it certainly was a wonderful night. lady helen dalrymple had placed her box at the theatre at our disposal. she was a tall and slender woman, dressed in the extreme height of a fashion which i had never even dreamed about. her cheeks had a wonderful colour in them, which was at once soft and vivid. her lips were red and her eyes exceedingly dark. she greeted me with great empressement; her voice was high-pitched, and i cannot say that it impressed me agreeably.
"welcome, welcome, my dear heather," she said, and then she invited me to seat myself on the front chair near her own, whereas father sat behind at the back of the box.
the play began, and to me it was a peep into fairy land. i had never seen a play before, but, of course, i had read about plays and great actors and actresses, and this one—as you like it—took my breath away. i could scarcely restrain my rapture as the different scenes flitted before my eyes, and as the characters—all real to me—fitted their respective parts. but in the midst of my delight lady helen bent towards me and said:
"don't the footlights dazzle your eyes a little, child? would you not prefer to take this chair and let your father come to the front of the box?"
now, my eyes were quite strong, and the footlights did not dazzle them in the very least, but i slipped back into the other seat, and, after that, if the truth must be known, i only got little glimpses of the play from time to time. lady helen and father, instead of being in raptures over the performance, kept up a running fire of whispered talk together, not one word of which could i catch, nor, indeed, did i want to—so absorbingly anxious was i to follow the story of rosalind in the forest of arden.
when at last the performance was over, father suggested that we should all go to the savoy hotel for supper, where, accordingly, we went. but once again, although there was a very nice table reserved for us, father and lady helen did all the talking, and i was left in the cold. i looked around me, and for the first time had a distinct sense of home-sickness for the very quiet little house i had left. by this time aunt penelope would be sound asleep in bed, and buttons would have gone to his rest in the attic, and the parrot would have ceased to say "stop knocking at the door!" i was not accustomed to be up so late, and i suddenly found myself yawning.
lady helen fixed her bright eyes on my face.
"tired, heather?" she asked.
i had an instinctive sort of feeling that she ought not to call me heather, and started back a little when she spoke.
"oh, you need not be shocked, heather," said my father. "lady helen is such a very great friend of mine that you ought to be only too proud when she addresses you by your christian name."
"i shall have a great deal to do with you in future, my dear," said lady helen, and then she looked at father, and they both laughed.
"the very first thing i want you to see about, kind lady helen," said father, in his most chivalrous manner, "is this poor, sweet child's wardrobe. she wants simply everything. will you take her to the shops to-morrow and order for her just what she requires?"
lady helen smiled and nodded.
"we shall be in time to have her presented." lady helen bent her face towards father's and whispered something. he turned very white.
"never mind," he said; "i always thought that presentation business was a great waste of time, and i am quite sure that we shall do well for little heather without it."
"i am so tired," i could not help saying.
"then home we'll go, my girl. lady helen, i will call early to-morrow and bring heather with me, if i may. whatever happens, she must be properly dressed."
"i shall be ready to receive you, major, at eleven o'clock," said lady helen, and then she touched my hand coldly and indifferently, but smiled with her brilliant eyes at my father. her motor-car was waiting for her; she was whirled away, and we drove back in our brougham to the hotel.
"well, heather," said my father, "what a wonderful day this must have been for you. tell me how you felt about everything. you used to be such an outspoken little child. didn't you just love the play, eh?"
"i loved the beginning of it," i said.
"you naughty girl! you mean to say you didn't like the end—all that part about rosalind when she comes on the stage as a boy?"
"i could not see it, father—i could only see the back of your head; and oh, father, your head is getting very bald, but the back of lady helen's head isn't bald at all—it is covered with thick, thick hair, which goes out very wide at the sides and comes down low on her neck."
"it's my belief she wears a wig, heather," said my father, bending towards me. "but we won't repeat it, will we, darling? so she and i took up all your view, poor little girl! well, we did it in thoughtlessness."
"i don't think she did," i answered stoutly "i think she wanted to talk to you."
