Heriot's Choice: A Tale

Richard had promised to pay them another visit shortly, and one Saturday evening while Polly and Sue were racing each other among the gravel-pits and the furze-bushes of the people's great common, and the lights twinkled merrily in the Vale of Health, and the shifting mist shut out the blue distances of Harrow and Pinner, Mildred was charmed as well as startled by the sound of his voice in the hall.

'Well, Rex, you are getting on famously, I hear; thanks to Aunt Milly's nursing,' was his cheerful greeting.

Roy shook his head despondingly.

'I should do better if I could see something different from these four walls,' he returned, with a discontented glance round the room that Mildred had made so bright and pretty; 'it is absurd keeping me moped up here, but Aunt Milly is inexorable.'

Mildred smiled over her boy's peevishness.

'He does not know what is good for him,' she returned, gently; 'he always gets restless towards evening. Dr. Blenkinsop has been most strict in bidding me keep him from excitement and not to let him talk with any one. This is the first day he has withdrawn his prohibition, and Roy has been in his tantrums ever since.'

'He said I might go downstairs if only I were spared the trouble of walking,' grumbled Roy, who sometimes tyrannised over Aunt Milly—and dearly she loved such tyranny.

'He is more like a spoiled child than ever,' she said, laughing.

'If that be all, the difficulty is soon obviated. I can carry him easily,' returned Richard, looking down a little sadly at the long gaunt figure before him, looking strangely shrunken in the brilliant dressing-gown that was Roy's special glory; 'but I must be careful, you look thin and brittle enough to break.'

'May he, Aunt Milly? Oh, I do so long to see the old studio again, and the couch is so much more comfortable than this,' his eyes beginning to shine with excitement and his colour varying dangerously.

'Is it quite prudent, Richard?' she asked, hesitatingly. 'Had we not better wait till to-morrow?' but Roy's eagerness overbore her scruples.

Polly little knew what surprise was in store for her. Her race over, she walked along soberly, wondering how she should occupy herself that evening. She, too, knew that Dr. Blenkinsop's prohibition had been removed, and had chafed a little restlessly when Mildred had asked her to be patient till the next day. 'Aunt Milly is too careful; she does not think how I long to see him,' she said, as she walked slowly home. A light streamed across the dark garden when she reached The Hollies; a radiance of firelight and lamplight. 'I wonder if Richard has come,' thought Polly, as she stole into the little passage and gently opened the door.

Yes, Richard was there; his square, thick-set figure blocking up the fireplace as he leant in his favourite attitude against the mantelpiece; and there was Aunt Milly, smiling as though something pleased her. And yes, surely that was Roy's wraith wrapped in the gorgeous dressing-gown and supported by pillows.

The blood rushed to the girl's face as she stood for a moment as though spell-bound, but at the sound of her half-suppressed exclamation he turned his head feebly and looked at her.

'Polly' was all he said, but at his voice she had sprung across the room, and as he stretched out his thin hand to her with an attempt at his old smile, a low sob had risen to her lips, and, utterly overcome by the spectacle of his weakness, she buried her face in his pillows.

Roy's eyes grew moist with sympathy.

'Don't cry, Polly—don't; I cannot bear it,' he whispered, faintly.

'Don't, Polly; try to control yourself; this agitation is very bad for him;' and Richard raised her gently, for a deadly pallor had overspread Roy's features.

'I could not help it,' she returned, drying her eyes, 'to see him lying there looking so ill. Oh, Rex! it breaks my heart,' and the two young creatures almost clung together in their agitation; and, indeed, Roy's hollow blue eyes and thin, bloodless face had a spectral beauty that was absolutely startling.

'I never thought you would mind so much, Polly,' he said, tremulously; and the poor lad looked at her with an eagerness that he could not disguise. 'I hardly dared to expect that you could waste so much time and thought on me.'

'Oh, Rex, how can you say such unkind things; not care—and I have been fretting all this time?'

'That was hardly kind to Heriot, was it?' he said, watching her, and a strange vivid light shone in his eyes. If she had not known before she must have felt then how he loved her; a sudden blush rose to her cheek as he mentioned Dr. Heriot's name; involuntarily she moved a little away from him, and Roy's head fell back on the pillow with a sigh.

Neither of them seemed much disposed for speech after that. Roy lay back with closed eyes and knitted brows, and Polly sat on a low chair watching the great spluttering log and showers of sparks, while Mildred and Richard talked in undertones.

