Heriot's Choice: A Tale

'IS THAT LETTER FOR ME, AUNT MILLY?'

There was a long troubled talk between Mildred and Richard that night. Richard, who had borne his own disappointment so bravely, seemed utterly downcast on his brother's account.

'I would rather have had this happen to any of us but Roy,' he said, walking up and down Mildred's room that night.

'Hush, Richard, she will hear us,' returned Mildred, anxiously; and then he came and rested his elbow on the sill beside her, and they talked in a low subdued key, looking over the shadowy fells and the broad level of moonlight that lay beneath them.

'You do not know Roy as well as I do. I believe he is physically as well as morally unfit to cope with a great sorrow; where other men fight, he succumbs too readily.'

'You have your trouble too, Cardie; he should remember that.'

'I have not lost hope, Aunt Milly,' he returned, gravely. 'I am happier than Rex—far happier; for it is no wrong for me to love Ethel. I have a right to love her, so long as no one else wins her. Roy will have it Polly has jilted him for Heriot.'

'Jilted him! that child!'

'Yes, he maintains that she loves him best, only that she is unconscious of her own feelings. He declares that to his belief she has never really given her heart to Heriot. I am afraid he is right in declaring the whole thing has been patched up too hastily. It has always seemed to me as though Polly were too young to know her own mind.'

'Some girls are married at eighteen.'

'Yes, but not Polly; look what a child she is, and how quiet a life she has led for the last three years; she has seen no one but ourselves, Marsden, and Heriot; do you know, gentle as he is, she seems half afraid of him.'

'That is only natural in her position.'

'You think it does not augur want of love? Well, you may be right; I only profess to understand one girl,'—with a sigh—'and I can read her like a book; but Roy, Aunt Milly—what must we do about Roy?'

Mildred shook her head dejectedly.

'He must not come here under the circumstances, it would not be possible or right; he has done mischief enough already.'

'Surely he did not betray himself?' in Richard's sternest voice; 'he assured me over and over again that he had not said a word which Dr. Heriot might not hear.'

'No; he commanded himself wonderfully; he only forgot himself once, and then, poor lad, he recollected himself in time,—but she must have noticed how badly it went with him—there was heart-break in his face.'

'I had sad work with him for the first two miles,' returned Richard. 'I was half afraid of leaving him at all, he looked and spoke so wildly, only my threat of telling my father brought him to reason; he begged—he implored me to keep his secret, and that no one but you and I should ever know of his madness.'

'There would be nothing gained by telling my brother,' returned Mildred.

'Certainly not; it would be perfectly useless, and fret him beyond measure; he would take Roy's trouble to heart, and have no pleasure in anything. How thankful I am, Aunt Milly, that I have already planned my London journey for the day after to-morrow.'

'Yes, indeed, I shall feel easier when he is under your care.'

'I must invent some excuse for being absent most of the day to-morrow; I cannot bear to think of him shut up in that wretched inn, and unable to stir out for fear of being recognised. He was very lame, I remember; I must find out if he has really injured his foot.'

'Do you think I might go with you, Cardie?' for Mildred was secretly yearning to comfort her boy, but Richard instantly put a veto on her proposal.

'It would not be safe, Aunt Milly; it will excite less questioning if I go alone; you must be content to trust him to me. I will bring you a faithful report to-morrow evening;' and as Mildred saw the wisdom of the reasoning she resolved to abide by it.

But she passed a miserable night. Roy's haggard face and fierce reckless speeches haunted her. She dreaded to think of the time when Richard would be obliged to return to Oxford, and leave Roy to battle alone with his misery. She wondered what Richard would think if she were to propose going up to him for a month or two; she was becoming conscious herself of a need of change,—a growing irritability of the nerves chafed her calm spirit, daily suffering and suppression were wearing the brave heart sadly. Mildred, who ailed nothing ordinarily, had secret attacks of palpitation and faintness, which would have caused alarm if any one had guessed it, but she kept her own counsel.

Once, indeed, Dr. Heriot had questioned her. 'You do not look as well as you used, Miss Lambert; but I suppose I am not to be consulted?' and Mildred had shaken her head laughingly. But here was work for the ministering woman—to forget her own strange sorrow in caring for another;—Roy needed her more than any one; Olive could be safely left in charge of the others. Mildred fell asleep at last planning long winter evenings in the young artist's studio.

The next day seemed more than usually long. Polly, who looked as though she had not slept all night, spent her time in listlessly wandering about the house and garden, much to Olive's mild wonder.

'I do wish you would get something to do, Polly,' she said more than once, looking up from her writing-table at the sound of the tapping heels; 'you have not practised those pieces Dr. John ordered from London.'

'Olive is right; you should try and occupy yourself, my dear,' observed Mildred, looking up from her marking; piles of socks lay neatly beside her, Mr. Lambert's half-stitched wrist-band was in her lap. She looked with soft reproving eyes at poor restless Polly, her heart all the time very full of pity.

'How can you ask me to play?' returned Polly, in a resentful tone. 'Play when Roy was ill or in some dreadful trouble—was that their love for him? When Mildred next looked up the girl was no longer standing watching her with sad eyes; across the beck, through the trees, she could see the shimmer of a blue dress; a forlorn young figure strolled aimlessly down the field path and paused by the weir. Of what was she thinking? Were her thoughts at all near the truth—'Don't forget me; think of your old friend Roy!'—were those words, said in the saddest voice she had ever heard, still ringing in her ears.

It was late in the evening when Richard returned, and he beckoned Mildred softly out of the room. Polly, who was sitting beside Dr. Heriot, followed them with wistful eyes, but neither of them noticed her.

Richard gave a very unsatisfactory report. He found Roy looking ill in body as well as in mind, and suffering great pain from his foot, which was severely contused, though he obstinately refused to believe anything was really the matter, and had firmly declared his intention of accompanying his brother to London. His excitement had quite subsided, but the consequent depression was very great. Richard believed he had not slept, from the pain of his foot and mental worry, and being so near home only made his desolation harder to bear.

