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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> <h3>'WHICH SHALL IT BE?'</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'She looked again, as one that half afraid Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; Or one beseeching, "Do not me upbraid!" And then she trembled like the fluttering Of timid little birds, and silent stood.' </div> <div class="stanza"> Jean Ingelow. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Dr. Heriot started for London the day after he had received Mildred's letter; as he intended, his appearance took them all by surprise. Mildred was the first to detect the well-known footsteps on the gravelled path; but she held her peace. Dr. Heriot's keen glance, as he stood on the threshold, had time to scan the features of the little fireside group before a word of greeting had crossed his lips; he noticed Polly's listless attitude as she sat apart in the dark window-seat, and the moody restlessness of Roy's face as he lay furtively watching her. Even Mildred's heightened colour, as she bent industriously over her work, was not lost on him. 'Polly!' he said, crossing the room, and marvelling at her unusual abstraction. At the sound of the kind, well-known voice, the girl started violently; but as he stooped over her and kissed her, she turned very white, and involuntarily shrank from him, but the next moment she clung to him almost excitedly. 'Oh, Heriot, why did you not come before? You knew I wanted you—you must have known how I wanted you.' 'Yes, dear, I knew all about it,' he replied, quietly, putting away the little cold hands that detained him, and turning to the others. A few kind inquiries after the invalid were met at first very irritably, but even Roy's jealousy could not be proof against such gentleness, and he forgot his wretchedness for a time while listening to home messages, and all the budget of Kirkby Stephen gossip which Dr. Heriot retailed over the cosy meal that Mildred provided for the traveller. For once Dr. Heriot proved himself an inexhaustible talker; there was no limit to his stock of anecdotes. Roy's sulkiness vanished; he grew interested, almost amused. 'You remember old Mrs. Parkinson and her ginger-cakes, Polly,' he said, with a weak ghost of a laugh; but then he checked himself with a frown. How was it one could not hate this fellow, who had defrauded him of Polly? he thought, clenching his hand impatiently. Why was he to succumb to a charm of manner that had worked him such woe? Dr. Heriot's fine instinct perceived the lad's transition of mood. 'Yes, Polly has a faithful memory for an old friend,' he said, answering for the girl, who sat near him with a strip of embroidery from which she had not once raised her eyes. As he looked at her, his face worked with some strong emotion; his eyes softened, and then grew sad. 'Polly is faith itself,' speaking with peculiar intonation, and laying his hand on the small shining head. 'You see I have a new name for you to-night, Heartsease.' 'I think I will go to bed, Aunt Milly,' broke out poor Roy, growing suddenly pale and haggard. 'I—I am tired, and it is later to-night, I think.' Dr. Heriot made no effort to combat his resolution. He stood aside while Mildred offered her arm to the invalid. He saw Polly hurriedly slip her hand in Roy's, who wrung it hard with a sort of laugh. 'It is good-bye for good and all, I suppose to-night?' he said. 'Heriot means to take you away, of course?' But Polly did not answer; she only hid her red quivering hand under her work, as though she feared Dr. Heriot would see it. But the next moment the work was thrown lightly to the ground, and Dr. Heriot's fingers were gently stroking the ill-used hand. 'Poor little Polly; does he often treat you to such a rough hand-shake?' he said, with a half-amused, tender smile. 'No, never,' she stammered; but then, as though gaining courage from the kind face looking down at her, 'Oh, Heriot, I am so glad he is gone. I—I want to speak to you.' 'Is that why you have been so silent?' drawing her nearer to him as she stood beside him on the rug. 'Little Heartsease, did you like my new name?' 'Don't, Heriot; I—I do not understand you; I have not been faithful at least.' 'Not in your sense of the word, perhaps, dear Polly, but in mine. What if your faithfulness should save us both from a great mistake?' 'I—I do not understand you,' she said again, looking at him with sad, bewildered eyes. 'You shall talk to me presently; but now I want to speak to you. Heriot, I was wrong to come here—wrong and self-willed. Aunt Milly was right; I have done no good. Oh, it has all been so miserable—a mistake from beginning to end; and then I thought you would never come.' 'Dear Polly, it could not be helped. Neither can I stay now.' 'You will not go and leave me again?' she said, faltering and becoming very pale. 'Heriot, you must take me with you; promise me that you will take me with you.' 'I cannot, my dear child. Indeed—indeed—I cannot' 'Then I will go alone,' she said, throwing back her head proudly, but trembling as she spoke. 'I will not stay here without you—not for a day—not for a single day.' 