Now and then Roy opened his eyes and looked at her—at the dainty little figure and sweet, thoughtful face; the firelight shone on the shielding hand and half-hoop of diamonds. He recognised the ribbon she wore; he had bought it for her, as well as the little garnet ring he had afterwards voted as rubbish. The sight angered him. He would claim it again, he thought. She should wear no gifts of his; the diamonds had overpowered his garnets, just as his poor little love had been crushed by Dr. Heriot's fascination. Adonis, with his sleepy blue eyes and fair moustache and velvet coat, had failed in the contest with the elder man. What was he, after all, but a beggarly artist? No wonder she despised his scraps of ribbon, his paltry gewgaws, and odds and ends of rubbish. 'And yet if I had only had my chance,' he groaned within himself, 'if I had wooed her, if I had compelled her to understand my meaning.' And then his anger melted, as she raised her clear, honest eyes, and looked at him.

'Are you in pain, Rex?—can I move your pillows?' bending over him rather timidly. Poor children! a veil of reserve had fallen between them since Dr. Heriot's name had been mentioned, and she no longer spoke to him with the old fearlessness.

'No, I am not in pain. Come here, Polly; you have not begun to be afraid of me since—since I have been ill?' rather moodily.

'No, Rex, of course not.' But she faltered a little over her words.

'Sit down beside me for a minute. What was it you called me in your letter, before I was ill? Something—it looked strangely written by your hand, Polly.'

'Brother—my dear brother Rex,' almost inaudibly.

'Ah, I remember. It would have made me smile, only I was not in the humour for smiling. I did not write back to my sister Polly though. Richard calls you his little sister very often, does he not?'

'Yes, and I love to hear him say it,' very earnestly.

'Should you love it if I called you that too?' he returned, with an involuntary curl of the lip. 'Pshaw! This is idle talk; but sick people will have their fancies. I have one at present. I want you not to wear that rubbish any more,' touching her hand lightly.

'Oh, Rex—the ring you gave me?' the tears starting to her eyes.

'I never threw a flower away the gift of one that cared for me,' he replied, with a weak laugh. '"I never had a dear gazelle but it was sure to marry the market-gardener." Do you remember Dick Swiveller, Polly, and the many laughs we have had over him in the old garden at home? Oh, those days!' checking himself abruptly, for fear the pent-up bitterness might find vent.

'Children, you are talking too much,' interposed Mildred's warning voice, not slow to interpret the rising excitement of Roy's manner.

'One minute more, Aunt Milly,' he returned, hastily; then, dropping his voice, 'The gift must go back to the giver. I don't want you to wear that ugly little ring any longer, Polly.'

'But I prize it so,' she remonstrated. 'If I give it back to you, you will throw it in the fire, or trample on it.'

'On my honour, no; but I can't stand seeing you wear such rubbish. I will keep it safely—I will indeed, Polly. Do please me in this.' And Polly, who had never refused him anything, drew off the shabby little ring from her finger and handed it to him with downcast eyes. Why should he ask from her such a sacrifice? Every ribbon and every flower he had given her she had hoarded up as though they were of priceless value, and now he had taken from her her most cherished treasure. And Polly's lip quivered so that she could hardly bid him good-night.

Richard, who saw the girl was fretting, tried by every means in his power to cheer her. He threw on another log, placed her little basket-work chair in the most inviting corner, showed her the different periodicals he had brought from Oxford for Roy's amusement, and gave her lively sketches of undergraduate life. Polly showed her interest very languidly; she was mourning the loss of her ring, and thinking how much her long-desired interview with Roy had disappointed her. Would he never be the same to her again? Would this sad misunderstanding always come between them?

How was it she was clinging to him with the old fondness till he had mentioned Dr. Heriot's name, and then their hands had fallen asunder simultaneously?

'Poor Roy, and poor, poor Polly!' she thought, with a self-pity as new as it was painful.

'You are not listening to me, Polly. You are tired, my dear,' Richard said at last, in his kind fraternal way.

'No, I am very rude. But I cannot help thinking of Rex; how ill he is, and how terribly wasted he looks!'

'I knew it would be a shock to you. I am thankful that my father's gout prevents him from travelling; he would fret dreadfully over Roy's altered appearance. But we must be thankful that he is as well as he is. I could not help thinking all that night—the night before you and Aunt Milly came—what I should do if we lost him.'

'Don't, Richard. I cannot bear to think of it.'

'It ought to make us so grateful,' he murmured. 'First Olive and then Roy brought back from the very brink of the grave. It is too much goodness; it makes one ashamed of one's discontent.' And he sighed involuntarily.

'But it is so sad to see him so helpless. You said he was as light as a child when you lifted him, Richard, and if he speaks a word or two he coughs. I am afraid Dr. Blenkinsop is right in saying he must go to Hastings for the winter.'

