"G.o.d bless you, my Heather!" he said. "And now, child, listen to me. You must do whatever you think right. Her ladyship's away, Heather, 'hey!

nonny, nonny!'--her ladyship's away, and I won't be bullied about my own little girl. You do just what you think right."

He knelt down as he spoke, bent over me, put his arm round my neck, pressed his lips to mine, and then hurried out of the room. I was just intending to go up to bed; I was longing for the quiet of my own chamber; I wanted intensely to put my treasured roses into water; I wanted to creep into bed and dream about Captain Carbury. I pined for the shelter of my little room, for the darkness, the peace. I should fall asleep presently, but until then I could think and think of the man who had said good words to me that day, of the man whom I should meet to-morrow. Of course, I would not marry him--no, not for the wide world; but I might think of him, I might--I made up my mind that I would.

The house was quite silent. I raised myself from the sofa, and walked as far as the fireplace; I bent down over the fire, then, raising myself, I caught my own reflection in the gla.s.s. The vision of a girl looked back at me from its mirrored depths--a girl with eyes like stars, lips slightly parted, a radiant face. Somebody came in quickly--who was it? I turned. Lord Hawtrey was at my side.

"I won't stay long, unless you give me leave," he said. "Lady Helen thought you would not mind seeing me, and your father is in the house--he is in the smoking-room; Lady Helen thinks you won't mind."

"Sit down, won't you?" I said.

"Oh, no. I cannot sit while you stand."

"But I am a young girl, and you are an old man," I said. "Do, please, sit down. You look very tired, too," I added, and I gave him an affectionate glance, for I really quite liked him.

His face flushed uncomfortably when I called him an old man; but I could not by any possibility think of him in any other light.

"I cannot sit," he said. "Old or young, I must stand at the present moment. I thought to write to you, but her ladyship said, 'Better speak.' Have I your leave, Miss Grayson, to say a few words? Do you greatly mind?"

"They call me Dalrymple here," I answered, speaking in a weary voice.

"I know that, but your real name is Grayson, and I mean to call you by it. Whatever the rest of the world may feel, I am not ashamed of your real name."

"Is anyone?" I asked. I was sitting on the sofa now; my cheeks were blazing hotly, and my eyes were very bright.

"Of course not," he answered, and he fixed his tired eyes for a minute on my face.

"My child," he said--and surely no voice in all the world could be kinder--"it is my firm intention not to allow you to be forced in any way. I will lay a proposition before you, and you are to accept or decline it, just exactly as you like. If you accept it, Miss--Miss Heather, you will make one man almost too happy for this earth; if you decline it, he will still love and respect you. Now, may I speak?"

He paused, and I had time to observe that he was anxious, and that whatever he wished to say was troubling him; also that he wanted to get it over, that he was desirous to know the worst or the best as quickly as possible. I wondered if he was a relation of Captain Carbury's, and if he was going to speak about him; but I did not think it would be like Captain Carbury to put his own affairs into the hands of anyone else.

Still, I had always liked Lord Hawtrey, although quite in a daughterly fashion.

"What is it?" I said, gently. "Are you related to--to him?"

"I have hardly any relations, little Heather Grayson," was his next remark. "I am a very lonely man."

"I did not know that rich people were ever lonely," I said.

He laughed.

"Rich people are the loneliest of all," he said.

"I cannot understand that," I answered.

"Why, you see, it is this way," he answered, bending slightly forward, and looking at me--oh! so respectfully, and with, as far as I could guess, such a very fatherly glance; "rich people, who live on unearned incomes, have neither to work nor to beg; they just go on day after day, getting every single thing they wish for. Not one desire enters their minds that they cannot satisfy. Thus, little Miss Grayson, it is the law of life, desire itself ever gratified, fades away and is not, and the people I speak of are utterly miserable."

"I do not understand," I replied.

"I am rich, and yet I am one of the most lonely and, in some respects, one of the most miserable men in London."

I sprang to my feet and confronted him.

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," I said. "If you are rich, rich like that, think what good you ought to do with your money; think what grand use you ought to make of it; think of the people who are out of employment, and the poor young people--girls especially--who are so shamefully underpaid, and think of the hospitals that need more funds, and the big, great charities that are crying aloud for more help! If you want to be happy, to use your money right, you ought to give to all of these, and you ought to learn to give with discrimination and judgment.

