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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> <h3>THE GATE AJAR</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, live! So endeth faint the low pathetic cry Of love, whom death hath taught, love cannot die.' </div> <div class="stanza"> Poems by the Author of 'John Halifax.' </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved sleep.'—E. B. Browning. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The fever had run its course,—never virulent or excessive, there had still been no abatement in the unfavourable symptoms, and, as the critical days approached, Mildred's watchfulness detected an increased gravity in Dr. Heriot's manner. Always assiduous in his attentions, they now became almost unremitting; his morning and evening visits were supplemented by a noonday one; by and by every moment he could snatch from his other patients was spent by Olive's bedside. A silent oppression hung over the vicarage; anxious footsteps crept stealthily up to the front door at all hours, with low-whispered inquiries. Every morning and evening Mildred telegraphed signals to Roy and Polly as they stood on the other side of the beck in Hillsbottom, watching patiently for the white fluttering pendant that was to send them away in comparative tranquillity. Sometimes Roy would climb the low hill in Hillsbottom, and lie for hours, with his eyes fixed on the broad projecting window, on the chance of seeing Mildred steal there for a moment's fresh air. Roy, contrary to his usual light-heartedness, had taken Olive's illness greatly to heart; the remembrance of his hard words oppressed and tormented him. Chriss often kept him company—Chriss, who grew crosser day by day with suppressed unhappiness, and who vented her uncomfortable feelings in contradicting everything and everybody from morning to night. One warm sunshiny afternoon, Mildred, who was sensible of unusual languor and oppression, had just stolen to the window to refresh her eyes with the soft green of the fellsides, when Dr. Heriot, who had been standing thoughtfully by the bedside, suddenly roused himself and followed her. 'Miss Lambert, do you know I am going to assert my authority?' Mildred looked up inquiringly, but there was no answering smile on her pale face. 'I am going to forbid you this room for the next two hours. Indeed,' as Mildred shook her head incredulously, 'I am serious in what I say; you have just reached the limit of endurance, and an attack of faintness may possibly be the result, if you do not follow my advice. An hour's fresh air will send you back fit for your work.' 'But Olive! indeed I cannot leave Olive, Dr. Heriot.' 'Not in my care?' very quietly. 'Of course I shall remain here until you return.' 'You are very kind; but indeed—no—I cannot go; please do not ask me, Dr. Heriot;' and Mildred turned very pale. 'I do not ask, I insist on it,' in a voice Mildred never heard before from Dr. Heriot. 'Can you not trust me?' he continued, relapsing into his ordinary gentle tone. 'Believe me, I would not banish you but for your own good. You know'—he hesitated; but the calm, quiet face seemed to reassure him—'things can only go on like this for a few hours, and we may have a very trying night before us. You will want all your strength for the next day or two.' 'You apprehend a change for the worse?' asked Mildred, drawing her breath more quickly, but speaking in a tone as low as his, for Richard was watching them anxiously from the other end of the room. 'I do not deny we have reason to fear it,' he returned, evasively; 'but there will be no change of any kind for some hours.' 'I will go, then, if Richard will take me,' she replied, quietly; and Richard rose reluctantly. 'You must not bring her back for two hours,' was Dr. Heriot's parting injunction, as Mildred paused by Olive's bedside for a last lingering look. Olive still lay in the same heavy stupor, only broken from time to time by the imperfect muttering. The long hair had all been cut off, and only a dark lock or two escaped from under the wet cloths; the large hollow eyes looked fixed and brilliant, while the parched and blackened lips spoke of low, consuming fever. As Mildred turned away, she was startled by the look of anguish that crossed Richard's face; but he followed her without a word. It was a lovely afternoon in July, the air was full of the warm fragrance of new-mown hay, the distant fells lay in purple shadow. As they walked through Hillsbottom, Mildred's eyes were almost dazzled by the soft waves of green upland shining in the sunshine. Clusters of pink briar roses hung on every hedge; down by the weir some children were wading among the shallow pools; farther on the beck widened, and flowed smoothly between its wooded banks. By and by they came to a rough footbridge, leading to a little lane, its hedgerows bordered with ferns, and gay with rose-campion and soft blue harebells, while trails of meadow-sweet scented the air; beyond, lay a beautiful meadow, belting Podgill, its green surface gemmed with the starry eyebright, and golden in parts with yellow trefoil and ragwort. Mildred stooped to gather, half mechanically, the blue-eyed gentian that Richard was crushing under his foot; and then a specimen of the soft-tinted campanella attracted her, its cluster of bell-shaped blossoms towering over the other wildflowers. 