He had pencilled a little line to Polly, which he had begged Richard to bring with his love, and at the same time declared he would never see her again when she was once Dr. Heriot's wife; and, when Richard had remonstrated against the weakness and moral cowardice of adopting such a line of action, had flamed up into his old fierceness; she had made him an exile from his home and all that he loved, he had no heart now for his profession, he knew his very hand had lost its cunning; but not for that could he love her the less or wish her ill. 'She is Polly after all,' he had finished piteously, 'the only girl I ever loved or cared to love, and now she is going near to spoil my whole life!'

'It was useless to argue with him,' Richard said; 'everything like advice seemed to irritate him, and no amount of sympathy could lull the intolerable pain.' He found it answer better to remain silent and let him talk out his trouble, without trying to stem the bitter current. It went to Mildred's heart to hear how the poor lad at the last had broken down utterly at bidding his brother good-bye.

'Don't leave me, Dick; I am not fit to be left,' he had said; and then he had thrown himself down on the miserable couch, and had hidden his face in his arms.

'And the note, Richard?'

'Here it is; he said you might read it, that there was not a word in it that the whole world might not see—she could show it to Heriot if she liked.'

'All the same, I wish he had not written it,' returned Mildred, doubtfully, as she unfolded the slip of paper.

'Dear Polly,' it began, 'I fear you must have thought me very strange and unkind last evening—your reproachful eyes are haunting me now. I cannot bear you to misunderstand me. "No one shall come between us." Ah, I remember you said that; it was so like you, dear—so like my Polly! Now you must try not to think hardly of me—a great trouble has befallen me, as Aunt Milly and Richard know, and I must go away to bear it; no one can help me to bear it; your little fingers cannot lighten it, Polly—your sympathy could not avail me; it is my own burden, and I must bear it alone. You must not fret if we do not meet for some time—it is better so, far better. I have my work; and, dear, I pray that you may be very happy with the man you love (if he be the one you love, Polly).'

'Oh, Richard, he ought not to have said that!'

'She will not understand; go on, Aunt Milly.'

'But there can be no doubt of that, he is a good man, almost worthy of my Polly; but I must not say that any longer, for you are Heriot's Polly now, are you not? but whose ever you are, God bless you, dear.—Roy.'

Mildred folded the letter sadly.

'He has betrayed himself in every line,' she said, slowly and thoughtfully. 'Richard, it will break my heart to do it, but I think Polly ought not to see this; we must keep it from her, and one day we must tell Roy.'

'I was afraid you might say so, but if you knew how he pleaded that this might be given to her; he seemed to think it would hinder her fretting. "She cares for me more than any of you know—more than she knows herself," he said, as he urged me to take it.'

'What must we do? I It will set her thinking. No, Richard, it is too venturesome an experiment.'

But Mildred's wise precautions were doomed to be frustrated, for at that moment Polly quietly opened the door and confronted them.

The two conspirators moved apart somewhat guiltily.

'Am I interrupting you? I knocked, but no one answered. Aunt Milly looks disconcerted,' said Polly, eyeing them both with keen inquisitive glance. 'I—I only wanted to know if Richard has brought me a message or note from Roy?'

Richard hesitated and looked at Mildred. This business was making him anxious; he would fain wash his hands of it.

'Why do you not answer?' continued the girl, palpitating a little. 'Is that letter for me, Aunt Milly?' and as Mildred reluctantly handed it to her, a reproachful colour overspread Polly's face.

'Were you keeping this from me? I thought people's letters were sacred property,' continued the little lady, proudly. 'I did not think you could do such a thing, Aunt Milly.'

'Dear Polly!' remonstrated Richard; but Mildred interposed with quiet dignity—

'Polly should be just, even though she is unhappy. Roy wished me to read his letter, and I have done so.'

'Forgive me!' returned Polly, almost melting into tears. 'I know I ought not to have spoken so, but it has been such a miserable day,' and she leant against Mildred as she read the note.

She read it once—twice—without comment, and then her features began to work.

'Dear Aunt Milly, how unhappy he is—he—Roy; he cannot have done anything wrong?'

'No, no, my precious; of course not!'

'Then why must we not help him to bear it?'

'We can pray for him, Polly.'

'Yes, yes, but I cannot understand it,' piteously. 'I have always been Roy's friend—always, and now he has made Richard and you his confidants.'

'We are older and wiser, you see,' began Richard, with glib hypocrisy, which did not become him.

Polly stamped her little foot with impatience.

'Don't, Richard. I will not have you talk to me as though I were a child. I have a right to know this; you are all treating me badly. Roy would have told me, I know he would, if Aunt Milly had not come between us!' and she darted a quick reproachful look at Mildred.

'It is Polly who is hard on us, I think,' returned Mildred, putting her arm gently round the excited girl; and at the fond tone Polly's brief wrath evaporated.

'I cannot help it,' she returned, hiding her face on Mildred's shoulder; 'it is all so wretched, everything is spoiled. Roy is not pleased that I am going to be married, he seems angry—put out about it; it is not that—it cannot be that that is the matter with him? Why do you not answer?' she continued, impatiently, looking at them both with wide-open innocent eyes. 'Roy cannot be jealous?'

Mildred would have given worlds to have been able to answer No, but, unused to evasion of any kind, the prudent falsehood died a natural death upon her lips.

'My dear Polly, what makes you so fanciful?' she began with difficulty; but it was enough,—Mildred's face could not deceive, and that moment's hesitating silence revealed the truth to the startled girl; her faithful friend was hurt, jealous.

'You see yourself that Rex wants you to be happy,' continued Mildred, somewhat inconsequently.

'I shall be happy if he be so—not unless,' replied the girl, a little sadly.

Her pretty pink colour had faded, her hands dropped from Mildred's shoulder; she stood for a long time quiet with her lips apart, her young head drooping almost to her breast.

'Shall you answer his letter, Polly?' asked Richard at last, trying to rouse her.

'Yes—no,' she faltered, turning very pale. 'Give my love to him, Richard—my dear love. I—I will write presently,' and so saying, she slowly and dejectedly left the room.

'Aunt Milly, do you think she guesses?' whispered Richard, when she had gone.

'Heaven only knows, Richard! This is a wretched business; there seems nothing but trouble everywhere,' and Mildred almost wrung her hands. Richard thought he had never seen her so agitated—so unlike herself.

