Wild Heather

Wild Heather
L. Meade

L. T. Meade

Wild Heather

CHAPTER I

There are all kinds of first things one can look back upon; I mean by that the first things of all. There is the little toddling journey across the floor, with father's arms stretched out to help one, and mother's smile to greet one when the adventurous journey is over. And there are other baby things, of course. Then there come the big things which one can never forget.

My big thing arrived when I was eight years old. I came home with father from India. Father's name was Major Grayson, and I was called Heather. I was petted a great deal on board ship, and made a fuss about, and, in consequence, I made a considerable fuss about myself and gave myself airs. Father used to laugh when I did this and catch me in his arms and press me close to his heart, and say:

"My dearest little Heather, I can quite perceive that you will be a most fascinating woman when you grow up."

I remember even now his words, and the look on his face when he said these things, but as I did not in the least comprehend them at the time, I merely asked in my very pertest voice for the nicest sweetmeats he could procure for me, on which he laughed more than ever, and, turning to his brother officers, said:

"Didn't I say so? Heather will take the cake some time."

I suppose at that period of my life there was no one in the wide world whom I loved as I did father. There was my nurse, but I was not specially devoted to her, for she was fond of teasing me and sticking pins into my dress without being careful with regard to the points. When I wriggled and rushed away from her she used to say that I was a very naughty and troublesome child. She never praised me nor used mysterious words about me as father did, so, of course, I clung close to him.

I very, very dimly remembered my mother. As I have just said, my first memory of all was running across the nursery floor and being caught by my father, and my mother smiling at me. I really cannot recall her after that, except that I have a very dim memory of being, on one occasion, asked to stoop down and kiss her. My father was holding me in his arms at the time, and I stooped and stooped and pressed my lips to hers and said: "Oh, how cold!" and shuddered and turned away. I did not know then that she was dead. This fact was not told me until long afterwards.

We had a most prosperous voyage home on board the Pleiades, with never a storm nor any unpleasant sea complication, and father was in high spirits, always chatting and laughing and playing billiards and making himself agreeable all round, and I was very much petted, although one lady assured me that it was on account of father, who was such a very popular man, and not because I was little Heather Grayson myself.

By and by the voyage came to an end, and we were safe back in old England. We landed at Southampton, and father took Anastasia and me to a big hotel for the night. Anastasia, my nurse, and I had a huge room all to ourselves. It did look big after the tiny state cabin to which I had grown accustomed.

Anastasia was at once cross and sorrowful, and I wondered very much why she was not glad to be back in old England. But when I asked her if she were glad, her only answer was to catch me to her heart and kiss me over and over again, and say that she never, oh never! meant to be unkind to me, but that her whole one desire was to be my dearest, darling "Nana," and that she hoped and prayed I would ever remember her as such. I thought her petting almost as tiresome as her crossness, so I said, in my usual pert way:

"If you are really fond of me, you won't stick any more pins in me," when, to my amazement, she burst into a flood of tears.

Now I had a childish horror of tears, and ran out of the room. What might have happened I do not know; whether I should have lost myself in the great hotel, or whether Anastasia would have rushed after me and picked me up and scolded me, and been more like her old self, and forbidden me on pain of her direst displeasure to ever leave her side without permission, I cannot tell. But the simple fact was that I saw father in the corridor of the hotel, and father looked into my face and said:

"Why, Heather, what's the matter?"

"It's Anastasia who is so queer," I said; "she is sorry about something, and I said, 'If you are sorry you will never stick pins in me again' – and then she burst out crying. I hate cry-babies, don't you, Daddy?"

"Yes; of course I do," replied my father. "Come along downstairs with me, Heather."

He lifted me up in his arms. I have said that I was eight years old, but I was a very tiny girl, made on a small and neat scale. I had little, dark brown curls, which Anastasia used to damp every morning and convert into hideous rows of ringlets, as she called them. I was very proud of my "ringerlets," as I pronounced the word at that time, and I had brown eyes to match my hair, and a neat sort of little face. I was not the least like father, who had a big, rather red face and grey hair, which I loved to pull, and kind, very bright, blue eyes and a big mouth, somewhat tremulous. I used to wonder even then why it trembled.

He rushed downstairs with me in his usual boisterous fashion, while I laughed and shouted and told him to go faster and faster, and then he entered a private sitting-room and rang the bell, and told the man who appeared at his summons that dinner was to be served for two, and that Miss Heather Grayson would dine with her father. Oh, didn't I feel proud – this was an honour indeed!

"I need not go back to the cry-baby, then, need I?" I said.

"No," replied my father; "you need not, Heather. You are to stay with me."

"Well, let's laugh and be very jolly," I said. "Let me be a robber, pretending to pick your pockets, and you must lie back and shut your eyes and pretend to be sound, sound asleep. You must not even start when I pull your diamond ring off your finger. But, I say – oh, Daddy! – where is your diamond ring?"

"Upstairs, or downstairs, or in my lady's chamber," replied Daddy. "Don't you bother about it, Heather. No, I don't want to play at being burgled to-night. Sit close to me; lay your little head on my breast."

I did so. I could feel his great heart beating. It beat in big throbs, now up, now down, now up, now down again.

Dinner was brought in, and I forgot all about the ring in the delight of watching the preparations, and of seeing the grand, tall waiter laying the table for two. He placed a chair at one end of the table for father, and at the other end for me. This I did not like, and I said so. Then father requested that the seats should be changed and that I should sit, so to speak, in his pocket. I forget, in all the years that have rolled by, what we had for dinner, but I know that some of it I liked and some I could not bear, and I also remember that it was the dishes I could not bear that father loved. He ate a good deal, and then he took me in his arms and settled me on his knee, sitting so that I should face him, and then he spoke.

"Heather, how old are you?"

I was accustomed to this sort of catechism, and answered at once, very gravely:

"Eight, Daddy."

"Oh, you are more than eight," he replied, "you are eight and a half, aren't you?"

"Eight years, five months, one week, and five days," I said.

"Come, that is better," he said, his blue eyes twinkling. "Always be accurate when you speak. Always remember, please, Heather, that it was want of accuracy ruined me."

"What is ruined?" I asked. "What in the world do you mean?"

"What I say. Now don't repeat my words. You will be able to think of them by and by."

I was silent, pondering. Daddy was charming; there never was his like, but he did say puzzling things.

"Now," he said, looking full at me, "what do you think I have come to England for?"

I shook my head. When I did not know a thing I invariably shook my head.

"I have come on your account," he replied.

"On mine, Daddy?"

"Yes. I am going back again to India in a short time."

"Oh, what fun!" I answered. "I love being on board ship."

He did not reply at all to this.

"Why don't you speak?" I said, giving his grizzled locks a lusty tug.

"I am thinking," was his answer.

"Well, think aloud," I said.

"I am thinking about you, Heather. Have you ever by any chance heard of a lady called Aunt Penelope?"

"Never," I answered. "Aunt Penelope – Aunt Penelope – what is an aunt, Daddy?"

"Well, there is an Aunt Penelope waiting to see you in old England, and I am going to take you down to her to-morrow. She is your aunt – listen – think hard, Heather – use your brains – because she is your mother's sister."

"Oh!" I answered. "Does that make an aunt?"