Here my father rose to his feet.

"You shan't be worried about Hawtrey," he said, "and I'll promise that Carbury shall not cross your path. But I don't think there is any help for it; you'll have to come back with me. I'll stay here to-night; I'll telegraph to her ladyship again, and tell her that you are all right, and that we are coming back to-morrow morning. I'd rather have you in the house than not in the house, for even though we can't often talk to each other we can at least understand each other."

"But Aunt Penelope is ill; even if I could agree to what you wish, Aunt Penelope is very ill. I ought not to leave her now."

"Well, perhaps not; perhaps your aunt ought to be considered. In that case I would go back myself to-night--it would be best for me to do so; her ladyship might want me, and I know I'd be in the right to go back, and as quickly as possible. Well, we'll go and see your aunt now; only, before we visit her, I want you to make me a promise. You will come to London--you will take up the old life for my sake?"

I looked him in the eyes.

"Do you want this very, very badly?" I said.

"I want it more than anything on earth."

"And wanting it so badly," I said very sadly, "you yet would have pretended to be glad if I had said 'Yes' to Lord Hawtrey?"

"I might have, there's no saying. I'd have had your house to come to then; but that's out of the question, and needn't be thought of. You'll come back to me, Heather, when your aunt can spare you?"

"Yes, I will come," I said, and then I kissed him, and we walked slowly back from the Downs, my hand clasped in his.

Aunt Penelope was better; the doctor had been again, and was pleased with her. Jonas, in his very best suit, his face shining with soap and water, gave us the good news on our arrival. There was a nice little lunch waiting for us in the tiny dining-room, and my father, as he expressed it, was "downright hungry."

"Delicious, this cold beef and salad tastes," he said. "Upon my word, there's nothing like plain food; one does get sick to death of made-up dishes."

I helped him to the best that my aunt's little table could afford, and then I ran softly up to her room. She was lying high up in bed, her eyes were bright, and she was watching for me.

"Well, child; well?"

"You are better, aren't you, auntie?"

"Better? I am all right, child; what about yourself?"

"I am quite well, of course."

"Heather, is that poor man, your father, downstairs?"

"He is."

"Has he expressed a wish to see me?"

"He has come back for the purpose."

"I will see him; only he must be quiet, in order to prevent my coughing.

If I start coughing again I may get really bad; you tell him that.

Heather, my love, you're not going to leave me, are you?"

"Not at present, at any rate," I said.

"Kiss me, dear. You are a very good girl; you take after your mother.

You have got her patient, steadfast light in your eyes. Now send that father of yours up, and tell him, whatever he does, to be careful that he doesn't set me coughing."

I ran downstairs, and gave my father Aunt Penelope's message. He said:

"Poor old girl! I'll be careful, right enough," and then he went softly and slowly upstairs. I watched until he was out of sight; then I ran quickly into the little drawing-room. I had not a minute to lose, and I would not delay. I would not postpone setting a seal on my own fate for a single moment.

There was the little room, looking just as of old. I had dusted it and tidied it that morning, and put a few fresh flowers in one or two vases, and made it look quite gay and pretty. I knew where Aunt Penelope kept her note-paper; I opened her Davenport and took out a sheet now and began to write. I wrote straight to Vernon Carbury. My letter was very short.

"I have to give you up, Vernon," I wrote; "there is no other way out. My father, Major Grayson, has told me his true story. I never heard it until to-day. I understand everything now, and I wish you, Vernon, clearly to understand that I, Major Grayson's daughter, take his shame, and bind it on me, and not for all the world will I loosen that badge of shame from my heart. So, because of this very thing, I can never be your true wife. You are a brave soldier of the King, and my father has been cashiered, because of a crime, from the King's Army. Is it likely that you and I can be husband and wife? Good-bye, dear. It gives me dreadful pain to write this letter, but all the same, I am glad we have met, and that you have put me into your gallery of heroines, as I have put you into my gallery of heroes. Forget me soon--find a girl who has no shame to bind round her heart, and be happy. Dearest darling, best beloved,--Your little

"HEATHER."

I knew his address, and put it on the letter. I stamped it, and ran out with it myself. Jonas saw me going, and called after me:

"Miss Heather, I'll post that for you."

"No, thank you," I answered; "I'd like to go."

The letter was dropped into the post-box before my father came downstairs again after his interview with Aunt Penelope. His face was pale, and he looked tired.

"Upon my word, this has been a trying day to me. She's the best of women, Heather; I don't wonder you're proud of her. She reminds me wonderfully of your poor mother; not in appearance, of course, for I never saw your mother except with the glint and the glamour of youth on her face; but she's what your poor mother would have been had she lived.

She's a right-down good woman. She wants you to go on living with her, but I have got her to see reason, and she is satisfied that you shall return to me as soon as she is well. Take care of her, child--here's a ten-pound note to spend on her, and when you want more money you have only to write to me."

"But--but I thought you had no money?" I answered.

"I have, and I haven't. As long as I live with Lady Helen I have more money than I know what to do with. Don't take that little drop of honey out of my cup. I can spend that money as I please, and no questions asked; and now, my child, I'm going back to London. I'll write to you in a day or two; you needn't fear her ladyship, she'll go on giving you a good time, and some day perhaps you'll marry."

"No," I said. "You know that--father--you know that I won't."

"Well, well, there's no saying, and a girl of your age can't prophesy with regard to the future. Good-bye, little girl. G.o.d bless you! You have comforted me as you alone could to-day."

CHAPTER XIX

Aunt Penelope got better very quickly; having turned the corner, there were no relapses. Whether it was my society or whether she was easier and happier in her mind, or whatever the cause, she lost her cough, she lost her weakness, and became very much the Aunt Penelope of old. I watched her with a kind of fearful joy. I was glad she was so much better, and yet I trembled for the day, which I knew was approaching, when I must return to Hanbury Square. Aunt Penelope used to look at me with the steadfast gaze which I had found very trying when a little child, but which I now appreciated for its honesty and directness. It was as though she were reading my very heart.

Meanwhile, no letters of any sort arrived; not one from my father, not one from Captain Carbury. I pretended to be very glad that Vernon did not write, but down deep in my heart of hearts I know that I was sorry; I know, too, that my heart beat quicker than usual when the postman's knock came to the door, and I know that that same heart went down low, low in my breast, when he pa.s.sed by without any missive for me.

At last there came an evening when Aunt Penelope and I had a long talk together. On that evening we settled the exact day when I was to return to my father and to Lady Helen. We were able to talk over everything now without any secret between us, and that fact was a great comfort to me.

Once she spoke about my dear father's sin, but when she began on that subject I stopped her.

"When you forgive, is it not said that you ought also to forget?"

"What do you mean, Heather?"

"Well, you have forgiven him, haven't you?"

"I never said I had."