'But Roy wants you. You cannot leave him until he is better,' he said, watching her; but though she coloured perceptibly, she stood her ground. 'I was wrong to come,' she returned, piteously. 'I cannot help it if Rex wants me. I know he does. You are saying this to punish me, and because I have failed in my duty.' 'Hush, my child; I at least have not reproached you.' 'No, you never reproach me; you are kindness itself. Heriot,' laying down her face on his arm, and now he knew she was weeping, 'I never knew until lately how badly I have treated you. You ought not to have chosen a child like me. I have tried your patience, and given you no return for your goodness; but I have resolved that all this shall be altered.' 'Is it in your power, Polly?' speaking now more gravely. 'It must—it shall be. Listen to me, dear. You asked me once to make no unnecessary delay, but to be your wife at once. Heriot, I am ready now.' 'No, my child, no.' 'Ah, but I am,' speaking with difficulty through her sobs. 'I never cared for you so much. I never wanted you so much. I am so full of gratitude—I long to make you so happy—to make somebody happy. You must take me away from here, where Roy will not make me miserable any more, and then I shall try to forget him—his unhappiness, I mean—and to think only of you.' 'Poor child,' speaking more to himself than to her; 'and this is to what I have brought her.' 'You must not be angry with Roy,' continued the young girl, when her agitation had a little subsided. 'He could not help my seeing what he felt; and then he told me to go back to you. He has tried his hardest, I know he has; every night I prayed that you might come and take me away, and every morning I dreaded lest I should be disappointed. Heriot, it was cruel—cruel to leave me so long.' 'And you will come back with me now?' 'Oh yes,' with a little sighing breath. 'And I am to make you my wife? I am not to wait for your nineteenth birthday?' 'No. Oh, Heriot, how self-willed and selfish I was.' 'Neither one nor the other. Listen to me, dear Polly. Nay, you are trembling so that you can hardly stand; sit beside me on this couch; it is my turn to talk now. I have a little story to tell you.' 'A story, Heriot?' 'Yes; shall we call it "The Guardian's Mistake"? I am not much of a hand in story-telling, but I hope I shall make my meaning clear. What, afraid, my child? nay, there is no sad ending to this story of mine; it runs merrily to the tune of wedding bells.' 'I do not want to hear it,' she said, shrinking nervously; but he, half-laughingly and half-seriously, persisted:— 'Once upon a time, shall we say that, Polly? Little Heartsease, how pale you are growing. Once upon a time, a great many years ago, a man committed a great mistake that darkened his after life. 'He married a woman whom he loved, but whose heart he had not won. Not that he knew that. Heaven forbid that any one calling himself a man should do so base a thing as that; but his wishes and his affection blinded him, and the result was misery for many a year to come.' 'But he grew comforted in time,' interrupted Polly, softly. 'Yes, time, and friendship, and other blessings, bestowed by the good God, healed the bitterness of the wound, but it still bled inwardly. He was a weary-hearted man, with a secret disgust of life, and full of sad loathing for the empty home that sheltered his loneliness, all the more,' as Polly pressed closer to him, 'that he was one who had ever craved for wife and children. 'It was at this time, just as memory was growing faint, that a certain young girl, the daughter of an old college friend of his, was left to his care. Think, Polly, how sacred a charge to this desolate man; a young orphan, alone in the world, and dependent on his care.' 'Heriot, I beseech you to stop; you are breaking my heart.' 'Nay, dearest, there is nothing sad in my story; there are only wheels within wheels, a complication heightening the interest of the plot. Well, was it a wonder that this man, this nameless hero of ours, a species of Don Quixote in his way, should weave a certain sweet fancy into his dreary life, that he should conceive the idea of protecting and loving this young girl in the best way he could by making her his wife, thinking that he would make himself and her happy, but always thinking most of her.' 'Oh, Heriot, no more; have pity on me.' 'What, stop in the middle of my story, and before my second hero makes his appearance? For shame, Heartsease; but this man, for all his wise plans and benevolent schemes, proved himself miserably blind. 'He knew that this girl had an adopted brother whom she loved dearly. Nay, do not hide your face, Polly; no angel's love could have been purer than this girl's for this friend of hers; but alas, what no one had foreseen had already happened; unknown to her guardian, and to herself, this young man had always loved, and desired to win her for his wife.' 'She never knew it,' in a stifled voice. 'No, she never knew it, any more than she knew her own heart. Why do you start, Heartsease? Ah, she was so sure of that, so certain of her love for her affianced husband, that when she knew her friend was ill, she pleaded to be allowed to nurse him. Yes, though she had found out then the reason of his unhappiness.' 