"Miss Despard's address is 90a, Torrington Square, W.C.," said Vernon, in his calmest voice; "that address will find her and Heather and me any time between now and noon to-morrow. If at noon to-morrow we have not heard from you, we shall be forced to draw our own conclusions—namely, that you have refused to consider Heather's most natural petition, that she should be allowed to make her father happy. It will then be our duty to put the matter absolutely into the hands of Messrs. Fenchurch and Grace, Miss Despard's solicitors."
Lady Helen sank back again in her chair, her eyes shone with feverish hate.
"Leave me, you terrible people!" she said. "Go, all of you!"
We went.
CHAPTER XXII
We said very little to each other that night at the comfortable little hotel. I think we were all very tired. Aunt Penelope went early to bed, Vernon and I stayed downstairs and talked about our future. We talked languidly, however; our thoughts were not even with our own happy future at that moment. I was thinking all the time of my father, and I know well that Vernon was thinking of him also. Aunt Penelope went to bed between nine and ten o'clock; it was between ten and eleven when the door of the private sitting-room was flung open and a servant announced: "Major Grayson," and my dear father came in. His face was flushed, and his eyes looked feverishly bright. He came up to us both with his hands extended.
"My dear, good, kind children," he said; then he paused for a minute until the waiter had shut the door. Then he took me into his arms and kissed me half a dozen times, and then he wrung Vernon's hand and said, "My dear boy—my good boy!" Afterwards we all got a little calmer and sat down, I sinking close to father's side and Vernon standing opposite to us.
"Come, now," said father, after a minute's pause, "you must give it all up, you know. Yes, Vernon, my boy, you must give it up, and so must that dear Pen, and so must my little Heather. I am but fulfilling a promise made long years ago. You none of you understand. I'll pull along somehow, in some kind of fashion, but I won't drag that poor woman's name into the dust. You see, my children, she doesn't know what it means, but I do. I have plenty of strength in me—the great strength of innocence, which supported me all through my terrible period of imprisonment, and also the strength which is but seldom given to a woman. Anyhow, she is not to suffer; I put down my foot. She has told me all; I found her in a terrible state; I had to send a doctor to her. She is in bed now; he was obliged to give her a soothing draught. Children, both of you, I shall live in your happiness, and my own does not matter. I can't desert Helen Dalrymple, and, what's more, I won't!"
"Oh, Daddy!" I said. "Oh, Daddy!"