty and agreeable. The boy was the first to tell his story. It was a very simple one. He was poor; his father and mother had just saved up money enough to apprentice him to Uncle Ben Rogers. He was going to him; he was off his parents now, and would never trouble them again, G.o.d helping him.

By and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me.