"she'll have plenty of time for that in the future," he said; "but tell me now, before we get to the hotel, what do you think of her ladyship? she's a very smart-looking woman—eh?"
"i don't know what that means, father, but i don't like her at all."
"you don't like her—why, child?"
"i can't say; except that i don't."
"oh, you mustn't give way to silly fancies," said my father. "she's a very fine woman. you oughtn't to turn against her, my dear heather."
"do you like her, father?" i asked, nestling up to him and slipping my hand into his.
"awfully, my dear child; she's my very dearest friend."
"oh! not dearer than i am?" i said, my heart beating hard.
he made no reply to this, and my heart continued to beat a great deal faster than was good for it.
by and by i went to bed. i was very, very tired, so tired that the strange room, with its beautiful furniture, made little or no impression on me. the very instant i laid my head on the pillow i was far away in the land of dreams. once more i was back with aunt penelope, once more the parrot screamed, "stop knocking at the door!" once more jonas broke some crockery and wept over his misdeeds, and once more aunt penelope forgave him and said that she would not send him away without a character this time. then, in my dreams, the scene changed, and i was no longer in the quiet peace of the country, but in the bustle and excitement of london. father was with me. yes, after all the long years, father was with me again. how i had mourned for him—how i had cried out my baby heart for him—how glad i was to feel that i was close to him once more!
by his side was lady helen dalrymple, and i did not like lady helen. she seemed to push herself between father and me, and when at last i awoke with the morning sun shining into my room, i found myself saying to father, as i had said to him in reality the night before, "lady helen is not dearer than i am?" and once again, as on the night before, father made no reply of any sort.
i was awakened by a nice-looking maid, who was evidently the maid in attendance on that special floor of the hotel, bringing me some tea and some crisp toast. i was thirsty, and the excitement of the night before had not yet subsided. i munched my toast and drank my tea, and then, when the maid asked me if i would like a hot bath in my room, i said "yes." this luxury was brought to me, and i enjoyed it very much. i had to dress once again in the clothes that father thought so shabby, the neat little brown frock—"snuff-coloured," he was pleased to call it—the little frock, made after a bygone pattern, which just reached to my slender ankles and revealed pretty brown stockings to match and little brown shoes; for aunt penelope—badly as she was supposed to dress me—was very particular where these things were concerned. she always gave me proper etceteras for my dress. she expected the etceteras and the dress to last for a very long time, and to be most carefully looked after, and not on any account whatever to be used except for high days and holidays. but she had sufficient natural taste to make me wear brown ribbon and a brown hat and brown shoes and stockings to match my brown frock.
i went down to breakfast in this apparel and found father waiting for me in the private sitting-room which he had ordered in the westminster hotel. he came forward at once when i appeared, thrusting as he did so two or three open papers into his coat pocket.
"well, little girl," he said, "and how are you? now, if i were an irishman, i'd say, 'the top of the morning to you, bedad!' but being only a poor, broken-down english soldier, i must wish you the best of good days, my dear, and i do trust, my heather, that this will prove a very good day for you, indeed."
as father spoke he rang a bell, and when the waiter appeared he ordered table d'hôte breakfast, which the man hastened to supply. as we were seated round the board which seemed to me to groan with the luxuries not only of that season, but of every season since cooking came into vogue, father remarked, as he helped himself to a devilled kidney, that really, all things considered, english cooking was not to be despised.
"oh, but it's delicious!" i cried—"at least," i added, "the cooking at a hotel like this is too delicious for anything."
"you dear little mite!" said father, smiling into my eyes. "and how did auntie pen serve you, darling? what did she give you morning, noon, and night?"
i laughed.
"aunt penelope believed in plain food," i said.
"trust her for that," remarked my father. "i could see at an eye's glance that she was the sort of old lady who'd starve the young."
"oh, no," i answered; "you are quite mistaken. aunt penelope never starved me and was never unkind to me. i love her very dearly, and i must ask you, father, please, not to speak against her to me."