The days and weeks that followed tried Mildred sorely; heavy autumnal rains had set in; wet grass, dripping foliage, heaps of rotting leaves saturated with moisture, met her eyes daily. A sunless, lurid atmosphere surrounded everything; by and by the rain ceased, and a merciless wind drove across the fells, drying up the soddened pools, whirling the last red leaves from the bare stems, and threatening to beat in the vicarage windows.

A terrible scarping wind, whose very breath was bitterness to flesh and blood, blatant and unresting, filled the valley with a strange voice and life.

The river was full to the brim now; the brown water that rushed below the terrace carried away sticks and branches, and light eddying leaves; great fires roared up the vicarage chimneys, while the girls sat and shivered beside them.

Those nights were terrible to Mildred—the wild stir and tumult, the fury of the great rushing wind, fevered her blood with strange excitement, and drove sleep from her pillow, or, when weariness overcame her, haunted her brain with painful images.

Never had the tranquil soul so lacked tranquillity, never had daily life, never had the many-folded hours, held such torture for her.

'I must have change, or I shall be ill,' she thought, as she contemplated her wan and bloodless exterior morning after morning. 'Anything but that—anything but having him pitying me.'

Relief by his hand might be sweet indeed; but a doubt of her own power of self-control, should weakness seize upon her, oppressed her like a nightmare, and the longing to escape from her daily ordeal of suffering amounted to actual agony.

Morning after morning she opened Richard's letters, in the hope that her proposal had been accepted, but each morning some new delay or object fretted her.

Richard had remained in London up to the last possible moment. Roy's injured foot had rendered him dependent on his brother's nursing; his obstinacy had led to a great deal of unnecessary delay and suffering; wakeful and harassed nights had undermined his strength, and made him so nervous and irritable by day, that only patience and firm management could effect any improvement; he was so reckless that it required coaxing to induce him to take the proper remedies, or to exert himself in the least; he had not yet roused himself, or resumed his painting, and all remonstrances were at present unavailing.

Mildred sighed over this fresh evidence of Roy's weakness and instability of purpose, and then she remembered that he was suffering, perhaps ill. No one knew better than herself the paralysing effects on will and brain caused by anxiety and want of sleep; some stimulus, stronger than she or Richard could administer, was needful to rouse Roy's dormant energies.

Help came when they had least looked for it.

'Is Roy painting anything now?' asked Polly suddenly, one day, when she was alone with Mildred.

[Mildred was writing to Richard; his last letter lay open beside her on the table. Polly had glanced at it once or twice, but she had not questioned Mildred concerning its contents. Polly had fallen into very quiet ways lately; the pretty pink colour had never returned to her face, the light footstep was slower now, the merry laugh was less often heard, a sweet wistful smile had replaced it; she was still the same busy active Polly, gentle and affectionate, as of old, but some change, subtle yet undefinable, had passed over the girl. Dr. Heriot liked the difference, even though he marvelled at it. 'Polly is looking quite the woman,' he would say presently. Mildred paused, a little startled over Polly's abrupt question.]

'Richard does not say; it is not in his letter, my dear,' she stammered.

'Not in this one, perhaps, but in his last,' persisted Polly. 'Try to remember, Aunt Milly; how does Richard say that Rex occupies himself?'

'I am afraid he is very idle,' returned Mildred, reluctantly.

Polly coloured, and looked distressed.

'But his foot is better; he is able to stand, is he not?'

'I believe so. Richard certainly said as much as that.'

'Then it is very wrong for him to be losing time like this; he will not have his picture in the Academy after all. Some one ought to write and remind him,' faltered Polly, with a little heat.

'I have done so more than once, and Richard is for ever lecturing. Roy is terribly desultory, I am afraid.'

'Indeed you are wrong, Aunt Milly,' persisted the girl earnestly. 'Roy loves his work—dearly—dearly—it is only his foot, and—' she broke down, recovered herself, and hurried on—

'I think it would be a good thing if Dad Fabian were to go and talk to him. I will write to him—yes, and I will write to Roy.'

Mildred did not venture to dissuade her; she had a notion that perhaps Polly's persuasion might be more efficacious than Richard's arguments. She took it quite as a matter of course, when, half an hour later, Polly laid the little note down beside her.

'There, you may read it,' she said, hurriedly. 'Let it go in Richard's letter; he may read it too, if he likes.'

It was very short, and covered the tiniest sheet of note-paper; the pretty handwriting was not quite so steady as usual.

'My dearest brother Roy,' it began—never had she called him that before—'I have never written to thank you for your note. It was a dear, kind note, and I love you for writing it; do not be afraid of my misunderstanding or thinking you unkind; you could not be that to any one. I am so thankful your poor foot is better; it has been terrible to think of your suffering all this time. I am so afraid it must have interfered with your painting, and that you have not got on well with the picture you began when you were here. Roy, dear, you must promise to work at it harder than ever, and as soon as you are able. I am sure it will be the best picture you have ever done, and I have set my heart on seeing it in the Academy next year; but unless you work your hardest, there will be no chance of that. I have asked Dad Fabian to come and lecture you. You and he must have one of your clever art-talks, and then you must get out your palette and brushes, and set to work on that pretty little girl's red cloak.

'Do, Roy—do, my dear brother. Your loving friend, POLLY.

'Be kind to Dad Fabian. Make much of the dear old man. Remember he is Polly's friend.'

It was the morning after the receipt of this letter, so Richard informed Mildred, that Roy crept languidly from the sofa, where he spent most of his days, and sat for a long time fixedly regarding the unfinished canvas before him.

Richard made no observation, and shortly left the room. When he returned an hour afterwards, Roy was working at a child's drapery, with compressed lips and frowning brow.

He tossed back his fair hair with the old irritable movement as his brother smiled approval.

'Well done, Roy; there is nothing like making a beginning after all.'

'I hate it as much as ever,' was the sullen answer. 'I am only doing it because—she told me—and I don't mean to disappoint her. I am her slave; she might put her pretty foot on my neck if she liked. Ah, Polly, Polly, what a poor fool you have made of me.' And Roy put his head on the easel, and fairly groaned.

But there was no shirking labour after that. Roy spent long moody hours over his work, while Richard sat by with his books. An almost unbroken silence prevailed in the young artist's studio. 'The sweet whistler' in Dr. Heriot's little glass-house no longer existed; a half-stifled sigh, or an ejaculation of impatience, only reached Richard's ears from time to time; but Roy seemed to have no heart for conversation,—nothing interested him, his attention flagged after the first few minutes.

