My heart was burning within me. I really thought that I should break down, but although I heard Lady Mary ring her bell, and passed 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 grass 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 circumstances 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 noble. 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 God 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-class when they ought to go second or first, but these people had a right to their third-class 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-class 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 passage 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, God helping him.

By and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me. They had confided their histories each to the other, their simple stories of love and of hate, of ill-nature and of good-nature, of stormy days of privation and full days of plenty. Now it was my turn. I was assailed by innumerable questions. "Why did I wear such smart clothes? Where did I get the feather that was in my hat? Why did I, being a lydy, travel with the likes of them?"

I told these good, kind creatures that I loved to travel with them, and that I hated wealth and grand people. I said also that I was going back to a kind aunt of mine, who hated fine clothes as much as I was beginning to hate them, and that I earnestly hoped she would let me stay with her. I said that I was a very miserable girl, and then they all pitied me, and one woman said, "Poor thing, poor, pretty young thing!" and another took my hand and squeezed it, and said, "Bear up, my deary, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." I did not exactly know what she meant, but I took comfort from her kindly words and kindly face. And so at last we got out at the big junction and then I took the little train to Cherton. One or two of my fellow-travellers, amongst others the boy with the weasel, accompanied me. He was looking a little nervous, and when I said:

"I'll come and see you some day," his little woebegone face brightened up considerably, and he answered:

"Don't forget, lydy, as I'm mostly known as Jack Tar, although I was never at sea in the whole course of my life; but my father makes tar, and I was christened Jack, so what could be more likely than that I should be called Jack Tar?" He then added again that his real name was Martin; but that was no use to him at all, he was always "Jack Tar," and he would not like to be anything else.

I smiled at the boy and we parted the best of friends. Cherton looked perfectly lovely. It was just the crown of the year, that time in early May when, if the weather is fine, the whole world seems to put out her brightest and sweetest fragrance. The may trees were not yet in bloom, it is true, but the blackthorn was abundant, and as to the primroses and violets, they seemed to carpet the place. My heart beat faster and faster. Oh, the old streets, and the little town, and the happy, peaceful life I had led here! Would Aunt Penelope be glad to see me? Of course she would. She was not a demonstrative old woman, but she was good to me; she, of course, had been very good to me. From the time she had taken me – a tiny, motherless girl – from my father, she had done her best in her own fashion for me. After all, I had not been so long away from her, only a few months; but so much had been crowded into those months that the time seemed years.

I had – I knew quite well – stepped from childhood into womanhood. My eyes had been opened to discern good from evil, but I was glad of that; I was glad, more than glad, that Cherton meant good to me, and that London meant evil. I recalled the first time I had come to Cherton and what a miserable little child I had been, and how I had rushed away, all by myself, to the railway station to meet the train by which Anastasia was to come. Things were different now. Now Cherton meant home, and I had, I will own it, almost forgotten Anastasia.

At last I mounted the little hill which led to Hill View, Aunt Penelope's house. I wondered if the same Jonas would open the door for me who had parted with me with many tears on the morning when I had gone with such a light heart to join my father in London. I reached the little brown house. It looked exactly the same as ever, only that, of course, the spring flowers were coming out. There were a great many ranunculuses in the garden, and the irises were coming out of their sheaths and putting on their purple bloom, and there were heaps and heaps of tulips of different shades and colour. These were real flowers; these were the sort that I loved, the sort that Vernon Carbury would love if he saw them. These were very different from the hothouse roses and the flowers of rare beauty which decorated Lord Hawtrey's house.

I walked up the path which led to the front door with the confident step of a girl who is returning home; I rang the door bell. At first there was silence, no one replied to my summons; then a head was pushed out of a door down the area, there was a muffled exclamation, and somebody came scampering up the stairs, and there – yes, there – was the old Jonas waiting for me!

"Jonas," I said, "don't you know me?"

"Miss Heather," he answered. His face grew scarlet, and then turned very white; the next minute, forgetting altogether his position, he took both my hands and dragged me into the house.

"Was it in answer to the big prayer that you've come?" he said. "Speak, and speak at once. I'm a Methody, I be. I had a big prayer last night; I wrestled with the Lord for you to come back. Was it in answer to that you come?"

"Perhaps so, I don't know – who can tell? Oh, Jonas! is anything wrong?"