"well, i won't, child; i admire loyalty in others. now then, leave those kidneys and bacon alone. have some cold tongue. what! you have had enough? have a kipper, then. no? what a small appetite my little girl has got! at least have some bread and butter and marmalade. no again? dear, dear—why, the sky must be going to fall! well, i'll tell you what—we'll have some fruit."
"oh, dad, i should like that," i said.
"your bones are younger than mine, child," remarked the major; "you must press that bell. ah! here comes james. james, the very ripest melon you can procure; if you haven't it in the hotel, send out for it. let us have it here with some powdered ginger and white sugar in less than ten minutes."
"yes, sir," answered the man. he bowed respectfully and withdrew.
"what are you staring at, heather?" asked my father.
"you called that man james," i said. "is that his name?"
"bless you, child, i don't know from adam what his name is. i generally call all waiters 'james' when i'm in england; most of them are james, so that name as a rule hits the nail on the head. in germany fritz is supposed to be the word to say. but now, what are you thinking of? oh, my little darling, it's i who am glad to have you back!"
i left the table, and when james—whose real name i afterwards heard was edgar—came back, he found me throttling father's neck and pressing my cheek against his.
"where's the charm i gave you, heather? i trust you have it safe."
i pointed with great pride to where it reposed on a little chain which held my tiny watch.
"by jove," said father, "you are a good child to have kept it so long. it will bring you luck—i told you it was a lucky stone. it was about to be placed on the tomb of the prophet mahomet when i came across it and rescued it, but it was placed before then on many other sacred shrines. it will bring you luck, little heather. but now, in the name of fortune, tell me who gave you this gold watch?"
"aunt pen gave it to me," i said. "she gave it to me my last birthday; she said it had belonged to my mother, but that she had taken it after mother's death. she said she knew that mother would wish me to have it—which, of course, is the case. i love it and i love the little gold chain, and i love the charm, father."
"the charm is the most valuable of all, for it brings luck," said my father. "now, sit down and enjoy your melon."
i don't think i had ever tasted an english melon before, and this one was certainly in superb condition. i rejoiced in its cool freshness and ate two or three slices, while father watched me, a pleased smile round his lips.
"i am going to take you to lady helen this morning, heather."
"yes, father," i answered, and i put down my last piece of melon, feeling that my appetite for the delicious fruit had suddenly faded.
"why don't you finish your fruit, child?"
"i have had enough," i said.
"that's a bad habit," said my father, "besides being bad form. well-bred girls invariably finish what is put on their plates; i want you to be well-bred, my dear. you'll have so much to do with lady helen in the future that you must take advantage of a connection of that sort. besides, being your father's daughter, it also behoves you to act as a lady."
"i hope i shall always act as a lady," i said, and i felt my cheeks growing crimson and a feeling of hatred rising within me towards lady helen; "but if acting as a lady," i continued, "means eating more than is good for you, i don't see it, father, and i may as well tell you so first as last."
"bless you, child," said father, "bless you! i don't want to annoy you. now, i'll tell you what your day is to be. lady helen will take you and get you measured for some smart dresses, and then you are to lunch at the carringtons. lady carrington has been kind enough to send round this morning to invite you. she and sir john are staying at their very smart house at prince's gate, kensington. lady helen will put you down there in her motor, and then she and i will call for you later in the day. you will enjoy being with lady carrington. she is the sort of woman you ought to cultivate."
"lady carrington used to live not far from hill view," i said. "once i met her and she—she was going to be kind to me, when aunt penelope stepped in and prevented it."
"eh, dear," said my father, "now what was that? tell me that story."
i did not like to, but he insisted. i described in as few words as possible my agony of mind after parting with him, and then my determination to find anastasia, who, according to his own saying, was to come by the next train. i told him once again how i ran away and how i reached the railway station, and how the train came in and lady carrington spoke to me, as also did sir john, but there was no anastasia, and then aunt penelope came up, and—and—i remembered no more.