'We shall hear what Dr. John says when he comes up next. You expect him soon, Polly?' But Richard, as he asked the question, avoided meeting her eyes. He feared lest this long absence had excited suspicions which he might find difficult to answer.

But Polly's innocence was proof against any such surmises. 'I cannot think what keeps him,' she returned, disconsolately. Olive says he is not very busy, and that his new assistant relieves him of half his work.'

'And he gives you no reason?' touching the log to elicit another shower of sparks.

'No, he only says that he cannot come at present, and answers all my reproaches with jests—you know his way. I don't think he half knows how I want him. Richard, I do wish you would do something for me. Write to him to-morrow, and ask him to come; tell him I want him very badly, that I never wanted him half so much before.'

'Dear Polly, you cannot need him so much as that,' trying to turn off her earnestness with a laugh.

'You do not know—you none of you know—how much I want him,' with a strange vehemence in her tone. 'When he is near me I feel safe—almost happy. Ah!' cried the girl, with a sad wistfulness coming into her eyes, 'when I see him I do not need to remind myself of his goodness and love—I can feel it then. Oh, Richard dear! tell him he must come—that I am afraid to be without him any longer.'

Afraid of what? Did she know? Did Richard know?

'She seems very restless without you,' he wrote that Sunday afternoon. 'I fancy Roy's manner frets her. He is fitful in his moods—a little irritable even to her, and yet unable to bear her out of his sight. He would be brought down into the studio again to-day, though Aunt Milly begged him to spare himself. Polly has been trying all the afternoon to amuse him, but he will not be amused. She has just gone off to the piano, in the hope of singing him to sleep. Rex tyrannises over us all dreadfully.'

Dr. Heriot sighed over Richard's letter, but he made no attempt to facilitate his preparations for going to London; he was reading things by a clear light now; this failure of his was a sore subject to him; in spite of the prospect that was dawning slowly before him, he could not bear to think of the tangled web he had so unthinkingly woven—it would need careful unravelling, he thought; and so curious is the mingled warp and woof in the mind of a man like John Heriot, that while his heart yearned for Mildred with the strong passion of his nature, he felt for his young betrothed a tenderness for which there was no name, and the thought of freeing himself and her was painful in the extreme.

He longed to see her again and judge for himself, but he must be patient for a while, he knew; so though Polly pleaded for his presence almost passionately, he still put her off on some pretext or other,—nor did he come till a strong letter of remonstrance from Mildred reached him, reproaching him for his apparent neglect, and begging him to recall the girl, as their present position was not good for her or Roy.

Mildred was constrained to take this step, urged by her pity for Polly's evident unhappiness.

That some struggle was passing in the girl's mind was now evident. Was she becoming shaken in her loyalty to Dr. Heriot? Mildred grew alarmed; she saw that while Roy's invalid fancies were obeyed with the old Polly-like docility and sweetness, that she shrank at times from him as though she were afraid to trust herself with him; sometimes at a look or word she would rise from his side and go to the piano and sing softly to herself some airs that Dr. Heriot loved.

'You never sing my old favourites now, Polly,' Roy said once, rather fretfully, 'but only these old things over and over again!'

'I like to sing these best,' she said, hastily; and then, as he still pressed the point, she pushed the music from her, and hurried out of the room.

But Mildred had another cause for uneasiness which she kept to herself. There was no denying that Roy was very slow in regaining strength. Dr. Blenkinsop shook his head, and looked more dissatisfied every day.

'I don't know what to make of him,' he owned to Mildred, one day, as they stood in the porch together.

It was a mild December afternoon; a red wintry sun hung over the little garden; a faint crescent moon rose behind the trees; underneath the window a few chrysanthemums shed a soft blur of violet and dull crimson; a slight wind stirred the hair from Mildred's temples, showing a streak of gray; but worn and thin as she looked, Dr. Blenkinsop thought he had never seen a face that pleased him better.

'What a Sister of Mercy she would make,' he often thought; 'if I know anything of human nature, this woman has known a great sorrow; she has been taught patience in a rough school; no matter how that boy tries her, she has always a cheerful answer ready for him.'

Dr. Blenkinsop was in rather a bad humour this afternoon, a fact that was often patent enough to his patients, whom he was given to treat on such occasions with some brusquerie; but with all his oddities and contradictions, they dearly loved him.

'I can't make him out at all,' he repeated, irritably, feeling his iron-gray whiskers, a trick of his when anything discomposed him; 'there is no fault to find with his constitution; he has had a sharp bout of illness, brought on, as far as I can make out, by his own imprudence, and just as he has turned the corner nicely, and seems doing us all credit, he declines to make any further progress!'