"Stop knocking at the door!" shouted a familiar voice, and then I gave a scream, half of pleasure, half of pain, and dashed into the parlour and went up to Polly. I could not be afraid of her any longer, and although she was not at all a friendly bird to me, and never had been during all the years I had lived with her, yet she was so far subdued at present that she allowed me to ruffle the feathers on the top of her grey head.

"Where's Aunt Penelope?" I said then, turning to Jonas.

"Upstairs in bed. The doctor he come and the doctor he goes and I do what I can, but 'tain't much. She's off her feed and she's off her luck, and she's in bed. She's got me in to tidy up this morning, she did so. She said, 'Jonas, it ain't correct, but it must be done; you bring in your broom and tea leaves and sweep up,' she said, 'and then dust,' she said, 'and I will lie buried under the clothes, so that you won't see a bit of my head. It's quite a decent thing to do when it's done like that, Jonas; and don't make any bones about it, for it's to be done.' So I done her up as best I could, and oh, my word! the room did want it badly. There now, that's her bell. Doctor says she should stay in bed and not stir, but she hears voices, and she's that mad with curiosity. Doctor thinks maybe she's going; doctor don't like her state, but I does the best I can. I'm getting her beef-tea ready for her now, Miss Heather, and maybe you'll take it up to her. It's you she's been fretting for; she's never held up her head since you went, but don't you go to suppose she spoke of you. No, she never once did. But her head – she never kept it up. Don't you fret about her, Miss Heather; you have come back, and it's in answer to prayer. Now then, come along with me into the kitchen. I'll shout at her to let her know I'm here, but I'll not mention your name. Coming, ma'am – heating up the beef-tea – coming in a twink! There, Miss Heather, she'll know now I'm coming, and you – you get along to the kitchen as fast as you can and watch me, to see as I does it right."

I went with Jonas to the little old-world kitchen. He really was not a bad boy, this present Jonas, for the kitchen, seeing that its mistress was so long out of it, was fairly clean, and his attempt at making beef-tea was fairly good, after all. While Jonas was warming the beef-tea and making a tiny piece of toast, I removed my hat and jacket and smoothed my hair, and when the refreshment was ready I took it upstairs with me, up and up the narrow, short flight of creaking stairs. I passed my own tiny bedroom, and there was Aunt Penelope's room, facing the stairs. I opened the door very softly and stood for a second on the threshold.

"Now, what is it?" said a cantankerous voice. "Jonas, you're off your head. It's just because I admitted you to my bedroom to-day to sweep and dust. But come in, don't be shy. There is nothing against your coming into the room with an old lady. You can lay the tray on the table and walk out again without looking at me."

"It isn't Jonas," I said, standing half-hidden by the door, "it's – it's – Heather. I have come back, auntie."

The moment I said the words I went right in. Aunt Penelope drew herself bolt upright in bed. She did look a very withered, very ill, and very neglected old lady. Her face was hard and stern, but in her eyes that moment there burnt the light of love. Those eyes looked straight into mine.

"Heather, you're back?"

"Yes, of course I am, auntie, and now you must take your beef-tea and tell me all about everything. How are you, darling, and why did you get ill, and why did you never write or send for your own child, Heather? – and, oh! you have been naughty! But I have come back, and I mean to stay for just as long as you want me."

"Then that will be for ever and ever, Amen," said Aunt Penelope. She laid her hot, dry old hand in mine, and she raised her face for me to kiss her. I stooped and did so, and then I said, almost sternly, for it was my turn now to take the upper hand —

"You will have to allow me to wait on you; and you're not to talk at all, nor to expect any news from me whatsoever, until you have had your beef-tea, and until I have made you comfortable. Dear, dear, you do want your child Heather, very badly, auntie."

"Badly," said Aunt Penelope. "I wanted you, Heather, unto death – unto death, but he said that you were to come when the season was over. I counted that perhaps you'd come in August. It's only May now, and the season has just begun. I counted for August, although I scarcely expected to live."

"No more talking," I said, trying to be stern, although it was very difficult, and then I sat on the edge of the bed and watched Aunt Penelope as she sipped her beef-tea and ate some morsels of toast.

I forgot myself as I watched her. My own sufferings seemed to be far away and of no consequence. My tired heart settled down suddenly into a great peace. I was home once more.