'She hoped to do good,' clasping her hands before her face. 'True, she hoped to do good; she fancied, not knowing the world and her own heart, that she could win him back to his old place, and so keep them both, her guardian and her friend. And her guardian, heart-sick at the mistake he had made, and with a new and secret sorrow preying upon him, deliberately suffered her to be exposed to the ordeal that her own generous imprudence had planned.' 'Heriot, one moment; you have a secret sorrow?' 'Not an incurable one, my sweet; you shall know it by and by; if I do not mistake, it will yield us a harvest of joy; but I am drawing near the end of the story.' 'Yes, you have quite finished—there is nothing more to say; nothing, Heriot.' 'You shall tell me the rest, then,' he returned, gravely. Was she true to her guardian, this girl; true in every fibre and feeling? or did her faithful heart really cleave to the companion of her youth, calling her love by the right name, and acknowledging it without fear? 'Polly, this is no time for a half-truth; which shall it be? Is your heart really mine, or does it belong to Roy?' She would have hidden her face in her hands, but he would not suffer it. 'Child, you must answer me; there must be no shadow between us,' he said, holding her before him. There was a touch of sternness in his voice; but as she raised her eyes appealingly to his, she read there nothing but pity and full understanding; for one moment she stood irresolute, with palpitating heart and white quivering lips, and then she threw herself into his arms. 'Oh, Heriot, what shall I do? What shall I do? I love you both, but I love Roy best.' <hr style="width: 45%;" /> When Mildred re-entered the room, an hour later, somewhat weary of her banishment, she found the two still talking together. Polly was sitting in her little low chair, her cheek resting on her hand. Dr. Heriot seemed speaking earnestly, but as the door opened, he broke off hastily, and the girl started to her feet. 'I must go now,' she whispered; 'don't tell Aunt Milly to-night. Oh, Heriot, I am so happy; this seems like some wonderful dream; I don't half believe it.' 'We must guard each other's confidence. Remember, I have trusted you, Polly,' was his answer, in a low tone. 'Good-night, my dearest child; sleep well, and say a prayer for me.' 'I do—I do pray for you always,' she affirmed, looking at him with her soul in her eyes; but as he merely pressed her hand kindly, she suddenly raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. 'Dear—dear Heriot, I shall pray for you all my life long.' 'Are you going, Polly?' asked Mildred, in surprise. 'Yes, I am tired. I cannot talk any more to-night,' returned the girl, hastily. Her face was pale, as though, she had been weeping; but her eyes smiled radiantly under the wet lashes. Mildred turned to the fire, somewhat dissatisfied. 'I hope things are right between you and Polly,' she said, anxiously, when she and Dr. Heriot were left alone. 'They have never been more so,' he replied, with a mischievous smile; 'for the first time we thoroughly understand ourselves and each other; she is a dear good child, and deserves to be happy.' But as Mildred, somewhat bewildered at the ambiguous tone, would have questioned him still further, he gently but firmly changed the subject. It was a strange evening to Mildred; outside, the rain lashed the panes. Dr. Heriot had drawn his arm-chair nearer to the glowing fire; he looked spent and weary—some conflicting feelings seemed to fetter him with sadness. Mildred, sitting at her little work-table, scarcely dared to break the silence. Her own voice sounded strange to her. Once when she looked up she saw his eyes were fixed upon her, but he withdrew them again, and relapsed into his old thoughtfulness. By and by he began to talk, and then she laid down her work to listen. Some strange chord of the past seemed stirred in the man's heart to-night. All at once he mentioned his mother; her name was Mildred, he said, looking into the embers as he spoke; and a little sister whom they had lost in her childhood had been called Milly too. For their sakes the name had always been dear to him. She was a good woman, he said, but her one fault in his eyes had been that she had never loved Margaret; a certain bitter scene between them had banished his widowed mother from his house. Margaret had not understood her, and they were better apart; but it had been a matter of grief to him. And then he began to talk of his wife—at first hesitatingly—and then, as Mildred's silent sympathy seemed to open the long-closed valves, the repressed sorrow of years began to find vent. Well might Mildred marvel at the secret strength that had sustained the generous heart in its long struggle, at 'the charity that suffered so long.' What could there have been about this woman, that even degradation and shame could not weaken his faithful love, that even in his misery he should still pity and cleave to her. As though answering her thought, Dr. Heriot suddenly placed a miniature in her hand. 