'Shall we go down into Podgill, Aunt Milly, it is shadier than this lane?' and Mildred, who was revolving painful thoughts in her mind, followed him, still silent, through the low-hanging woods, with its winding beck and rough stepping-stones, until they came to a green slope, spanned by the viaduct. 'Let us sit down here, Richard; how quiet and cool it is!' and Mildred seated herself on the grass, while Richard threw himself down beside her. 'How silent we have been, Richard. I don't think either of us cared to talk; but Dr. Heriot was right—I feel refreshed already.' 'I am glad we came then, Aunt Milly.' 'I never knew any one so thoughtful. Richard, I want to speak to you; did you ever find out that Olive wrote poetry?' Richard raised himself in surprise. 'No, Aunt Milly.' 'I want to show you this; it was written on a stray leaf, and I ventured to capture it; it may help you to understand that in her own way Olive has suffered.' Richard took the paper from her without a word; but Mildred noticed his hand shook. Was it cruel thus to call his hardness to remembrance? For a moment Mildred's soft heart wavered over the task she had set for herself. It was scrawled in Olive's school-girl hand, and in some parts was hard to decipher, especially as now and then a blot of teardrops had rendered it illegible; but nevertheless Richard succeeded in reading it. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'How speed our lost in the Unknown Land, Our dear ones gone to that distant strand? Do they know that our hearts are sore With longing for faces that never come, With longing to hear in our silent home The voices that sound no more? There's a desolate look by the old hearth-stone, That tells of some light of the household gone To dwell with the ransomed band; But none may follow their upward track, And never, ah! never, a word comes back To tell of the Unknown Land! </div> <div class="stanza"> 'We know by a gleam on the brow so pale, When the soul bursts forth from its mortal veil, And the gentle and good departs, That the dying ears caught the first faint ring Of the songs of praise that the angels sing; But back to our yearning hearts Comes never, ah! never, a word to tell That the purified spirit we love so well Is safe on the heavenly strand; That the Angel of Death has another gem To set in the star-decked diadem Of the King of the Unknown Land! </div> <div class="stanza"> 'How speed our lost in the realms of air We would ask—we would ask, Do they love us there? Do they know that our hearts are sore, That the cup of sorrow oft overflows, And our eyes grow dim with weeping for those— For those who shall "weep no more "? And when the Angel of Death shall call, And earthly chains from about us fall, Will they meet us with clasping hand? But never, ah! never a voice replies From the "many mansions" above the skies To tell of the Unknown Land!'[1] </div> </div> 'Aunt Milly, why did you show me this? and Richard's eyes, full of reproachful pain, fixed themselves somewhat sternly on her face. 'Because I want you to understand. Look, there is another on the next leaf; see, she has called it "A little while" and "for ever." My poor girl, every word is so true of her own earnest nature.' <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> '"For ever," they are fading, Our beautiful, our bright; They gladden us "a little while," Then pass away from sight; "A little while" we're parted From those who love us best, Who gain the goal before us And enter into rest. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Our path grows very lonely, And still those words beguile, And cheer our footsteps onward; 'Tis but a little while. 'A little while earth's sorrow,— Its burdens and its care, Its struggles 'neath the crosses, Which we of earth must bear. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'There's time to do and suffer— To work our Master's will, But not for vain regretting For thoughts or deeds of ill. Too short to spend in weeping O'er broken hopes and flowers, For wandering and wasting, Is this strange life of ours. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Though, when our cares oppress us, Earth's "little while" seems long, If we would win the battle We must be brave and strong. And so with humble spirit, But highest hopes and aim, The goal so often longed for We may perhaps attain. </div> <div class="stanza"> '"For ever" and "for ever" To dwell among the blest, Where sorrows never trouble The deep eternal rest; When one by one we gather Beneath our Father's smile, And Heaven's sweet "for ever" Drowns earth's sad "little while."'[2] </div> </div> 'Well, Richard?' But there was no answer; only the buzzing of insects in giddy circles broke the silence, mingled with the far-off twitter of birds. Only when Mildred again looked up, the paper had fluttered to their feet, and Richard had covered his face with his shaking hands. 'Dear Cardie, forgive me; I did not mean to pain you like this.' 