'But he is really better, Dr. Blenkinsop; he coughs far less, and his sleep is less broken; he has no appetite, certainly, but——' Mildred stopped. She thought herself that Roy had been losing ground lately.

Dr. Blenkinsop fairly growled,—he had little sharp white teeth that showed almost savagely when he was in one of his surly moods.

'These lymphatic natures are the worst to combat, they succumb so readily to weakness and depression; he certainly seems more languid to-day, and there are feverish indications. He has got nothing on his mind, eh?'—turning round so abruptly that Mildred was put out of countenance.

She hesitated.

'Humph!' was his next observation, 'I thought as much. Of course it is none of my concern, but when I see my patient losing ground without any visible cause, one begins to ask questions. That young lady who assists in the nursing—do you think her presence advisable, eh?'—with another sharp glance at Mildred.

'She is his adopted sister—she is engaged,' stammered Mildred, not willing to betray the lad's secret. 'They are very fond of each other.'

'A questionable sort of fondness—rather too feverish on one side, I should say. Send her back to the north, and get that nice fellow Richard in her place; that is my advice.'

And acting on this very broad hint, Mildred soon afterwards wrote to Dr. Heriot to recall Polly.

When Dr. Blenkinsop had left her, she did not at once return to the studio; through the closed door she could hear Polly striking soft chords on the piano. Roy had seemed drowsy, and she trusted the girl's murmuring voice would lull him to sleep.

It was not often that she left them together; but this afternoon her longing for a little fresh air tempted her to undertake some errands that were needed for the invalid; and leaving a message with Mrs. Madison that she would be back to the early tea, she set off in the direction of the old town.

It was getting rapidly dusk as the little gate swung behind Mildred. When Roy roused from his fitful slumber, he could hardly see Polly as she sat at the shabby, square piano.

The girl was touching the notes with listless fingers, her head drooping over the keys; but she suddenly started when she saw the tall gaunt figure beside her in the gorgeous dressing-gown.

'Oh, Rex, this is very wrong,' taking hold of one of his hot hands, and trying to lead him back to the sofa, 'when you know you cannot stand, and that the least movement makes you cough. Put your hand on my shoulder; lean on me. Oh, I wish I were as strong and tall as Aunt Milly.'

'I like you best as you are,' he replied, but he did not refuse the support she offered him. 'I could not see you over there, only the outline of your dress. You never wear your pretty dresses now, Polly?' reproachfully. 'I suppose because Heriot is not here.'

'Indeed—indeed—you must not stand any longer, Rex. You must lie down at once, or I shall tell Aunt Milly,' she returned, evasively.

He was always making these sort of speeches to her, and to-night she felt as though she could not bear them; but Roy was not to be silenced. Never once had she mentioned Dr. Heriot's name to him, and with an odd tenacity he wanted to make her say it. What did she call him? had she learnt to say his Christian name? would she pronounce it with a blush, faltering over it as girls do? or would she speak it glibly as with long usage?

'I suppose you keep them all for him,' he continued, with a suspicion of bitterness in his tone; 'that little nun-like gray dress is good enough for Aunt Milly and me. Too much colour would be bad for weak eyes, eh, Polly?'

'I dress for him, of course,' trying to defend herself with dignity; but the next moment she waxed humble again. 'I—I am sorry you do not like the dress, Rex,' she faltered. 'I should like to please you both if I could,' and her eyes filled with tears.

'I think you might sing sometimes to please me when he is not here,' he returned, obstinately; 'just one song, Polly; my favourite one, with that sad, sweet refrain.'

'Oh, not that one,' she repeated, beginning to tremble; 'choose something else, Rex—not that.'

'No, I will have that or none,' he replied, irritably. What had become of Roy's sweet temper? 'You seem determined not to please me in anything,' and he moved away.

Polly watched his tottering steps a moment, and then she sprang after him.

'Oh, Rex, do not be so cross with me; do not refuse my help,' she said, winding her arm round him, and compelling him to lean on her. 'There, you have done yourself mischief,' as he paused, overcome by a paroxysm of coughing. 'How can you—how can you be so unkind to me, Rex?'

He did not answer; perhaps, absorbed in his own trouble, he hardly knew how he tried her; but as he sank back feebly on the cushions, he whispered—

'You will sing it, Polly, will you not?'

'Yes, yes; anything, if you will only not be angry with me,' returned the poor girl, as she hurried away.

The air was a mournful one, just suited to the words:—

'Polly, come here! come to me, Polly!' for, overcome by a sudden revulsion of feeling, Polly had broken down, and hidden her face in her hands; and now a stifled sob reached Roy's ear.

