CHAPTER VIII

Lady Carrington and I went to St. Margaret's, Westminster, to see my father married to Lady Helen Dalrymple. I had never witnessed a marriage ceremony before, and thought it a very dull and dreary affair. My ideas with regard to a bride had always been that she must be exceedingly young and very beautiful, and now, when I saw Lady Helen, all drooping and fragile, and in my opinion quite old, not even her beautiful Honiton lace veil, nor her exquisite dress of some shimmering material, appealed to me in the very least. It was with difficulty I could keep the tears out of my eyes by fixing them firmly on the back of my father's head. I noticed again how bald he was getting, but then his shoulders were very broad, and he did not stoop in the least, and he had a splendid manly sort of air. As I listened to the marriage service, I could not help thinking of that other time, ages ago in his life, when he took my young mother to wife, my mother who had died when I was a baby. He was young then, and so was the bride – oh, I had no sympathy with his second marriage!

Lady Carrington insisted on my wearing a white dress, and when the ceremony was over, we all went to the Westminster hotel, where there were light refreshments, and tea and coffee, and champagne, which I hated, and would only take in the smallest sips. By and by, Lady Helen went upstairs to change her dress. She came down again in a magnificent "creation" – for that was the word I heard the ladies around me describing it by – and a huge picture hat on her head. She kissed me once or twice at the very last moment, and told me to be a good child. I hated kisses as much as I hated her, but father, dear father, made up for everything. He caught me in his arms and squeezed me tightly to his breast, and said: "God for ever bless you, dear little woman!" and then they went away, and Lady Carrington and I gazed at each other.

"Now, my dear Heather," she said cheerfully, "we are going to motor back to my house in order to change our dresses, so as to be in time for Captain Carbury when he brings his car round for us. You remember, dear, that we are going to Hampton Court to-day, and we haven't a minute to spare."

"Oh, not a minute," I replied, and I tried to feel cheered up and excited.

After a time Captain Carbury made his appearance, and if I had no other reason for wishing to behave bravely just then, I would not for the world show cowardice before the man who had put me into his gallery of heroines.

We motored down to Hampton Court, and the Captain proved himself to be a very merry guide, so much so that I found myself laughing in spite of my sorrow, and whenever I did so Lady Carrington gave me an approving smile.

"I have been telling Heather about you and Dorothy, Vernon," she said, after we had been all over the old palace, and found ourselves having tea at one of the hotels which faced the river.

Captain Carbury gave me a quick glance, a little puzzled, a little sad, a sort of glance which amazed me at the time, and the meaning of which I was not to understand until afterwards.

"You must get to know Dorothy some day," he said. "I have her picture here" – he tapped his watch-pocket – "I will show it you by and by."

As he said this, he looked full into my eyes, and I noticed more than ever the sad expression in his. I wondered at this, and then my thoughts wandered to Lady Dorothy Vinguard. What sort of a girl was she? Was she nice enough to marry the man who occupied a place in my gallery of heroes?

I spent a fairly happy fortnight with Lady Carrington. She was kindness itself to me, and she gave me a great deal of valuable advice. She took me to see many interesting sights, and Captain Carbury came to the house almost every day. One day he brought Lady Dorothy to see me. I was seated in the inner drawing-room when a tall, very pale, slender girl, most beautifully dressed, entered the room. Her face was exactly like that of a waxen doll; it had not a scrap of expression in it, neither was it in the very least disagreeable. My first impression when I looked at her was that she wanted intelligence, but then I changed my mind, for her light-blue eyes were peculiarly watchful, and she kept looking and looking at me, as though she would read me through. It was impossible to tell whether Captain Carbury was devoted to her or not; she ordered him about a good deal, and he obeyed her slightest behests. She kept all the conversation to herself, too, and neither he nor I could edge in a word. I never met anyone who talked so fast, and yet who seemed to say nothing at all. Each subject she began to speak about she changed for another before we had begun even to think of what we meant to reply. Thus her conversation gave me at last a feeling of intense fatigue, and I wondered how a really clever and earnest-minded man like Captain Carbury could endure the thought of spending his life with her.