'Aunt Milly,' in a voice so hoarse and changed that Mildred quite started, 'if she die, if Olive die, I shall never know a moment's peace again;' and the groan that accompanied the words wrung Mildred's tender heart with compassion. 'God forbid we should lose her, Richard,' she returned, gently. 'Do not try to deceive me,' he returned, bitterly, in the same low, husky tones. 'I heard what he said—what you both said—that it could not go on much longer; and I saw his face when he thought he was alone. There is no hope—none.' 'Oh, Richard, hush,' replied Mildred, in uncontrollable agitation; 'while there is life, there is hope. Think of David, "While the child was yet alive I fasted and wept;" he could not tell whether God meant to be gracious to him or not. We will pray, you and I, that our girl may be spared.' But Richard recoiled in positive horror. 'I pray, Aunt Milly? I, who have treated her so cruelly? I, who have flung hard words to her, who have refused to forgive her? I——' and he hid his pale, convulsed face in his hands again. 'But you have forgiven her now, you do her justice. You believe how truly she loved, she will ever love you.' 'Too late,' he groaned. 'Yes, I see it now, she was too good for us; we made her unhappy, and God is taking her home to her mother.' 'Then you will let her go, dear Cardie. Hush, it would break her heart to see you so unhappy;' and Mildred knelt down on the grass beside him, and stroked back the dark waves of hair tenderly. She knew the pent-up anguish of weeks must have its vent, now that his stoical manhood had broken down. Remorse, want of rest, deadly conflict and anxiety, had at last overcome the barrier of his reserve; and, as he flung himself down beside her, with his face hidden in the bracken, she knew the hot tears were welling through his fingers. For a long time she sat beside him, till his agitation had subsided; and then, in her low, quiet voice, she began to talk to him. She spoke of Olive's purity and steadfastness of purpose, her self-devotedness and power of love; and Richard raised his head to listen. She told him of those Sunday afternoons spent by her mother's grave, that quiet hour of communion bracing her for the jars and discords of the week. And she hinted at those weary moods of perpetual self-torture and endless scruple, which hindered all vigorous effort and clouded her youth. 'A diseased sensibility and overmuch imagination have resulted in the despondency that has so discouraged and annoyed you, Richard. She has dwelt so long among shadows of her own raising, that she has grown a weary companion to healthier minds; her very love is so veiled by timidity that it has given you an impression of her coldness.' 'Blind fool that I was,' he ejaculated. 'Oh, Aunt Milly, do you think she can ever forgive me?' 'There can be no question of forgiveness at all; do not distress her by asking for it, Richard. Olive's heart is as simple as a little child's; it is not capable of resentment. Tell her that you love her, and you will make her happy.' Richard did not answer for a minute, his thoughts had suddenly taken a new turn. 'I never could tell how it was she read me so correctly,' he said at last; 'her telling my father, and not me, was so incomprehensible.' 'She did not dare to speak to you, and she was so unhappy; but, Richard, even Olive does not hold the clue to all this trouble.' He started nervously, changed colour, and plucked the blades of grass restlessly. But in his present softened mood, Mildred knew he would not repulse her; trouble might be near at hand, but at least he would not refuse her sympathy any longer. 'Dear Cardie, your difficulty is a very real one, and only time and prayerful consideration can solve it; but beware how you let the wishes of your dead mother, dear and binding as they may be to you, prove a snare to your conscience. Richard, I knew her well enough to be sure that was the last thing she would desire.' The blood rushed to Richard's face, eager words rose to his lips, but he restrained them; but the grateful gleam in his eyes spoke volumes. 'That is your real opinion, Aunt Milly.' 'Indeed it is. Unready hands, an unprepared heart, are not fit for the sanctuary. I may wish with you that difficulties had not arisen, that you could carry out your parents' dedication and wish; but vocation cannot be forced, neither must you fall into Olive's mistake of supposing self-sacrifice is the one thing needful. After all, our first duty is to be true to ourselves.' 'Aunt Milly, how wise you are!' he exclaimed in involuntary admiration. 'No one, not even my father, put it so clearly. You are right, I do not mean to sacrifice myself unless I can feel it my duty to do so. But it is a question I must settle with myself.' 'True, dear, only remember the brave old verse— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Stumbleth he who runneth fast? Dieth he who standeth still? Not by haste or rest can ever Man his destiny fulfil." </div> </div> "Never hasting, never resting," a fine life-motto, Cardie; but our time is nearly at an end, we must be going now.' As they walked along, Richard returned of his own accord to the subject they had been discussing, and owned his indecision was a matter of great grief to him. 