'That was taken when I first saw her,' he said, softly; 'but it does not do her justice; and then, one cannot reproduce that magnificent voice. I have never heard a voice like it.' Mildred bent over it for a moment without speaking; it was the face of a girl taken in the first flush of her youth; but there was nothing youthful in the face, which was full of a grave matured beauty. The dark melancholy eyes seemed to rivet Mildred's; a wild sorrow lurked in their inscrutable depths; the brow spoke intellect and power; the mouth had a passionate, irresolute curve. As she looked at it she felt that it was a face that might well haunt a man to his sorrow. 'It is beautiful—beautiful—but it oppresses me,' she said, laying it down with a sigh. 'I cannot fancy it ever looking happy.' 'No,' he returned, with a stifled voice. 'Her one trouble embittered her life. I never remember seeing her look really happy till I placed our boy in her arms; he taught her to smile first, and then he died, and our happiness died with him.' 'You must try to forget all this now,' she said, alluding to his approaching marriage. 'It is not well to dwell upon so mournful a past.' 'You are right; I think I shall bury it from this night,' he returned, with a singular smile. 'I feel as though you have done me good, Mildred—Miss Lambert—but now I am selfishly keeping you up, after all your nursing too. Good-night.' He held her hand for a moment in both his; his eyes questioned the pale worn face, anxiously, tenderly. 'When are you going to get stronger? You do me no credit,' he said, sadly. And his look and tone haunted her, in spite of her efforts. He had called her Mildred too. 'How strange that he should have told me all this about his wife. I am glad he treats me as a friend,' she thought. 'A little while ago I could not have spoken to him as I have to-night, but his manner puts me at my ease. How can I help loving one of the noblest of God's creatures?' 'Can you trust Roy to me this morning, Miss Lambert?' asked Dr. Heriot, as they were sitting together after breakfast. Polly, who was arranging a jar of chrysanthemums, dropped a handful of flowers on the floor, and stooped to pick them up. 'I think Roy will like his old nurse best,' she returned, doubtfully. But Dr. Heriot looked obstinate. 'A new regime and a new prescription might be beneficial,' he replied, with a suspicion of a smile. 'Roy and I must have some conversation together, and there's no time like the present,' and with a grave, mischievous bow, he quietly quitted the room. 'Aunt Milly, I must go and match those wools, and get the books for Roy,' began Polly, hurriedly, as they were left alone. 'The rain does not matter a bit, and the air is quite soft and warm.' Mildred shook her head. 'You had better wait an hour or two till it clears up,' she said, looking dubiously at the wet garden paths and soaking rain. 'I am going to my own room to write letters. I have one from Olive that I must answer. If you will wait until the afternoon, Dr. Heriot will go with you.' But Polly was not to be dissuaded; she had nothing to do, she was restless, and wanted a walk; and Roy must have his third volume when he came down. It was not often that Polly chose to be wilful, and this time she had her way. Now and then Mildred paused in the midst of her correspondence to wonder what had detained the girl so long. Once or twice she rose and went to the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the dark blue cloak and black hat but hours passed and she did not return. By and by Dr. Heriot's quick eyes saw a swift shadow cross the studio window; and, as Polly stole noiselessly into the dark passage, she found herself captured. 'Naughty child, where have you been?' he said, removing her wet cloak, and judging for himself that she had sustained no further damage. Polly's cheeks, rosy with exercise, paled a little, and she pleaded piteously to be set free. 'Just for a moment, Heriot. Please let me go for a moment. I will come presently.' 'You are not to be trusted,' he replied, not leaving hold of her. 'Do you think this excitement is good for Roy—that in his state he can bear it. He has been dressed and waiting for you for hours. You must think of him, Polly, not of yourself.' And Polly resisted no longer. She followed Dr. Heriot, with downcast eyes, into the studio. Roy was not on his couch; he was standing on the rug, in his velvet coat; one thin hand grasped the mantelpiece nervously: the other was stretched out to Polly. 'You must not let him excite himself,' was Dr. Heriot's warning, as he left them together. Poor Polly, she stood irresolute, not daring to advance, or look up, and wishing that the ground would swallow her. 'Polly—dear Polly—will you not come to me?' and Roy walked feebly to meet her. Before she could move or answer, his arms were round her. 'My Polly—my own now,' he cried, rapturously pressing her to him with weak force; 'Heriot has given you to me.' Polly looked up at her young lover shyly. Roy's face was flushed, his eyes were shining with happiness, a half-proud, half-humble expression lingered round his mouth; the arm that supported her trembled with weakness. 