Richard was obliged to go back to Oxford at the beginning of the term; but Dad Fabian took his place. Mildred learnt to her dismay that the old man was located at the cottage, at Roy's own wish, and was likely to remain for some weeks. How Mildred's heart sank at the news; her plan had fallen to the ground; the change and quiet for which she was pining were indefinitely postponed.

No one but Dr. Heriot guessed how Mildred's strength was failing; but his well-meant inquiries were evidently so unpalatable that he forbore to press them. Only once or twice he hinted to Mr. Lambert that he thought his sister was looking less strong than usual, and wanted change of air.

'Heriot tells me that you are not looking well—that you want a change, Mildred,' her brother said to her one day, and, to his surprise, she looked annoyed, and answered more hastily than her wont—

'There is nothing the matter with me, at least nothing of consequence. I am not one of those who are always fancying themselves ill.'

'But you are thinner. Yes, I am sure he is right; you are thinner, Mildred.'

'What nonsense, Arnold; he has put that in your head.

By and by I shall be glad of a little change, I daresay. When Mr. Fabian leaves Roy, I mean to take his place.'

'A good idea,' responded Mr. Lambert, warmly; 'it will be a treat for Rex, and will do you good at the same time. I was thinking of running up myself after Christmas. One sees so little of the boy, and his letters are so short and unsatisfactory; he seems a little dull, I fancy.'

'Mr. Fabian will cheer him up,' replied Mildred, evasively. She was thankful when her brother went back to his study. She felt more than usually oppressed and languid that day, though she would not own it to herself; her work wearied her, and the least effort to talk jarred the edge of her nerves.

'How dreadful it is to feel so irritable and cross, as I have done lately,' she thought. 'Perhaps after all he is right, and I am not so strong as usual; but I cannot have them all fancying me ill. The bare idea is intolerable. If I am going to be ill, I hope I may know it, that I may get away somewhere, where his kindness will not kill me.'

She shivered here, partly from the thought, and partly from the opening of the door. A keen wind whistled through the passage, a rush of cold air followed Polly as she entered. Dr. Heriot was with her.

His cordial greeting was as hearty as ever.

'All alone, and in the dark, and positively doing nothing; how unlike Aunt Milly,' he said, in his cheerful quizzical voice; and kneeling down on the rug, he stirred the fire, and threw on another log, rousing a flame that lighted up the old china and played on the ebony chairs and cabinet.

The shadows had all fled now, the firelight gleamed warmly on the couch, where Mildred was sitting in her blue dress, and on Dr. Heriot's dark face as he threw himself down in the easy-chair that, as he said, looked so inviting.

'Polly is tired, and so am I. We have been having an argument that lasted us all the way from Appleby.' And he leant back his head on the cushions, and looked up lazily at Polly as she stood beside him in her soft furs, swinging her hat in her hand and gazing into the fire. 'Polly, do be reasonable and sit down!' he exclaimed, coaxingly.

'I cannot, I shall be late for tea; I—I—do not wish to say anything more about it,' she panted, somewhat unsteadily.

'Nay, Heartsease,' he returned, gravely, 'this is hardly using me well; let us refer the case to Aunt Milly. This naughty child,' he continued, imprisoning her hand, as she still stood beside him—and Mildred noticed now that she seemed to lean against the chair for support—'this naughty Polly of ours is giving me trouble; she will have it she is too young to be married.'

Mildred put her hand suddenly to her heart; a troublesome palpitation oppressed her breathing. Polly hung her head, and then a sudden resolution seized her.

'Let me go to Aunt Milly. I want to speak to her,' she said, wrenching herself gently from his hold; and as he set her free, she dropped on the rug at Mildred's side.

'You must not come to me to help you, Polly,' said Mildred, with a faint smile; 'you must be guided in this by Dr. Heriot's wishes.'

'Ah, I knew you would be on my side, Miss Lambert; but you have no idea how obstinate she is. She declares that nothing will induce her to marry until her nineteenth birthday.'

'A whole year!' repeated Mildred, in surprise. She felt like a prisoner, to whom the bitterness of death was past, exposed to the torturing suspense of a long reprieve.

'Oh, Aunt Milly, ask him not to press me,' pleaded the girl; 'he is so good and patient in everything else, but he will not listen to me in this; he wants me to go home to him now, this Christmas.'

'Why should we wait?' replied Dr. Heriot, with an unusual touch of bitterness in his voice. 'I shall never grow younger; my home is solitary enough, Heaven knows; and in spite of all my kind friends here, I have to endure many lonely hours. Polly, if you loved me, I think you would hardly refuse.'

'He says right,' whispered Mildred, laying her cold hand on the girl's head. 'It is your duty; he has need of you.'

'I cannot,' replied Polly, in a choked voice; but as she saw the cloud over her lover's brow, she came again to his side, and knelt down beside him.

'I did not mean to grieve you, dear; but you will wait, will you not?'

'For what reason, Polly?' in a sterner voice than she had ever heard from him before.

'For many reasons; because—because—' she hesitated, 'I am young, and want to grow older and wiser for your sake; because—' and now a low sob interrupted her words, 'though I love you—dearly—ah, so dearly—I want to love you more, as I know I shall every day. You must not be angry with me if I try your patience a little.'

'I am not angry,' he repeated, slowly, 'but your manner troubles me. Are you sure you do not repent our engagement—that you love me, Polly?'

'Yes, yes; please do not say such things,' clinging to him, and crying as though her heart would break.

They had almost forgotten Mildred, shrinking back in the corner of her couch.

'Hush! Heartsease, my darling—hush! you distress me,' soothing her with the utmost tenderness. 'We will talk of this again; you shall not be hampered or vexed by me. I am not so selfish as that, Polly.'

'No, you are goodness itself,' she replied, remorsefully; and now she kissed his hand—oh, so gratefully. 'But you must never say that again—never—never.'

'What?'

'That I do not love you; it is not the truth; it cannot be, you know. You do not think it?' looking up fearfully into his face.

'I think you love me a little,' he answered, lightly—too lightly, Mildred thought, for the gloomy look had not passed away from his eyes.