He went out of the room after a time, and then she told me, with a great yawn, that he was a perfect lover, and that she herself was intensely happy.

"You, of course, will fall in love and get engaged some day," she said. "You are rather good-looking, in the old-world style; personally, I admire the up to date sort of beauty myself, and so, I know, does Vernon. He hates the people who are, as he expresses it, 'all fire and flash in the pan.' That is, I am sure, how he would describe you, if he troubled himself to describe you at all."

"I don't think he would," I said, turning very red. I longed to tell this haughty girl that I was in his gallery of heroines, but I felt instinctively that such a piece of information would only make her jealous, and therefore I refrained.

By and by Captain Carbury returned, and they both went away. She certainly was very dainty. She was like a piece of exquisite china, and, as I said afterwards to Lady Carrington, when she wanted to get my opinion with regard to her:

"I felt almost afraid to look at her, for fear she should break."

Lady Carrington laughed at my description, and said she did not know that I was such a keen observer of character.

This was my very last day with my kindest of friends, for on the next I was to go to Lady Helen's house in Hanbury Square. I knew nothing whatever with regard to this part of London, nor where the smartest houses were, nor where the "classy people," as they called themselves, resided, but Lady Carrington informed me that Hanbury Square was in the very heart of the fashionable world, and that Lady Helen's house was one of the largest and handsomest in the whole square.

"But why is it called Lady Helen's house?" I asked. "Surely it is my father's."

"Of course it is," she replied, and she looked a little grave, just as though she were holding something back. How often I had seen that look in her face – and how often, how very often, had it puzzled me, and how completely I had failed to understand it. I did love Lady Carrington; she was good to me, and when I bade her good-bye the next morning the tears filled my eyes.

"Now understand, Heather," she said, "that whenever you want me I am at your service. A new life is opening before you, my child, but I shall, of course, be your friend, for your dead mother's sake, and for – "

"Yes, yes?" I cried. "Say the rest, say the rest!"

"And, little Heather, for the memory of what your father was."

"I don't understand you," I said; "you hint and hint things against my own darling father – oh! don't do it again! Speak out if you must, but don't hint things ever again!"

"Think nothing of my words," said Lady Carrington; "forget that they were uttered. Don't turn against me, little Heather; you may need my friendship."

I was, indeed, to need that friendship, and right soon. But I felt almost angry with Lady Carrington as I drove away.

Certainly the house in Hanbury Square was very smart; it had all been newly got-up, in preparation for the bride. There was new paint outside, and new paint and beautiful wainscots and soft papers within, and there were flower-boxes at every window, and the floors were covered with heavy-piled carpets, and there were knick-knacks and flowers and very costly furniture greeting one at each turn. It was a big house, in short a mansion, with front stairs and back stairs, and rooms innumerable. A very lovely room had been set aside for me. It was called the "Forget-me-not" room, and was on the first floor. I had a bathroom, with hot and cold water laid on, quite to myself; I also had a dressing-room, with a wonderful toilet table and wash-hand stand and appliances for the toilet. And in my bedroom was a great wardrobe made of walnut wood, and the beautiful little bed had lace-trimmed pillow-slips and sheets. Until I entered this room I had never even imagined such luxury.

A very neat, quiet-looking girl, who told me her name was Morris, met me on the threshold of my room.

"I am your special maid, miss," she said. "Lady Helen said I was to do everything in my power to help you."

"But you are not Anastasia," I replied.

The girl started back, and stared at me.

"Who is Anastasia, miss?" she asked, after a minute's pause.

"Oh," I answered, "Anastasia is my dear old nurse; she brought me home from India years and years ago, and afterwards I lost her. I want father to find her again for me, for I really wish her to be my maid."

"You will perhaps speak to my mistress, miss," replied Morris, in a demure voice.