CHAPTER XVI

When Aunt Penelope had finished her little meal, I proceeded to get fresh linen from the linen cupboard upstairs, and fresh, clean towels; I also went down to the kitchen and brought up a big can of hot water, and then I proceeded to wash her face and hands and to change her linen and make her bed, and altogether refresh the dear old lady. How I loved doing these things for her! I felt quite happy and my own trouble receded into the background with this employment. When I had done all that was necessary, the doctor, the same who had attended me so often in my childish ailments, came in. He was delighted to see me, and gave me a most hearty welcome.

"Miss Heather," he said, "you are good. Now this is delightful – now I have every hope of having my old friend on her feet once more."

Aunt Penelope gave him one of her grim smiles – she could not smile in any other way if she were to try for a hundred years. The doctor examined her, felt her pulse, took her temperature, said that she was decidedly better, ordered heaps of nourishment, and desired me to follow him downstairs.

"What possessed you to come back, Miss Grayson?" he said, when we found ourselves together in the little drawing-room.

I told him that I had not come back because the news of Aunt Penelope's illness had reached me, but for a quite different reason, and one which I could not divulge, even to him.

"But that is very strange," he said, "for I wrote three days ago to ask your father to send you back immediately. I was quite tired out expecting you and wondering at your silence. I would not tell the dear old lady for fear of disappointing her. Your coming back of your own accord and without hearing anything is really most extraordinary, most astounding. But, there! you have come, and now it's all right."

"You may be certain, doctor," I replied, "that I will do my utmost for Aunt Penelope, and that she shall want for nothing as long as I can obtain it for her."

"Good girl; you are a good girl, Heather," he replied; "you are doing the right thing, and God will bless you. I may as well tell you that I was exceedingly anxious about your aunt this morning. You see, she had nobody to look after her; that boy did his best, but he couldn't be expected to know, and when I suggested a nurse, or even a charwoman, bless me, child, she nearly ate my head off! She is a troublesome old woman, is your aunt, Miss Heather, but a most worthy soul. Well, it's all right now, and my mind is much relieved."

I went upstairs a few minutes later to find Aunt Penelope sitting up in bed and looking wonderfully fresh and cheerful.

"Now just sit down by me, Heather," she said, "and tell me the news. Why have you come back? I made up my mind that I'd keep my vow and promise to your father not to ask for you, even if I died without seeing you, until August."

"But that was very wrong of you, auntie, and you ought not to be at all proud of yourself for having made such a vow."

"Well, I made it, and I'm the last sort of woman to break my word. But you have come back, so it's all right now. Did you dream about me or anything of that sort?"

"Oh, no," I answered. "I came back, dear auntie – I came back of my own accord."

"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Heather, child, I am not very strong, and you mustn't startle me. You don't mean to say, you don't mean to hint, that you – you aren't happy with your father?"

"I'd be always happy with father," I answered, "always, always. But the fact is, I don't think, Auntie Pen, dear, I don't think I love my stepmother very much."

"Thank the Lord for that!" exclaimed Miss Penelope. "She must be a horror, from all I can gather."

"I don't like her, auntie."

"You ran away, then? Is that what you mean? They'll be coming for you, they'll be trying to get you back; I know their ways, Heather. But now that you are here, you must promise to stay with me until the worst is over; you will promise, won't you? I don't pretend to deny, child, that I have missed you a good bit, yes, a very great deal. I am a proud old woman, but I don't mind owning that I have fretted for you, my child, considerably."

"And I for you," I replied. "I am happy in the old house: I am glad to have returned."

"I am not too weak to learn the truth," said Aunt Penelope. "I have, in my humble opinion, the first right to you, for it was I who trained you and who gave you what little education you possess; therefore I hold that I have a right. What did that woman do, why did you run away from her? As to your father, poor chap – well, of course, he's bound heart and soul to the horrible creature, but that's what comes from doing wrong. Your father did a very bad thing and – "

"Aunt Penelope," I interrupted – I took her hand and held it firmly – "don't – don't tell me to-night."

She looked at me out of her hard, bright eyes, then seemed to collapse into herself, then said slowly —

"Very well, I won't, I won't tell you to-night, that is, if you promise to say why you have returned."

"I will tell you," I answered. "Auntie, Lady Helen's house is the world, and you taught me to despise the world; you taught me not to spend my time and my money on dress and grand things; you taught me not to waste such a short, valuable, precious thing as life. Oh, Aunt Penelope, in that house people do nothing but kill time, and my Daddy is in it – my own Daddy! You know how brisk he used to be, how bright, how determined, but now – something seems to be eating into his heart, and breaking his strength and spirit – and – people have hinted things about him!"