'He is disappointed; he thinks as I do, that perfect love ought to cast out fear,' she said to herself.

But whatever were his thoughts, he did not give utterance to them, but only seemed bent on soothing Polly's agitation. When he had succeeded, he sent her away, to get rid of all traces of tears, as he said, but as the door closed on her, Mildred noticed a weary look crossed his face.

How her heart yearned to comfort him!

'Right or wrong, I suppose I must abide by her decision, he said at last, speaking more to himself than to her. That roused her.

'I do not think so,' she returned, speaking with her old energy. 'Give her a little time to get used to the idea, and then speak to her again. The thought of Christmas has startled her. Perhaps Easter would frighten her less.'

'That is just it. Why should it frighten her?' he returned, doubtfully. 'She has known me now for three years. I am no stranger to her; she has always been fond of me; she has told me so over and over again. No,' he continued, decidedly, 'I will not press her to come till she wishes it. I am no boy that cannot bear a disappointment. I ought to be used to loneliness by this time.'

'No, no; she shall not treat you so, Dr. Heriot. I will not have it. I—some one will prevent it; you shall not be left lonely for another year—you, so good and so unselfish.' But here Mildred's excitement failed; a curious numb feeling crept over her; she fancied she saw a surprised look on Dr. Heriot's face, that he uttered an exclamation of concern, and then she knew no more.

COOP KERNAN HOLE

Mildred felt a little giddy and confused when she opened her eyes.

'Is anything the matter? I suppose I have been a little faint; but it is nothing,' she said, feebly. Her head was on a soft pillow; her face was wet with cold, fragrant waters; Polly was hanging over her with a distressed expression; Dr. Heriot's hand was on her wrist.

'Hush, you must not talk,' he said, with a grave, professional air, 'and you must drink this,' so authoritatively that Mildred could not choose but to obey. 'It is nothing of consequence,' he continued, noticing an anxious look on her face; 'the room was hot, and our talk wearied you. I noticed you were very pale when we came in.' And Mildred felt relieved, and asked no more questions.

She was very thankful for the kindness that shielded her from all questioning and comment. When Dr. Heriot had watched the reviving effects of the cordial, and had satisfied himself that there would be no return of the faintness, he quietly but peremptorily desired that Polly should leave her. 'You would like to be perfectly alone for a little while, would you not?' he said, as he adjusted the rug over her feet and placed the screen between her and the firelight, and Mildred thanked him with a grateful glance. How could he guess that silence was what her exhausted nerves craved more than anything?

But Dr. Heriot was not so impervious as he seemed. He was aware that some nervous malady, caused by secret anxiety or hidden care, was wasting Mildred's fine constitution. The dilated pupils of the eyes, the repressed irritability of manner, the quick change of colour, with other signs of mental disturbance, had long ago attracted his professional notice, and he had racked his brains to discover the cause.

'She has over-exerted herself, or else she has some trouble,' he said to himself that night, as he sat beside his solitary fire. She had crept away to her own room during the interval of peace that had been allowed her, and he had not suffered them to disturb her. 'I will come and see her to-morrow,' he had said to Olive; 'let her be kept perfectly quiet until then;' and Olive, who knew from experience the soothing effects of his prescription, mounted guard herself over Mildred's room, and forbade Polly or Chriss to enter.

Dr. Heriot had plenty of food for meditation that night. In spite of his acquiescence in Polly's decision, he felt chilled and saddened by the girl's persistence.

For the first time he gravely asked himself, Had he made a mistake? Was she too young to understand his need of sympathy? Would it come to this, that after all she would disappoint him? As he looked round the empty room a strange bitterness came over him.

'And it is to this loneliness that she will doom me for another year,' he said, and there was a heavy cloud on his brow as he said it. 'If she really loved me, would she abandon me to another twelvemonth of miserable retrospection, with only Margaret's dead face to haunt me with its strange beauty?' But even as the thought passed through him came the remembrance of those clinging arms and the dark eyes shining through their tears.

'I love you dearly—dearly—but I want to love you more.'

'Oh, Heartsease,' he groaned, 'I fear that the mistake is mine, and that I have not yet won the whole of your innocent heart. I have taken it too much as a matter of course. Perhaps I have not wooed you so earnestly as I should have wooed an older woman, and yet I hardly think I have failed in either devotion or reverence. Ah,' he continued, with an involuntary sigh, 'what right have I to complain if she withhold her fresh young love—am I giving her all that is in me to give?' But here he stopped, as though the reflection pained him.

He remembered with what sympathy Mildred had advocated his cause. She had looked excited—almost indignant—as Polly had uttered her piteous protest for time. Had her clear eyes noticed any signs of vacillation or reluctance? Could he speak to her on the subject? Would she answer him frankly? And then, for the first time, he felt as though he could not so speak to her.

'Every one takes their troubles to her, but she shall not be harassed by me,' he thought. 'She is sinking now under the burdens which most likely other people have laid upon her. I will not add to their weight.' And a strange pity and longing seized him to know what ailed the generous creature, who never thought of herself, but of others.

Mildred felt as though some ordeal awaited her when she woke the next morning. She looked so ill and weak that Olive was in despair when she insisted on rising and dressing herself. 'It will bring on the faintness again to a certainty,' she said, in a tone of unusual remonstrance; but Mildred was determined.

But she was glad of Olive's assistance before she had finished, and the toilet was made very slowly and wearily. At the drawing-room door Dr. Heriot met her with a reproachful face; he looked a little displeased.

'So you have cast my prescription to the wind,' he said, drily, 'and are determined not to own yourself ill.' But Mildred coloured so painfully that he cut short his lecture and assisted her to the couch in silence.

'There you may stop for the next two or three days,' he continued, somewhat grimly. 'Mr. Lambert has desired me to look after you, and I shall take good care that you do not disobey my orders again. I have made Olive head nurse, and woe be to her if there be a single infringement of my rules.'

Mildred looked up at him timidly. He had been so gentle with her the preceding evening that this change of manner disturbed her. This was not his usual professional gravity; on such occasions he had ever been kindness itself. He must be put out—annoyed—the idea was absurd, but could she have displeased him? She was too weak to bear the doubt.

