Wild Heather

"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.