"Why so?" I asked. "I shall speak to my father, Major Grayson."

The girl made no answer, but I noticed that a smile, a peculiar smile, lingered round her lips.

"Perhaps, miss," she said, after a pause, "I had best begin to unpack your trunks, for her ladyship and the Major may be here by tea time, and, of course, you will like to be ready to meet them, and you'd wish me to arrange your hair, and help you on with your afternoon frock before they come."

I took some keys out of a little bag I wore at my side.

"Do as you please," I said.

I sat on a low chair and watched her. Then I said, suddenly:

"I am horribly sick of dress!"

"Oh, miss!" remarked Morris, raising her placid face to mine, for she was on her knees by this time, unfastening my largest trunk, "I did think that young ladies lived for their dress."

"Well, I am not one of those young ladies," was my reply. "I never thought of dress until a few weeks ago. I used to put on the dress I was to wear when I first got up in the morning, and I never thought of it again until I took it off to go to bed."

"You must have lived in a very quiet way, miss."

"I lived in a sensible way," I replied.

"I should not like it for myself, miss."

"Perhaps not, perhaps you are vain – I can't bear vain people."

The girl coloured, and bent again over the trunk. I rested my elbows on my knees, pressed my hands against my cheeks, and stared at her.

"I don't wish to offend you, Morris," I said; "I want us two to be friends."

"Thank you, miss."

"But I do wish to say," I continued, "that I consider it awfully frivolous to have to put on a special dress for morning, and another dress for afternoon, and yet another dress, just when tea comes in, and another dress for dinner. Privately, I think it quite wicked, and I am sure you must agree with me."

"It is what's done in society, miss," answered the girl. "They all do like that, those who move in the best society."

She began to unpack rapidly, and I watched her. I reflected within myself that I had left Hill View with no clothes except the ones I was wearing, and what were contained in my tiny trunks. Now I had several big trunks, and they were crammed, pressed full, with the newest and most wonderful dresses; and besides the dresses there were mantles, and coats, and opera cloaks, and all sorts of the most exquisite, the most perfect underclothing in the world. Morris was a quick lady's maid; she evidently understood her duties thoroughly well. She had soon unpacked my trunks, and then she suggested that I should wear a dress of the palest, most heavenly blue, in order to greet her ladyship and Major Grayson. I said, "Is it necessary?" and she replied, "Certainly it is," and after that I submitted to her manipulations. She helped me into my dress, arranged my hair in a simple and very becoming manner, and then she looked at me critically.

"Am I all right now?" I asked.

"Yes, miss, I think you will do beautifully."

I thanked her, and ran downstairs. There were three, or even four drawing-rooms to the house, each one opening into the other. I chose the smallest drawing-room, ensconced myself in an easy-chair, and tried to imagine that I was about to enjoy everything; but my heart was beating horribly, and I came to the conclusion that every one of the four drawing-rooms was hideous. They were not the least like the reception rooms at Lady Carrington's. There the furniture was rich, and yet simple; there was no sense of overcrowding, the tables were not laden with knick-knacks, and there were comparatively few chairs and lounges, only just enough for people to use. The walls were undecorated, except by one or two pictures, the works of masters. There were not more than two pictures in each room, for Lady Carrington had assured me that pictures were the richest ornaments of all, and I fully agreed with her. Now these rooms were totally different – the chairs, the tables, the sofas, the lounges, the grand piano, the little piano, the harpsichord, the spinning-wheel, the pianola, gave one a sense of downright oppression. The walls were laden with pictures of every sort and description – some of them I did not admire in the very least; and there was old china and old glass, very beautiful, I had little doubt, but to me extremely inharmonious. I discovered soon that what these rooms needed was a sense of rest. There was not a single spot where the eye could remain quiet; wherever one looked one felt inclined to start and exclaim, and jump up and examine. I came to the conclusion that I preferred Aunt Penelope's very plain little drawing-room at home to this.