When I lived in the country Aunt Penelope taught me a lot about the right giving of charity, so I can understand. You need not be quite so frightfully rich if you give of your abundance to those who have much less; and if you not only give of your money, but of yourself, of your life, of all, or a greater part of your time, you'll be just awfully happy. People who do that sort of thing invariably are. Aunt Penelope says so, and she ought to know."

"Your Aunt Penelope must be a very wise woman. I should like to meet her; and that is a most brilliant idea. I wonder if it could be carried into effect?"

"Surely there is nothing to prevent it."

"Then, little Heather Grayson, will you help me to carry it into effect?"

"I wish I could; but how can I? I am such a very young girl."

I began to find him less interesting than I had done a minute ago. I pushed a big sofa-pillow between my back and the edge of the sofa; I pined for eleven o'clock on the following day.

"I must make my meaning plain," he said. "I want someone just like you, young, and pure, and innocent, and, I believe, holy--to help me, to live with me, to be my--oh! I want someone whom I could train and--whom I could love."

"A sort of companion," I said, in some amazement; "or, perhaps, you mean an adopted daughter; but then, you see, I am father's daughter, although he has married Lady Helen."

"Ah, poor child!" he said. "I can quite see that you are your father's daughter, although he has married Lady Helen. But tell me--do you really think me old enough to be your father?"

"But, of course--yes, Lord Hawtrey, you are."

"Perhaps I am; on the other hand, perhaps I am not. But, after all, little Miss Heather, the question of age scarcely matters. Deep in my heart there lives eternal youth, and now and then--oh, by no means always--but now and then, and especially when I am with you, it comes to the surface. Eternal youth is a beautiful thing, and when I see you, little Miss Grayson, and watch your innocent country ways, it visits me; it is like a cool, refreshing fountain, bubbling up in my heart."

"But aren't we perhaps talking fairy talk?" I said, pulling one of the roses out of its position in front of my dress and letting it fall to the floor.

He got very red, but nevertheless he kept himself well in control.

"I want you to think it over," he said. "I know you will be unprepared for what I mean to say. I want you as my wife. I can give you all the outward things that the hearts of most women desire--I can give you wealth, and beautiful dresses, and a lovely house--several lovely houses--to live in; and I can make the best, and the greatest, and the cleverest people your friends. I can take you far away, too, from this flash and glitter. Little child, I can help to save you. Will you be my wife? Don't--at least to-night--say no. I promise to make you the best, the most devoted of husbands. I shall love you as I never loved woman, and you will soon get accustomed to my grey hairs, and to the fact that I am forty years of age. Don't say no, little Heather. I have loved you with my whole heart, from the first moment I saw you."

I knew that, in spite of myself, my eyes opened wide, so wide that presently they filled with tears, and the tears dropped down and splashed on the roses which I had put on with such pride. I knew now from where the flowers had come. I hated the roses; I loathed their heavy perfume. I rose abruptly.

"Lord Hawtrey," I said, "I ought to thank you, but I am too young and confused, and--and--oh, I must say it!--too _distressed_! You don't want to force me to this?"

"No. You must come to me of your own free will."

"I believe you are a very good man," I said; "I am sure of it, and I thank you very much; but you must understand that to me you seem like a father, and I can never, never think of you in any other light. You will forgive me, but I cannot say any more--I can never say any more. I do like you, but I can never say anything more at all."

I did not touch his hand. I walked slowly towards the door; Lord Hawtrey opened it for me; I pa.s.sed out. He bent his head in acknowledgment of my "Good night," and then, as I was going upstairs, I noticed that he shut the drawing-room door very softly.

CHAPTER XIII

When Lady Helen went to the opera or the theatre, or to special b.a.l.l.s or suppers, she invariably was late for breakfast the next morning, and on these occasions my father generally had his breakfast with her in her bedroom. Lady Helen would not put in an appearance until lunch time, and I therefore would have the morning all to myself. After that eventful day and after that almost sleepless night, I was quite certain that I should not find anyone waiting for me in the breakfast-room. To my astonishment, however, both Lady Helen and my father were there. They looked at me when I came in, my father with anxiety and affection, Lady Helen with a world of meaning in her knowing, worldly old face.

On the night before I had torn the roses with feverish haste from my dress, stuck them into a great bowl of water, and desired Morris to take them away; I said that the perfume gave me a headache, and that I did not wish to see them again. She obeyed me in some astonishment, raising her brows a trifle.