'Have I vexed you, Dr. Heriot, by coming down?' she asked, gently. 'I should be worse if I fancied myself ill. I—I have had these attacks before; they are nothing.'

'That is your opinion, is it? I must say I thought better of your sense, Miss Lambert,' still gruffly.

Mildred's eyes filled with tears.

'Yes, I am vexed,' he continued sitting down by her; but his tone was more gentle now. 'I am vexed that you are hiding from us that you are suffering. You keep us all in the dark; you deny you are ill. I think you are treating us all very badly.'

'No—no,' she returned, with difficulty. 'I am not ill—you must not tell me so.' And her cheek paled perceptibly.

'Have you turned coward suddenly?' he replied, with a keen look at her. 'I have heard you say more than once that the dread of illness was unknown to you; that you could have walked a fever hospital without a shudder. What has become of your courage, Miss Lambert?'

'I am not afraid, but I do not want to be ill,' she returned, faintly.

'That is more unlike you than ever. Impatience, want of submission, do not certainly belong to your category of faults. Well, if you promise to follow my prescription, I think I can undertake that you shall not be ill.'

Mildred drew a long sigh of relief; the sigh of an oppressed heart was not lost on Dr. Heriot.

'But you must get rid of what is on your mind,' he went on, quickly. 'If other people's burdens lie heavily, you must shift them to their own shoulders and think only of yourself. Now I want to ask you a few questions.'

Mildred looked frightened again, but something in Dr. Heriot's manner this morning constrained her to obey. His inquiries were put skilfully, and needed only a yea and nay, as though he feared she would elude him. Mildred found herself owning to loss of appetite and want of sleep; to languor and depression, and a tendency to excessive irritation; noises jarred on her; a latent excitement took the place of strength. She had lost all pleasure in her duties, though she still fulfilled them.

'And now what does this miserable state of the nerves mean?' was his next question. Mildred said nothing.

'You have suffered no shock—nothing has alarmed you?' She shook her head.

'You cannot eat or sleep; when you speak you change colour with every word; you are wasted, getting thinner every day, and yet there is no disease. This must mean something, Miss Lambert—excuse me; but I am your friend as well as your doctor. I cannot work in the dark.'

Mildred's lips quivered. 'I want change—rest. I have had anxieties—no one can be free in this world. I am getting too weak for my work.' What a confession from Mildred! At another time she would have died rather than utter it; but his quiet strength of will was making evasion impossible. She felt as though this friend of hers was reading her through and through. She must escape in some measure by throwing herself upon his mercy.

He looked uneasy at that; his eyes softened, then suffused.

'I thought as much,' he muttered; 'I could not be deceived by that face.' And a great pity swelled up in his heart.

He would like to befriend this noble woman, who was always so ready to sacrifice herself to the needs of others. He would ask her to impart her trouble, whatever it was; he might be able to help her. But Mildred, who read his purpose in his eyes, went on breathlessly—

'It is the rest I want, and the change; I am not ill. I knew you would say so; but the nerves get strained sometimes, and then worries will come.'

'Tell me your trouble,' he returned abruptly, but it was the abruptness of deep feeling. 'I have not forgotten your kindness to me on more than one occasion. I have debts of gratitude to pay, and they are heavy. Make me your friend—your brother, if you will; you will find I am to be trusted.' But the poor soul only shrank from him.

'It cannot be told—there are reasons against it. I have more than one trouble—anxiety,' she faltered. 'Dr. Heriot, indeed—indeed, you are very good, but there are some things that cannot be told.'

'As you will,' he returned, very gently; but Mildred saw he was disappointed. In what a strange complication she was involved! She could not even speak to him of her fear on Roy's behalf. He took his leave soon after that, and Mildred fancied a slight reserve mingled with the kindness with which he bade her good-bye.

He seemed conscious of it, for he came back again after putting on his coat, thereby preventing a miserable afternoon of fanciful remorse on Mildred's part.

'I will think what is to be done about the change,' he said, drawing on his driving-gloves. 'I am likely to be busy all day, and shall not see you again this evening. Keep your mind at rest as well as you can. You don't need to be told in what spirit all trials must be borne—the darker the cloud the more need of faith.' He held out his hand to her again with one of his bright, genial smiles, and Mildred felt braced and comforted.

Mildred was obliged to allow herself to be treated as an invalid for the next few days; but when Dr. Heriot saw how the inaction and confinement fretted her, he withdrew a few of his restrictions, even at times going against his better judgment, when he saw how cruelly she chafed under her own restlessness.

This was the case one chill, sunless afternoon, when he found her standing by the window looking out over the fells, with a sad wistfulness that went to his heart.

As he went up to her he was shocked to see the marks of recent tears upon her face.

'What is this—you are not worse to-day?' he asked, in a tone of vexed remonstrance.

'No—oh no,' she returned, holding out her hand to him with a misty smile, the thin blue-veined hand, with its hot dry palm; 'you will think me a poor creature, Dr. Heriot, but I could not help fretting over my want of strength just now.'

'Rome was not built in a day,' he responded, cheerily; 'and people who indulge in fainting fits cannot expect to feel like Hercules. Who would have thought that such an inexorable nurse as Miss Lambert should prove such a fractious invalid?' and there was a tone of reproof under the light raillery.

'I do not mean to be impatient,' she answered, sighing; 'but I am so weary of this room and my own thoughts, and then there are my poor people.'

'Don't trouble your head about them; they will do very well without you,' with pretended roughness.

She shook her head.

'You are wrong; they miss me dreadfully; Olive has brought me several messages from them already.'

'Then Olive ought to be ashamed of herself, and shall be deposed from her office of nurse, and Polly shall reign in her stead.'

But Mildred was too much depressed and in earnest to heed his banter.

'There is poor Rachel Sowerby up at Stenkrith; her mother has been down this morning to say that she cannot last very much longer.'

'I am just going up to see her now. I fear it is only a question of days,' he replied, gravely.

Mildred clasped her hands with an involuntary movement of pain.

'Rachel is very dear to me; she is the model girl and the favourite of the whole school, and her mother says she is pining to see me. Oh, Dr. Heriot—' but here she stopped.

'Well,' he returned, encouragingly; and for the second time he noticed the exceeding beauty of Mildred's eyes, as she fixed them softly and beseechingly on his face.

