I had a beautiful little jewelled watch with a long gold chain which was slipped into my belt. I took it out, and looked at the time. It was a quarter past one. If I walked quickly, I could reach the railway station in time to meet my father. I would take him away with me at once. We would go up on the Downs, and I would ask him point-blank if Aunt Penelope's story was true. He, at least, would tell me the truth. Afterwards, I could decide.
I rose from my seat on the heather. I had crushed the beautiful purple heather down with my weight. But it was elastic, strong, and wiry. The winds of heaven and the sun would soon kiss it and tempt it, and rouse it to an upright position again. I had not really injured my own heather. I straightened my hat. Of late I had been forced to think a good deal about dress and fashion. Nobody else did at Cherton. Cherton was a little old-world place, and fashions put in their appearance there several years after they were seen in London.
I pulled my gloves on tidily, pushed back my tumbled hair, and went rapidly towards the railway station. I knew how to get there now. I needed no fat old woman to show me the way. I arrived just as the London express was coming in. As I have said before, it but seldom stopped at our little wayside station. But it did stop to-day. I wondered if some great people like the Carringtons were returning. I did not want to see the Carringtons just then. The only person, however, who stepped out of the train, and that was out of a first-class carriage, was an elderly man with white hair and a haggard expression. He was very well dressed, and carried a smart walking-stick. But there was a decided stoop between his shoulders, as though he did not care to keep himself upright. I gave a faint cry, then ran up to him. I linked my hand inside his arm.
"I thought I'd come to meet you. I am here; I am all right, you see."
"Oh, I say! My darling little Heather! This is first-rate. Child, what a fright you have given Lady Helen and myself. You have been disgracefully naughty."
"You must forgive me, Dad. Dad, darling, you haven't come all the way from London to a little place like Cherton just to scold your own Heather?"
"Bless you, my beauty!" was the reply. "Aren't you the very joy of my heart? But all the same, you did wrong. You didn't think of what I went through last night. You forgot that, little Heather. But never mind, never mind; only I'd best send a wire to her ladyship. She will be in a fume if she doesn't hear. Ah! here's the telegraph office. I won't be a minute, child; you wait for me outside."
I made no response. He went in, while I stood in the fierce heat of the sunshine. I hoisted my parasol, but the heat penetrated through it. How long my father stayed in that little office! And how old and tired he looked! and yet—oh, of course, he had done nothing wrong. It was but to look into those kind blue eyes; he could not have done that thing which Aunt Penelope accused him of. My spirits rose. She had made a mistake. He himself would explain everything to me, of that I was quite convinced.
He came out again. He was rubbing his hands. He was in high spirits.
"Upon my word, Heather," he said, "we are a pair of truants, you and I. I feel like a boy let loose from school. And how is the old aunt? How is Aunt Penelope?"