'Oh, Rex, how wrong of me to let you stand,' she said, waking up from her bewilderment; 'you must lie down, and I will take my old place beside you.' 'Yes, he has given you the right to nurse me now,' whispered Roy, as she arranged the cushions under his head. 'I am more than your adopted brother now.' And Polly's happy blush was her only answer. 'You will never refuse to sing to me again?' he said presently, when their agitation had a little subsided. 'No, and you will let me have my old ring,' she returned, softly. 'Oh, Rex, I cried half the night, when you would not let me wear it. I never cared so much for my beautiful diamonds.' A misty smile crossed Roy's face. 'No, Polly, I never mean to part with it again. Look here,'—and he showed her the garnets suspended to his watch-chain—'we will exchange rings in the old German fashion, dear. I will keep the garnets, and I will buy you the pearl hoop you admired so much; you must remember, you have chosen only a poor artist.' 'Oh, Rex, how I shall glory in your pictures!' cried the girl, breathlessly. 'I have always loved them for your sake, but now it will be so different. They will be dearer than ever to me.' 'I never could have worked without you, Polly,' returned the young man, humbly. 'I tried, but it was a miserable failure; it was your childish praise that first made me seriously think of being an artist; and when you failed me, all the spirit seemed to die out of me, just as the sunshine fades out of a landscape, leaving nothing but a gray mist. Oh, Polly, even you scarcely know how wretched you made me.' 'Do not let us talk of it,' she whispered, pressing closer to him; 'let us only try to deserve our happiness.' 'That is what he said,' replied Roy, in a low voice. 'He told me that we were very young to have such a responsibility laid upon us, and that we must help each other. Oh, what a good man he is,' he continued, with some emotion, 'and to think that at one time I almost hated him.' 'You could not help it,' she answered, shyly. To her there was no flaw in her young lover; his impatience and jealousy, his hot and cold fits that had so sorely tried her, his singular outbursts of temper, had only been natural under the circumstances; she would have forgiven him harder usage than that; but Roy judged himself more truly. 'No, dear, you must not excuse me,' was the truthful answer. 'I bore my trouble badly, and made every one round me wretched; and now all these coals of fire are heaped upon me. If he had been my brother, he could not have borne with me more gently. Oh,' cried the lad, earnestly, 'it is something to see into the depths of a good man's heart. I think I saw more than he meant me to do, but time will prove. One thing is certain, that he never loved you as I do, Polly.' 'No; it was all a strange mistake,' she returned, blushing and smiling; 'but hush! here comes Aunt Milly.' 'Am I interrupting you?' asked Mildred, a little surprised at Polly's anxious start. She had moved a little away from Roy; but now he stretched out his hand to detain her. 'No, don't go, Aunt Milly,' and a gleam of mischief shot from his blue eyes. 'Polly has only been telling me a new version of the old song—"It is well to be off with the old love before you are on with the new." After all, Polly has found out that she likes me best.' 'Children, what do you mean?' returned Mildred, somewhat sternly. Polly and even Roy were awed by the change in her manner; a sort of spasm crossed her face, and then the features became almost rigid. 'Aunt Milly, don't be angry with us,' faltered Polly; and her breast heaved a little. Did this dearest and gentlest creature, who had stood her in the stead of mother, think she was wrong? 'Listen to me, dear; I would have married Heriot, but he would not let me; he showed me what was the truth—that my heart was more Roy's than his, and then he brought us together; it is all his doing, not Roy's.' 'Yes, it was all my doing,' repeated Dr. Heriot, who had followed Mildred in unperceived. 'Did I not tell you last night that Polly and I never understood each other so well;' and he put his arm round the girl with almost fatherly fondness, as he led her to Mildred. 'You must blame me, and not this poor child, for all that has happened.' But the colour did not return to Mildred's face; she seemed utterly bewildered. Dr. Heriot wore his inscrutable expression; he looked grave, but not otherwise unhappy. 'I suppose it is all for the best,' she said, somewhat unsteadily. 'I had hoped that Polly would have been a comfort to you, but it seems you—you are never to have that.' 'It will come to me in time,' he returned, with a strange smile; 'at least, I hope so.' 'Come here, Aunt Milly,' interrupted Roy; and as Mildred stooped over her boy he looked up in her face with the old Rex-like smile. 'Dr. Heriot says I should never have lived if it had not been for you, Aunt Milly. You have given me back my life, and he has given me Polly, and,' cried the lad, and now his lips quivered, 'God bless you both.' <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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