'Do you think it would hurt me to go that little distance, just to see Rachel?'

'What, in this bitter wind!' he remonstrated. 'Wait until to-morrow, and I will drive you over.'

'There may be no to-morrows for Rachel,' she returned, with gentle persistence. 'I am afraid I shall fret sadly if I do not see her again; she was my best Sunday scholar. The wind will not hurt me; if you knew how I long to be out in it; just before you came in I was wishing I were on the top of one of those fells, feeling it sweep over me.'

'Ministers of grace defend me from the soft pleading of a woman's tongue!' exclaimed Dr. Heriot, impatiently, but he laughed too; 'you are a most troublesome patient, Miss Lambert; but I suppose you must have your way; but you must take the consequences of your own wilfulness.'

Mildred quietly seated herself.

'No, I am not wilful; I have no wish to disobey you,' she returned, in a low voice.

He drew near and questioned her face; evidently it dissatisfied him.

'If I do not let you go, you will only worry yourself the whole day, and your lungs are sound enough,' he continued, brusquely; but Mildred's strange unreasonableness tried him. 'Wrap yourself up well. Polly is going with me, but there is plenty of room for both. I will pay my visit, and leave you with Rachel for an hour, while I get rid of some of my other patients.'

Mildred lost no time in equipping herself, and though Dr. Heriot pretended to growl the greater part of the way, he could not help noticing how the wind—bleak and boisterous as it was—seemed to freshen his patient, and bring back the delicate colour to her cheeks.

'What a hardy north-country woman you have become,' he said, as he lifted her down from the phaeton, and they went up the path to the house.

'I feel changed already; thank you for giving me my way in this,' was the grateful answer.

When Dr. Heriot had taken his departure, she went up to the sickroom, and sat for a long time beside her old favourite, reading and praying with her, until Rachel had fallen into a doze.

'She will sleep maybe for an hour or two; she had a terrible night of pain,' whispered Mrs. Sowerby, 'and she will sleep all the sweeter for your reading to her. Poor thing! she was set on seeing her dear Miss Lambert, as she always calls you.'

'I will come again and see her to-morrow, if Dr. Heriot permits it,' she replied.

When Mrs. Sowerby had gone back to her daughter's room, she went and sat by herself at a window looking over Stenkrith; the rocks and white foaming pools were distinctly visible through the leafless trees; a steep flight of steps led down to the stream and waterfall; the steps were only a few yards from the Sowerbys' house. As Mildred looked, a strange longing to see the place again took possession of her.

For a moment she hesitated, as Dr. Heriot's strictures on her imprudence recurred to her memory, but she soon repelled them.

'He does not understand—how can he—that this confinement tries me,' she thought, as she crept softly down the stairs, so as not to disturb Rachel. 'The wind was delicious. I feel ten times better than I did in that hot room; he will not mind when I tell him so.'

Mildred's feverish restlessness, fed by bitter thought, was getting the better of her judgment; like the skeleton placed at Egyptian feasts to remind the revellers that they were mortal, so Mildred fancied her courage would be strengthened, her resolution confirmed, by a visit to the very spot where her bitterest wound had been received; she remembered how the dark churning waters had mingled audibly with her pain, and for the moment she had wished the rushing force had hurried her with it, with her sweet terrible secret undisturbed, to the bottom of that deep sunless pool.

And now the yearning to see it again was too strong to be resisted. Polly had accompanied Dr. Heriot. Mrs. Sowerby was in her daughter's room; there was no one to raise a warning voice against her imprudence.

The whole place looked deserted and desolate; the sun had hidden its face for days; a dark moisture clung to the stones, making them slippery in places; the wind was more boisterous than ever, wrapping Mildred's blue serge more closely round her feet, and entangling her in its folds, blowing her hair wildly about her face, and rendering it difficult with her feeble force to keep her footing on the slimy rocks.

'I shall feel it less when I get lower down,' she panted, as she scrambled painfully from one rock to another, often stopping to take breath. A curious mood—gentle, yet reckless—was on her. 'He would be angry with her,' she thought Ah, well! his anger would only be sweet to her; she would own her fault humbly, and then he would be constrained to forgive her; but this longing for freedom, for the strong winds of heaven, for the melody of rushing waters, was too intense to be resisted; the restlessness that devoured her still led her on.

'I see something moving down there,' observed Polly, as Dr. Heriot's phaeton rolled rapidly over the bridge—'down by the steps, I mean; it looked almost like Aunt Mildred's blue serge dress.'

'Your eyes must have deceived you, then,' he returned coolly, as he pulled up again at the little gate.

Polly made no answer, but as she quickened her steps towards the place, he followed her, half vexed at her persistence.

'My dear child, as though your Aunt Milly would do anything so absurd,' he remonstrated. 'Why, the rocks are quite unsafe after the rain, and the wind is enough to cut one in halves.'

'It is Aunt Milly. I told you so,' returned Polly, triumphantly, as she descended the step; 'there is her blue serge and her beaver hat. Look! she sees us; she is waving her hand.'

Dr. Heriot suppressed the exclamation that rose to his lips.

'Take care, Polly, the steps are slippery; you had better not venture on the stones,' he said, peremptorily. 'Keep where you are, and I will bring Miss Lambert back.'

Mildred saw him coming; her heart palpitated a little.

'He will think me foolish, little better than a child,' she said to herself; he will not know why I came here;' and her courage evaporated. All at once she felt weak; the rocks were certainly terribly slippery.

'Wait for me; I will help you!' he shouted, seeing her indecision; but either Mildred did not hear, or she misunderstood him; the stone was too high for her unassisted efforts; she tried one lower; it was wet; her foot slipped, she tried to recover herself, fell, and then, to the unspeakable horror of the two watching her above, rolled from rock to rock and disappeared.

Polly's wild shriek of dismay rang through the place, but Dr. Heriot never lost his presence of mind for a moment.

'Stay where you are; on your peril disobey me!' he cried, in a voice of thunder, to the affrighted girl; and then, though with difficulty, he steered his way between the slippery stones, and over the dangerous fissures. He could see her now; some merciful jag in the rocks had caught part of her dress, and arrested her headlong progress. The momentary obstacle had enabled her, as she slipped into one of the awful fissures that open into Coop Kernan Hole, to snatch with frantic hands at the slimy rock, her feet clinging desperately to the narrow slippery ledge.