Aunt Penelope nodded her head.

"They're likely to," she answered. "Major Grayson could not expect matters to be otherwise."

"But, auntie, that is one of the hardest things of all. My darling father is not even called Major Grayson – he has to take the name of Dalrymple."

"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Does he dare to be ashamed of his father's honest name?"

"I don't understand," I answered. "But I am called Dalrymple, too – Heather Dalrymple."

"Don't repeat the words again, child; they make a hideous combination."

"Well," I continued, "the house did not please me nor the people who came to it, and I hardly ever saw father, and I lived my own life. Lady Carrington was very kind to me, and I went to her when I could, but my stepmother was impatient, and did not want me to spend my time with her, and she put obstacles in the way, so that I could not see my kind friend very often. Still, I had no idea of deserting father and of going back to you; the thought of returning to you only came to me to-day – to-day, when I was in awful agony. Oh, auntie, dear, I can put it into a few words. I have met – I have met at Lady Carrington's house one – "

"You're in love, child," said Aunt Penelope. "I might have guessed it, it is the way of most women. I had half hoped that you'd escape. I never fell in love – I would not let myself."

"Oh, but if the right man came along, you could not help it," I replied.

"Then you think he is the right man – you have found your Mr. Right?"

"Yes, I have found the one whom I love with all my heart and soul; he is good. You would love him, too – but there's another man – "

"Two! God bless me!" said Aunt Penelope. "In my day a girl thought herself lucky if she found one man to care for her, but two! It doesn't sound proper."

"The other man is rich, and – oh, he's nice, he's awfully nice, only he is old – I won't tell you his name, there is no use – but Lady Helen wanted me to marry the rich old man, and to give up the young man whom I love, and – and father seemed to wish it, too – and somehow, auntie darling, I can't do it – I can't – so I have run away to you."

"Where you will stay," said my aunt, speaking in a firm and cheery voice, "until the Lord wills to show me clearly the right in this matter. You marry an old man whom you don't love, my sister's child exposed to such torture as that! – child, I am glad you came to me, you anyway showed a gleam of common sense."

"And you have taken me in," I answered, "and I'm ever so happy; it is home to be back with you."

Thus ended my first evening with Aunt Penelope. That night I slept again in my little old bed in my tiny chamber, and so kindly do we revert to the old times and to the things of youth that I felt more at home in that little bed and slept sounder there than I had done since I left it. I had gone out into the world, and the world had treated me badly. I was not destined, however, to stay long in peace and quietness at Aunt Penelope's. On the very next day there arrived a letter from my father. I recognised the handwriting, and as I carried Aunt Penelope up her tea and toast and her lightly-boiled fresh egg, I took the letter also, guessing in my heart of hearts what its contents were.

"Here is a letter from father, auntie," I said.

She looked into my face and immediately opened it. She was decidedly on the mend that morning: she said she had slept very well. As I stood by her bedside she calmly read the letter, then she handed it to me; I also read the few words scribbled on it: —

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 appetite.

"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 pass. 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 rubbish! 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 butter 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."

"You blessed child! And he is rich, I suppose?"

"I'm sure he is very rich, but then I don't care about riches."

"Heather, you mustn't keep me the whole day chattering. When a girl begins on the subject of her sweethearts she never stops, and I have plenty of things to attend to. Here's a list of provisions I wrote out early this morning. I want you to go into the town and buy them for me. Don't forget one single thing; go right through the list and buy everything. Here's thirty shillings; you oughtn't to spend anything like all that. But pay for the things down on the nail the minute you have purchased them. Now then, off with you, and I will consider the subject of your sweethearts. Upon my word, to think of a mite like you having two!"

I left Aunt Penelope's room and went out and bought the things she required. She had a troublesome lot of commissions, and they took me some time to execute. When I had done so I returned home again.

"You are to go up to your aunt's room, and as quickly as you can, miss," said Jonas, when I found myself in the little hall.

"Jonas," I said, "several nice things will be sent in from the shops, and I have got a little bird for auntie's tea, and I want you to cook it just beautifully."

"You trust me," said Jonas. "I'll see to that."

He left me, and I went upstairs to Aunt Penelope's room.

"The doctor has been, Heather, and he says you are the finest medicine he ever heard of, and that my chest is much better, and I am practically out of the wood; but here's a telegram from your father."