'Conscientious doubts will find their answer some day,' replied Mildred; 'but I wish you had not refused to confide them to your father.' Richard bit his lip. 'It was wrong of me; I know it, Aunt Milly; but it would have been so painful to him, and so humiliating to myself.' 'Hardly so painful as to be treated like a stranger by his own son. You have no idea how sorely your reserve has fretted him.' 'It was cowardly of me; but indeed, Aunt Milly, the whole question was involved in difficulty. My father is sometimes a little vague in his manner of treating things; he is more scholarly than practical, and I own I dreaded complication and disappointment.' Mildred sighed. Perhaps after all he was right. Her brother was certainly a little dreamy and wanting in concentration and energy just now; but little did Richard know the depth of his father's affection. Just as the old war-horse will neigh at the sound of the battle, and be ready to rush into the midst of the glittering phalanx, so would Arnold Lambert have warred with the grisly phantoms of doubt and misbelief that were leagued against Richard's boyish faith, ready to lay down his life if need be for his boy; but as he sat hour after hour in his lonely study, the sadness closed more heavily round him—sadness for his lost love in heaven, his lost confidence on earth. Dr. Heriot gave Mildred and Richard a searching glance as they re-entered the room. Both looked worn and pale, but a softened and subdued expression was on Richard's face as he stood by the bedside, looking down on his sister. 'No change,' whispered Mildred. 'None at present; but there may be a partial rally. Where is Mr. Lambert, I want to speak to him;' and, as though to check further questioning, Dr. Heriot reiterated a few instructions, and left the room. The hours passed on. Richard, in spite of his aunt's whispered remonstrances, still kept watch beside her; and Mr. Lambert, who as usual had been praying by the side of his sick child, and had breathed over her unconsciousness his solemn benediction, had just left the room, when Mildred, who was giving her nourishment, noticed a slight change in Olive, a sudden gleam of consciousness in her eyes, perhaps called forth by her father's prayer, and she signed to Richard to bring him back. Was this the rally of which Dr. Heriot spoke? the brief flicker of the expiring torch flaming up before it is extinguished? Olive seemed trying to concentrate her drowsy faculties, the indistinct muttering became painfully earnest, but the unhappy father, though he placed his ear to the lips of the sinking girl, could connect no meaning with the inarticulate sounds, until Mildred's greater calmness came to his help. 'Home. I think she said home, Arnold;' and then with a quick intuitive light that surprised herself, 'I think she wishes to know if God means to take her home.' Olive's restlessness a little abated. This time the parched and blackened lips certainly articulated 'home' and 'mother.' They could almost fancy she smiled. 'Oh, do not leave me, my child,' ejaculated Mr. Lambert, stretching out his arms as though to keep her. 'God is good and merciful; He will not take away another of my darlings; stay a little longer with your poor father;' and Olive understood him, for the bright gleam faded away. 'Oh, father, she will surely stay if we ask her,' broke in Richard in an agitated voice, thrusting himself between them and speaking with a hoarse sob; 'she is so good, and knows we all love her and want her. You will not break my heart, Livy, you will forgive me and stay with us a little?' and Richard flung himself on his knees and buried his head on the pillow. Ah, the bright gleam had certainly faded now; there was a wandering, almost a terrified expression in the hollow, brilliant eyes. Were those gates closing on her? would they not let her go? 'Cardie, dear Cardie, hush, you are agitating her; look how her eyelids are quivering and she has no power to speak. Arnold, ask him to be calm,' and Mr. Lambert, still holding his seemingly dying child, laid his other hand on Richard's bent head. 'Hush, my son, we must not grieve a departing spirit. I was wrong. His will be done even in this. He has given, and He must take away; be silent while I bless my child again, my child whom I am giving back to Him and to her mother,' but as he lifted up his hands the same feeble articulation smote on their ear. 'Cardie wants me—poor Cardie—poor papa—not my will.' Did Mildred really catch those words, struggling like broken breaths?—was it the cold sweat of the death-damp that gathered on the clammy brow?—were the fingers growing cold and nerveless on which Richard's hot lips were pressed?—were those dark eyes closing to earth for ever? 'Mildred—Richard—what is this?' '"Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!" exclaimed the disciples.' 'Hush; thank God, this is sleep, natural sleep,—the crisis is passed, we shall save her yet,' and Dr. Heriot, who had just entered, beckoned the father and brother gently from the room. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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