'John, save me!' she screamed, as she felt herself slipping into the black abyss beneath.

'John!'

John Heriot heard her.

'Yes, I am coming, Mildred; hold on—hold on, another minute.' The drops of mortal agony stood on his brow as he saw her awful peril, but he dared not, for both their sakes, venture on reckless haste; already he had slipped more than once, but had recovered himself. It seemed minutes to both of them before Polly saw him kneeling on one knee beside the hole, his feet hanging over the water.

'Hush! do not struggle so, Mildred,' he pleaded, as he got his arm with difficulty round her, and she clung to him almost frantically; the poor soul had become delirious from the shock, and thought she was being dashed to pieces; her face elongated and sharpened with terror, as she sank half fainting against his shoulder. The weight on his arm was terrible.

'Good Heavens! what can I do?' he ejaculated, as he felt his strength insufficient to lift her. His position was painful in the extreme; his knee was slipping under him; and the dripping serge dress, heavy with water, increased the strain on the left arm; a false movement, the slightest change of posture, and they must both have gone. He remembered how he had heard it said that Coop Kernan Hole was of unknown depth under the bridge; the dark sluggish pool lay black and terrible between the rocks; if she slipped from his hold into that cruel water, he knew he could not save her, for he had ever been accounted a poor swimmer, and yet her dead-weight was already numbing his arm.

'Mildred, if you faint we must both die!' he cried in despair.

His voice seemed to rouse her; some instinct of preservation prompted her to renewed effort; and as he held her more firmly, she managed to get one hand round his neck—the other still clutched at the rock; and as Polly's cries for help reached a navvy working at some distance, she saw Dr. Heriot slowly and painfully lift Mildred over the edge of the rock.

'Thank God!' he panted, and then he could say no more; but as he felt the agonised shuddering run through Mildred's frame, as, unconscious of her safety, she still clung to him, he half-pityingly and half-caressingly put back the unbound hair from the pale face, as he would have done to a child.

But he looked almost as ghastly as Mildred did, when, aided by the navvy's strong arms, they lifted her over the huge masses of rocks and up the steep steps.

Polly ran to meet them; her lover's pale and disordered appearance alarmed her almost as much as Mildred's did.

'Oh, Heriot!' cried the young girl, 'you are hurt; I am sure you are hurt.'

'A strain, nothing else,' he returned, quickly; 'run on, dear Polly, and open the door for us. Mrs. Sowerby must take us in for a little while.'

When Mildred perfectly recovered consciousness, she was lying on the old-fashioned couch in Mrs. Sowerby's best room; but she was utterly spent and broken, and could do nothing for a little while but weep hysterically.

Polly lent over her, raining tears on her hands.

'Oh, Aunt Milly,' sobbed the faithful little creature, 'what should we have done if we had lost you? Darling—darling, how dreadful it would have been.'

'I wished to die,' murmured Mildred, half to herself; 'but I never knew how terrible death could be. Oh, how sinful—how ungrateful I have been.' And she covered her face with her hands.

'Oh, Heriot; ask her not to cry so,' pleaded poor Polly. 'I have never seen her cry before, never—and it hurts me so.'

'It will do her good,' he returned, hastily; but he went and stood by the window, until Polly joined him.

'She is better now,' she said, timidly glancing up into his absorbed face.

Upon that he turned round.

'Then we must get her home, that she may change her wet things as soon as possible. Do you feel as though you can move?' he continued, in his ordinary manner, though perhaps it was a trifle grave. 'You are terribly bruised, I fear, but I trust not otherwise injured.'

She looked up a little surprised at the calmness of his tone, and then involuntarily she stretched out her hands to him—

'Let me thank you first—you have saved my life,' she whispered.

'No,' he returned, quietly. 'It is true your disobedience placed us both in jeopardy; but it was your obedience at the last that really saved your life. If you had fainted, you must inevitably have been lost. I could not have supported you much longer in my cramped position.'

'Your arm—did I hurt it?' she asked, anxiously, noticing an expression of pain pass over his face.

'I daresay I have strained it slightly,' he answered, indifferently; 'but it does not matter. The question is, do you think you can bear to be moved?'

'Oh, I can walk. I am better now,' she replied, colouring slightly.

His coolness disappointed her; she was longing to thank him with the full fervour of a grateful heart. It was sweet, it was good in spite of everything to receive her life back through his hands. Never—never would she dare to repine again, or murmur at the lot Providence had appointed her; so much had the dark lesson of Coop Kernan Hole taught her.

'Well, what is it?' he asked, reading but too truly the varying expressions of her eloquent face.

'If you will only let me thank you,' she faltered, 'I shall never forget this hour to my dying day.'

'Neither shall I,' he returned, abruptly, as he wrapped her up in his dry plaid and assisted her to rise. His manner was as kind and considerate as ever during their short drive, but Mildred felt as though his reserve were imposing some barrier on her.

Consternation prevailed in the vicarage at the news of Mildred's danger. Olive, who seldom shed tears, became pale and voiceless with emotion, while Mr. Lambert pressed his sister to his heart with a whispered thanksgiving that was audible to her alone.

It was good for Mildred's sore heart to feel how ardently she was beloved. A great flood of gratitude and contrition swept over her as she lay, bruised and shaken, with her hand in Arnold's, looking at the dear faces round her. 'It has come to me not in the still, small voice, but in the storm,' she thought. 'He has brought me out of the deep waters to serve Him more faithfully—to give a truer account of the life restored to me.'

The clear brightness of her eyes surprised Dr. Heriot as he came up to her to take leave; they reminded him of the Mildred of old. 'You must promise to sleep to-night. Some one must be with you—Olive or Polly—you might get nervous alone,' he said, with his usual thoughtfulness; but she shook her head.

'I think I am cured of my nervousness for ever,' she returned, in a voice that was very sweet. The soft smiling eyes haunted him. Had an angel gone down and troubled the pool? What healing virtues had steeped the dark waters that her shuddering feet had pressed? Could faith, full-formed, spring from such parentage of deadly anguish and fear? Mildred could have answered in the verse she loved so well—