"you were a troublesome little mite that day," said my father, kissing me as he spoke, and pinching my cheek. "well do i recall the frenzy your poor aunt was in, and the telegrams and messages that came for me; well do i recollect the hunt i had for anastasia, and how at last i found her and brought her to see you, and how you quieted down when she sat by your bedside. well do i remember how often i sat there, too."
"i remember it, too," i said, "only very dimly, just like a far-off dream. but, father, dear father, why didn't anastasia stay?"
"your aunt would not have her, child."
"and why didn't you stay? why did you come when i could not recognise you and keep away when i could?"
"noblesse oblige," was his answer, and he hung his head a little and looked depressed.
but just then there came a rustling, cheerful sound in the passage outside, and lady helen, her dress as gorgeous as it was the night before, with a very outré picture hat, fastened at one side of her head, and with her eyes as bright as two stars, entered the room. she floated rather than walked up to father's side, took his two hands, then dropped them, and said, in her high-pitched, very staccato voice:
"how do you do, major? you see, i could not wait, but have come for the dear little ingénue. i am quite ready to take you off, heather, and to supply you with the very prettiest clothes. your father has given me carte blanche to do as i please—is not that so, major?"
"yes," answered my father, bowing most gallantly and looking like the very essence of the finest gentleman in the land. "i shall be glad to leave heather in such good hands. you will see that she is simply dressed, and—oh, i could not leave the matter in better hands. by the way, lady helen, i have had a letter this morning from lady carrington; she wants the child to lunch with her. will you add to your many acts of goodness by dropping her at prince's gate not later than one o'clock?"
"certainly," said lady helen.
"i shall have lunch ready for you, dear friend," said my father, "at a quarter past one precisely at the savoy."
"ah, how quite too sweet!" said lady helen. she gave the tips of her fingers to father, who kissed them lightly, and then she desired me to fly upstairs and put on my hat and jacket. when i came down again, dressed to go out, i found lady helen and father standing close together and talking in low, impressive tones. the moment i entered the room, however, they sprang apart, and father said:
"ah, here we are—here we are! now, my little heather, keep up that youthful expression; it is vastly becoming. even lady helen cannot give you the look of youth, which is so charming, but she can bestow on you the air of fashion, which is indispensable."
father conducted us downstairs and opened the door of the luxurious motor-car. lady helen requested me to step in first, and then she followed. a direction was given to the chauffeur, the door was shut behind us, father bowed, and stood with his bare, somewhat bald head in the street. the last glimpse i had of him he was smiling and looking quite radiant; then we turned a corner and he was lost to view.
"well, and what do you think of it all?" said lady helen. "is the little bird in its nest beginning to say, 'cheep, cheep'? is it feeling hungry and wanting to see the world?"
"all places are the world," i answered, somewhat sententiously.
"for goodness' sake, child," said lady helen, "don't talk in that prim fashion! whatever you are in the future, don't put on airs to me. you are about the most ignorant little creature i ever came across—it will be my pleasure to form and mould you, and to bring you at last to that state of perfection which alone is considered befitting to the modern girl. my dear, i mean to be very good to you."
"that is, i suppose, because you are so fond of father," i said.
she coloured a little, and the hand which she had laid for a moment lightly on my hand was snatched away.
"that kind of remark is terribly outré," she said; "but i shall soon correct all that, my dear. you won't know yourself in one month from the present time. child of nature, indeed! you will be much more likely to be the child of art. but dress is the great accessory. before we begin to form style and manner we must be dressed to suit our part in this world's mummer show."
the car drew up before a large and fashionable shop. lady helen and i entered. lady helen did all the talking, and many bales of wonderful goods, glistening and shining in the beautiful sun, were brought forward for her inspection. lady helen chose afternoon dresses, morning dresses, evening dresses; she chose these things by the half-dozen. i tried to expostulate, and to say they would never be worn out; lady helen's remark was that they would scarcely drag me through the season. then i pleaded father's poverty; i whispered to lady helen: "father cannot afford them."