'Polly, I dare not move, and I only want to ask you to forgive me,' in a remorseful voice; and the girl obeyed him reluctantly.

'What makes you so cruel to me?' she panted, looking at him with sad eyes, that seemed to pierce his selfishness. 'It is not my fault if you are so unhappy—if you will not get well.'

'Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed.' The plaintive rhythm still haunted her. Was she, after all, so much to blame? Was she not suffering too? Why should he lay this terrible burden on her? It was selfish of him to die and leave her to her misery.

Roy fairly quailed beneath the girl's indignation and passionate sorrow.

'Have I been so hard to you, Polly?' he said, humbly. 'Are men ever hard to the women they love? There, the murder is out. You must leave me, Polly; you must go back to Heriot. I am too weak to hide the truth any longer. You must not stay and listen to me,' pushing her away with weak force.

It was his turn to be agitated now.

'Leave me!' he repeated, 'it is not loyal to Heriot to listen to a fool's maundering, which he has not the wit or the strength to hide. I should only frighten you with my vehemence, and do no good. Aunt Milly will be here directly. Leave me, I say.'

But she only clung to him, and called him brother. Alas! how could she leave him!

By and by he grew calmer.

'Forgive me, Polly; I am not myself; I ought not to have made you sing that song.'

'No, Rex,' in a voice scarcely audible.

'When you go back to Heriot you must tell him all. Ask him not to be hard on me. I never meant to injure him. The man you love is sacred in my eyes. It was only for a little while I hated him.'

'I will not tell him that.'

'Listen to me, dear! I ask his pardon, and yours too, for having betrayed myself. I have acted like a weak fool to-night. You were wiser than I, Polly.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' she returned, softly. 'Heriot will not be angry with you; he knows you are ill, and I—I will try to forget it. But you must get well, Rex; you will promise to get well for my sake.'

'Shall you grieve very much if I do not? Heriot would comfort you, if I did not, Polly.'

She made an involuntary movement towards him, and then checked herself.

'Cruel! cruel!' she said, in a voice that sounded dead and cold, and her arms fell to her side.

He melted at that.

'There, I have hurt you again. What a selfish wretch I am. I shall make a poor thing of life; but I will promise not to die if I can help it. You shall not call me cruel again, Polly.'

Then she smiled, and stretched out her hand to him.

'I would not requite your goodness so badly as that. You could always do as you liked with me in the old days, Polly—turn me round your little finger. If you tell me to get well I suppose I must try; but the best part of me is gone.'

She could not answer him. Every word went through her tender heart like a stab. What avail were her love and pity? Never should she be able to comfort him again; never would her sweet sisterly ministrations suffice for him. She must not linger by his side; her eyes were open now.

'Good-bye, Roy,' she faltered. She hardly knew what she meant by that farewell. Was she going to leave him? Was she only saying good-bye to the past, to girlhood, to all manner of fond foolish dreams? She rose with dry eyes when she had uttered that little speech, while he lay watching her.

'Do you mean to leave me?' he asked, sorrowfully, but not disputing her decision.

'Perhaps—yes—what does it matter?' she answered, moving drearily away.

What did it matter indeed? Her fate and his were sealed. Between them stretched a gulf, long as life, impassable as death; and even her innocent love might not span it.

'I shall not go to him, and he will not return to me,' she said, paraphrasing the words of the royal mourner to harmonise with her measure of pain. 'Never while I live shall I have my brother Roy again.'

Poor little aching, childish heart, dealing for the first time with life's mysteries, comprehending now the relative distinction between love and gratitude, and standing with reluctant feet on the edge of an unalterable resolve. What sorrow in after years ever equalled this blank?

When Mildred returned she found a very desolate scene awaiting her; the fire had burnt low, a waste of dull red embers filled the grate, the moon shone through the one uncurtained window; a mass of drapery stirred at her entrance, a yawning figure stretched itself under the oriental quilt.

'Roy, were you asleep? The fire is nearly out. Where is Polly?

'I do not know. She left the room just now,' he returned, with a sleepy inflection; but to Mildred's delicate perception it did not ring true. She said nothing, however, raked the embers together, threw on some wood, and lighted the lamps.

Had he really slept? There was no need to ask the question; his burning hand, the feverish light of his eyes, the compressed lips, the baffled and tortured lines of the brow, told her another story; she leant over him, pressing them out with soft fingers.

'Rex, my poor boy!'

'Aunt Milly, she has bidden me good-bye,' broke out the lad suddenly; 'she knows, and she is going back to Heriot; and I—I am the most miserable wretch alive.'

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII