A tall man was standing1 on the hearthrug when I came in. There was a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and he was standing with his back to it, and apparently2 enjoying the pleasant glow which emanated4 from its bright depths. There was also a young man in the room who was nearly as tall as the elder gentleman. The younger man had very dark eyes and an olive complexion5, straight, rather handsome features, and a strong chin and a good mouth.
"John," said Lady Carrington, "here is little Heather."
"How do you do, my dear—how do you do?" said Sir John.
He came forward as he spoke6 and wrung7 my hand, looking into my eyes with a curious mingling8 of affection and amusement.
"Ah!" he said; "you have grown a good bit since that wonderful night long ago, eh, Heather?"
"I am grown up," I answered, trying to speak proudly, and yet feeling, all of a sudden, quite inclined to cry.
"Yes, of course, you're grown up," responded Sir John, and then his wife introduced the strange gentleman to me. His name was Captain Carbury, but when the Carringtons spoke to him they addressed him as "Vernon." He had a nice, frank manner, and it was he who was deputed to take me into the next room to lunch.
"I have heard a lot about you," he said. "The Carringtons have been quite keen about you. They've been wondering what day you would arrive, and making up all sorts of stories about what you'd look like, and your life in the past and what your life in the future will be."
"Heather, you must not mind Vernon, he always talks nonsense," said Lady Carrington. "Will you have clear or thick soup, dear? We always help ourselves at lunch, it makes the meal so much less formal."
I said I would have thick soup, and Captain Carbury took clear. He looked at me again once or twice, and I thought that his expression was somewhat quizzical, but, all the same, I liked him.
I had made in the course of my life a little gallery of heroes; they were of all sorts and descriptions. In that gallery my father held the foremost place, he was the soldier par3 excellence9, the hero above all other heroes. Then there were splendid persons whose names were mentioned in history. The great Duke of Marlborough was one, and Sir Walter Raleigh, and King Edward the First, and King Henry the Fourth. And there were minor10 lights, great men, too, in their way, statesmen and ambassadors and discoverers of new worlds. But besides the historical personages, there were those few whom I knew personally. Amongst these was one of the many "Jonases" who had lived with Aunt Penelope, and who was admitted into a somewhat dark and shadowy part of my gallery.
He was a very ugly Jonas, and slightly—quite slightly—deformed; that is, one shoulder was hitched11 up a good bit higher than the other. In consequence, he never felt happy or comfortable in buttons, and used to coax12 me to let him play with me in the garden in the dress he wore at home, which was loose and unwieldy, but, nevertheless, fitted that misshapen, poor shoulder. Aunt Penelope had been very angry with him for not appearing in his buttons costume, and she was not the least concerned when he told her that it made his shoulder ache; she was more determined13 than ever that he should wear his livery, and never be seen out of it while in her employ. He told me, that poor Buttons, that he would have to wear it, notwithstanding the pain, for the very little money he earned helped his mother at home. It was after he said this, and after I found out that what he said was true, that I put him into my gallery of heroes. He never knew that he was there. He became ill quite suddenly of some sort of inflammation of the spine14, and was taken away to the hospital to die. I wanted very badly to see him when I heard he was so ill, but Aunt Penelope would not hear of it. Then I gave her a message for him.
"Tell him, if you are going yourself," I said, "that he is in my gallery of heroes. He will know what it means."
But Aunt Penelope forgot to give the message, so that poor Jonas never knew.
But I had other heroes also. There was a pale young curate, like the celebrated16 curate in the song, and my heart went out to him—my girlish heart—in full measure, and I put him into my gallery right away; there I gave him a foremost place, although I never spoke to him in my young life, and I don't think, as far as I remember, that his eyes ever met mine.
And now last, but by no means least, I put Captain Carbury into my gallery of heroes, and as I did so I felt my heart beating with pleasure, and I looked full up into my hero's face and smiled at him with such a look of contentment, admiration17, and satisfaction that he smiled back again.
"What a nice child you are," he said. "I wonder what you are thinking about?"
Some visitors had now come in and had joined Sir John and Lady Carrington in the drawing-room, and Captain Carbury and I were alone.
"You ought to be very proud," I said, lowering my voice to meet his.
"What about?" he asked.
"Why, this," I answered; "I have done you a tremendous honour."
"Have you, indeed? I can assure you I am pleased and—quite flattered. But do tell me what it is."
"I have just put you, Captain Carbury, into my gallery of heroes."
"You have put me into what?" said the young man. He sat down by my side and lowered his voice. "You have put me into what, Miss Grayson?"
"I have a gallery," I said, "and it is full of heroes. It, of course, lives in my imagination. You have just gone in; those who go in never come out again. There are a great many people in my gallery."
"Oh, but I say, this is interesting, and quite fascinating. Please tell me who else holds that place of vantage."
I mentioned the Duke of Marlborough and Sir Walter Raleigh and a few of the heroes of old, but I said nothing about father, nor about the pale curate, although I did mention Jonas.
"Who is Jonas?" asked Captain Carbury.
"Jonas is no longer in this world. When he was here he was a very great hero."
"But what was he? Army, navy, church, or what?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort," I answered; "he was only our Buttons, and he had one shoulder much higher than the other. I put him in because he bore the pain of his livery so bravely. You see, he had to wear his livery, or Aunt Penelope would have dismissed him. He wore it because he wanted the money to help his mother. I call him a real hero—don't you?"
"I do. And what have I done, may I ask, to be such a privileged person?"
"You haven't done much yet," I answered, "but I think you can do a great deal. For instance, if there was a big war against England, I think you'd fight and probably get your V.C."
"Bless you, child, you talk very nicely. Do you know, I have never met a little girl who talked like this before. I hope we shall see much more of each other, Miss Grayson."
"I hope we shall," I answered.
"I come here a good deal," continued Captain Carbury. "I am a sort of cousin of Lady Carrington's, and she always treats me as though I were her son. There are no people in the world like the Carringtons. By the way, you must be excited, coming up to town just in time for your——"
"In time for what?" I asked.
"Is it possible you don't know?" he said. And he looked full at me with his dark and serious eyes. Just then Lady Carrington came up.
"I am going to take Heather away now for a little time," she said. "Thank you so much, Vernon, for trying to entertain her. We will expect you to dinner this evening—no, I'm afraid Heather won't be here; she will be much occupied for the next few days."
"Well, good-bye, Miss Heather, and thank you so much for putting me into the gallery," said the Captain, and then he left the room.
"He is a very nice man," I said, when he had gone and I was back in the drawing-room. "Do you know many men as nice as Captain Carbury, Lady Carrington?"
"No, I do not," said Lady Carrington, not laughing at my remark, as some women would have done, but pondering over it. "He is one of the best—that is all I can say about him."
I looked across the room. The visitors had gone; Sir John had taken his leave; Captain Carbury was no longer there.
"I want to ask you a question," I said, looking full up into Lady Carrington's face. "Captain Carbury said something to me."
"Yes, dear child. What?"
"He supposed I was glad or excited or something, at being in time for—and then he stopped. Please, Lady Carrington—I see you know it by your eyes—what is it I am in time for?"
"I was going to speak to you about that," said Lady Carrington, with extreme gravity.
"Please do," I said.
She took my hand and pressed it between both her own.
"Sir John and I," she said, "have never been blessed with a little daughter of our very own, so we want you, as much as your father and mother can spare you, to come and be with us. We want you morning, noon, and night—any day or any hour."
"My father and mother!" I said, raising my voice to a shriek18. "Lady Carrington, who are you talking about?"
"Of course, dear, she will be only your stepmother."
"Whom do you mean?" I asked. "Please say it out quickly. Is father going to marry? No, it can't be—it shan't be! What is it, please, Lady Carrington—please say it quickly?"
"For many reasons I am sorry, Heather, but we must make the best of things in this world, dear, not the worst. Your father is to be married on Monday next to Lady Helen Dalrymple."
I sat perfectly19 still after she had spoken. Her news came on me like a mighty20 shock—I felt quite stunned21 and cold. At first, too, I did not realise any pain. Then, quickly, and, as it seemed to me, through every avenue in my body at the same moment, pain rushed in—it filled my heart almost to the bursting point. It turned sweetness into bitterness and sunshine into despair. Father! Father! Father! Had I not waited for him, all during the long years? And now!
I felt so distracted that I could not keep still. I stood up and faced Lady Carrington; she put out her hand to touch me—I pushed her hand away. I began to pace up and down the floor. After a few minutes Lady Carrington followed me. Then I turned to her, almost like a little savage22. I said:
"Yes, Heather, you shall be quite alone in my bedroom," said Lady Carrington.
I had no manners at that moment, no sense of civility.
"I know the way to your bedroom," I said. I dashed upstairs without waiting for her to lead me; I rushed into the room, I turned the key in the lock, and then I flung myself on the floor. I was alone, thank God for that! How I beat out my own terrible suffering, how I fought and fought and fought with the demon24 who rent me, I can never describe to any mortal. No tears came to my relief. After a time I sat up. I had so far recovered my self-possession that I could at least remain quiet. I went stealthily towards the big looking-glass; I saw my reflection in it, my little pale face, my dark hair in its orderly curls—those curls which even my tempest of grief could scarcely disarrange, my neat, snuff-coloured brown dress—so old-fashioned and therefore none so beloved. That morning I had gone shopping with her—I had allowed her to buy me dresses on dresses, and hats and toques, and muffs, and gloves, and shoes—oh! I would not touch one of her things! I felt at that moment that I could have killed her! To be torn from father, to find him again and then to lose him, that was the crudest stroke of all!
I looked at my wan15 face in the glass and hoped that I should die soon; that was the only thing left to wish for—to live in such a way that I should die soon. I thought that I might effect this by a course of starvation. I would begin at once. To-day was Thursday—if I ate nothing at all from the present moment until Monday, there was a good chance of my dying on Monday. That would be the best plan.
There came a tap at the room door.
"It is I, dear," said Lady Carrington.
I even hated kind Lady Carrington at that moment. Had she not given me the news? I went unwillingly25 and slowly towards the door. I unlocked it and she entered.
"That is right," she said, looking at me and suppressing, as she told me afterwards, a shocked exclamation26, "you are calmer now, darling."
"I cannot speak of it," I said.
"Dear child, no one wants you to; and I have been arranging with your father that you are to stay with me for the present."
"Oh, I don't want that," I said, a great lump rising in my throat; "I want to be with him while I can have him. There is only between now—this Thursday—until Monday. I'd like to be with him for that little time."
"Then it doesn't matter," I said. "Did you say they were downstairs, Lady Carrington?"
"Yes; they are in the drawing-room; they are waiting for you. They asked me to break it to you, and I did my best."
"I am quite ready to—to see them," I said.
When we reached the drawing-room a servant flung open the door. Lady Carrington went first and I followed.
My father was standing with his profile towards me; he was looking at a newspaper, and I think, just for a second, he was rather shy, although I could not be sure. Lady Helen, however, made up for any awkwardness on his part. She rushed at me and clasped me in her arms.
"Dear little daughter!" she said. "Now you know everything; in future you will be my own little daughter. Think what a splendid time we'll have together! Why, I'll take you everywhere—you won't know yourself. Just tell her, Gordon, what a right good time she'll have with me."
"Jove! I should think so," said my father.
I struggled out of her arms. If I had remained in that hateful embrace for another moment I might have slapped her. I flung myself on father's neck, and kissed him many times, and then, all of a sudden, I began to whisper in his ear.
"Eh, eh? What, what?" he said. "Child, you're tickling28 me. Oh, you want to speak to me alone! Helen, you won't mind?"
"No, dear, I won't mind."
Lady Helen looked at me out of those strange dark eyes of hers. Her face was brimming all over with good humour, but I know she was not pleased with me at that moment. I had repulsed29 her advances, and now I was taking father away.
"Here is a little room," said Lady Carrington, "you can both have it to yourselves."
She opened a door, and father and I entered. The moment we were alone I ceased to whisper and stood before father, just a little way off, but at the same time so close that he could see me well.
"I have heard the news, Dad," I said.
"Well, and isn't it just rippin'?" he said. "Don't you congratulate me—I, a poor beggar—to get a wife like that, and you—a mother like that!"
"She will never be my mother, father, if you marry her a hundred times."
"Come, come, that is so bourgeoise, that kind of speech is so completely out of date; but Helen will explain to you. Now, what is it you want, little Heather? I'm sure Helen has spent enough money on your little person to satisfy you for one morning."
"Was it her own money she spent?" I asked.
"Gracious, child!" cried my father. "What other money could she spend?"
"Mine!" he said. "I haven't a stiver in the world to bless myself with. But there, I am a rich man for all that. Helen is rich, and what is hers is mine, and she's going to do the right thing by you, Heather—the right thing by you."
"Daddy," I said, very slowly, "I waited for you during all the years while I was growing up, and yesterday I found you again—or rather, I ought to say a few days ago, when you came to see me at Hill View, and now again I have lost you."
"Bourgeoise, bourgeoise," muttered my father; "those words are Penelope's words. She'd be sure to speak to you like that."
"Lady Carrington has asked me to stay here, and I should like to do it," I replied; "I am not going to wear any of the clothes she bought—no, not one, not one! But if you would come to see me to-morrow evening, perhaps we might have one long, last chat together. That is what I really wanted to ask you. Will you promise me, Dad?"
"Dear me, how afflicting31!" said my father. "How afflicting and sentimental32 and unnecessary—and after all I have lived through! I didn't know you'd grow up that sort of child; you were such a jolly little thing when I took you down to your aunt. It's your aunt who has spoilt you. You can stay here, of course, if you prefer this house to the Westminster. Helen won't like it; she has got a box for us at the opera to-night."
"I can't go," I said.
"Very well. She would hate to see a dismal33 child, and your clothes won't be ready for a day or two—at least, most of them—so perhaps you had better stay here. I'll just go and speak to Lady Carrington."
Father left the room. By and by Lady Carrington came back alone.
"They've gone, dear," she said, "and I have made arrangements with Major Grayson that you are to stay with us during the honeymoon34, so that altogether you will be with us for quite a month, my child. Now, during that month I want you to be happy and to make the best of things. Do you hear me?"
"Yes. I think I shall be happy with you. But oh! I have got a blow—I have got a blow!" I said.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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2
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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3
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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4
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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5
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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6
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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7
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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8
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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9
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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10
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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11
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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12
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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13
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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14
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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15
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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16
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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17
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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18
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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19
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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21
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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22
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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23
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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24
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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26
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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27
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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28
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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29
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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30
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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31
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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32
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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33
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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34
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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