she looked at me out of her quizzical dark eyes and, laying her hand on my shoulder, said:
"you may be quite sure of one thing, little girl—that i won't allow your father to run into unnecessary expense."
i began to be sick of dresses. i found myself treated as a little nobody, i was twisted right way front, and wrong way back. i was made to look over my right shoulder at my own reflection in a long mirror; i was desired to stoop and to stand upright; i was given a succession of mirrors to look through; i got deadly tired of my own face.
when the choosing of the dresses had come to an end there were stockings and shoes and boots to be purchased, and one or two very dainty little jackets, and then there was a wealth of lovely chinchilla fur, and a little toque to match, and afterwards hats—hats to match every costume; in addition to which there was a very big white hat with a huge ostrich plume, and a black hat with a plume nearly as big. gloves were bestowed upon me by the dozen. i felt giddy, and could scarcely at last take the slightest interest in my own wardrobe. suddenly lady helen looked at her watch, uttered an exclamation, and said:
"oh, dear me! it is ten minutes past one! what am i to do? i must not fail your father at the savoy. do you think, child, if i put you into a hansom, you could drive to the house at prince's gate? i would give all directions to the driver."
"i am sure i could," i answered.
i was not at all afraid of london, knowing nothing of its dangers.
"then that is much the best thing to do," said lady helen. she turned to a man who was a sort of porter at the big shop, and gave him exact orders what he was to do and what he was to say. a hansom was called, the cabman was paid by lady helen herself, and at last i was off and alone.
i was glad of this. i had a great sense of relief when that patched-up, faded, and yet still beautiful face was no longer near me. when i reached the house at prince's gate i felt rested and refreshed. there was a servant in very smart livery standing in the hall, and of him i ventured to inquire if lady carrington were at home.
"is your name, madam, miss heather grayson?" inquired the man.
i replied at once in the affirmative.
"then her ladyship is expecting you. i will take you to her."
he moved across a wide and beautifully carpeted hall, knocked at a door at the further end, and, in answer to the words "come in," flung the door open and announced "miss grayson, your ladyship," whereupon i found myself on the threshold of a wonderful and delightfully home-like room. a lady, neither young nor old, had risen as the man appeared. she came eagerly forward—not at all with the eagerness of lady helen, but with the eagerness of one who gives a sincere welcome. her large brown eyes seemed to express the very soul of benevolence.
"i am glad to see you, dear," she said. "how are you? sit down on this sofa, won't you? you must rest for a minute or two and then i will take you upstairs myself, and you shall wash your hands and brush your hair before lunch. it is nice to see you again, little heather. do you know that all the long years you lived at high view i have been wanting, and wanting in vain, to make your acquaintance?"
"oh, but what can you mean?" i asked, looking into that charming and beautiful face and wondering what the lady was thinking of. "would not aunt penelope let you? surely you must have known that i should have been only too proud?"
"my dear, we won't discuss what your aunt wished to conceal from you. now that you have come to live with your father, and now that you are my near neighbour, i hope to see a great deal of you. your aunt was doubtless right in keeping you a good deal to herself. you see, dear, it's like this. you have been brought up unspotted from the world."
"i like the world," i answered; "i don't think it's a bad place. i am very much interested in london, and i am exceedingly glad to have met you again. don't you remember, lady carrington, how tightly i held your hand on that dreadful day when i was first brought to aunt penelope?"
"i shall never forget the pressure of your little hand. but now i see you are quite ready to come upstairs. come along, then—sir john may be in at any moment, and he never likes to have his lunch kept waiting."
lady carrington's beautiful bedroom was exactly over her sitting-room. there i saw myself in a sort of glow of colour, all lovely and iridescent and charming. there was something remarkable about the room, for it had a strange gift of putting grace—yes, absolute grace—into your clothes. even my shabby brown frock seemed to be illuminated, and as to my face, it glowed with faint colour, and my eyes became large and bright. i washed my hands and brushed back my soft, dark hair. then i returned to the drawing-room with lady carrington.
