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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> <h3>MILDRED'S NEW HOME</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Half drowned in sleepy peace it lay, As satiate with the boundless play Of sunshine on its green array. And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue, To keep it safe, rose up behind, As with a charmed ring to bind The grassy sea, where clouds might find A place to bring their shadows to.'—Jean Ingelow. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> 'Aunt Milly, I have wakened to find myself in Paradise,' were the first words that greeted Mildred's drowsy senses the next morning; and she opened her eyes to find the sun streaming in through the great uncurtained window, and Polly in her white dressing-gown, curled up on the low chair, gazing out in rapturous contemplation. 'It must be very early,' observed Mildred, wearily. She was fatigued with her journey and the long vigil she had kept the preceding night, and felt a little discontented with the girl's birdlike activity. 'One ought not to be tired in Paradise,' returned Polly, reprovingly. 'Do people have aches and pains and sore hearts here, I wonder—in the valley of the Eden, as he called it—and yet Mr. Lambert looks sad enough, and so does Richard. Do you like Richard, Aunt Milly?' 'Very much,' returned Mildred, with signs of returning animation in her voice. 'Well, he is not bad—for an icicle,' was Polly's quaint retort; 'but I like Roy best; he is tiresome, of course—all boys are—but oh, those girls, Aunt Milly!' 'Well, what of them?' asked Mildred, in an amused voice. 'I am sure you could not judge of them last night, poor things; they were too shy.' 'They were dreadful. Oh, Aunt Milly, don't let us talk of them!' 'I am sure Olive is clever, Polly; her face is full of intelligence. Christine is a mere child.' Polly shrugged her shoulders. She did not care to argue on such an uninteresting question. The little lady's dainty taste was offended by the somewhat uncouth appearance of the sisters. She changed the subject deftly. 'How the birds are singing! I think the starlings are building their nests under the roof, they are flying in and out and chirping so busily. How still it is on the fells! There is an old gray horse feeding by the bridge, and some red and white cattle coming over the side of the hill. This is better than your old Clapham pictures, Aunt Milly.' Mildred smiled; she thought so too. 'Roy says the river is a good way below, and that it is rather a dangerous place to climb. He thinks nothing of it—but then he is a boy! How blue the hills are this morning! They look quite near. But Roy says they are miles away. That long violet one is called the Nine Standards, and over there are Hartley Fells. We were out on the terrace last night, and he told me their names. Roy is very fond of talk, I think; but Richard stood near us all the time, and never said a word, except to scold Roy for chattering so much.' 'Richard was afraid the sound of your voices would disturb my brother.' 'That is the worst of it, as Roy says, Richard is always in the right. I don't think Roy is unfeeling, but he forgets sometimes; he told me so himself. We had quite a long talk when the others went in.' 'You and he seem already very good friends.' 'Yes, he is a tolerably nice boy,' returned Polly, condescendingly; 'and we shall get on very well together, I dare say. Now I will leave you in peace, Aunt Milly, to finish dressing; for I mean to make acquaintance with that big green hill before breakfast.' Mildred was not sorry to be left in peace. It was still early. So, while Polly wetted her feet in the grass, Mildred went softly downstairs to refresh her eyes and memory with a quiet look at the old rooms in their morning freshness. The door of her brother's study stood open, and she ventured in, almost holding her breath, lest her step should reach his ear in the adjoining room. There was the chair where he always sat, with his gray head against the light, the one narrow old-fashioned window framing only a small portion of the magnificent prospect. There were the overflowing waste-paper baskets, as usual, brimming over their contents on the carpet—the table a hopeless chaos of documents, pamphlets, and books of reference. There were some attempts at arrangement in the well-filled bookcases that occupied two sides of the small room, but the old corner behind the mother's chair and work-table still held the debris of the renowned Tower of Babel, and a family tendency to draw out the lower books without removing the upper ones had resulted in numerous overthrows, so that even Mr. Lambert objected to add to the dusty confusion. Books and papers were everywhere; they littered even the couch—that couch where Betha had lain for so many months, only tired, before they discovered what ailed her—the couch where her husband had laid the little light figure morning after morning, till she had grown too ill to be moved even that short distance. Looking round, Mildred could understand the growing helplessness of the man who had lost his right band and helpmeet; the answer and ready sympathy that never failed him were wanting now; the comely, bright presence had gone from his sight; the tones that had always vibrated so sweetly in his ear were silent for ever. With his lonely broodings there must ever mix a bitter regret, and the dull, perpetual anguish of a yearning never to be satisfied. Earth is full of these desolations, which come alike on the evil and the good—mysteries of suffering never to be understood here, but which, to such natures as Arnold Lambert's, are but as the Refiner's furnace, purging the dross of earthly passion and centring them on things above. Instinctively Mildred comprehended this, as her eye fell on the open pages of the Bible—the Bible that had been her husband's wedding gift to Betha, and in which she had striven to read with failing eyes the very day before her death. Mildred touched it reverently and turned away. She lingered for a moment in the dining-room, where a buxom North countrywoman was laying the table for breakfast. Everything here was unchanged. It was still the same homely, green, wainscotted room, with high, narrow windows looking on to the terrace. There was the same low, old-fashioned sideboard and silk-lined chiffonnier; the same leathern couch and cumbrous easy-chair; the same picture of 'Virtue and Vice,' smiling and glaring over the high wooden mantelpiece. Yes, the dear old room, as Mildred had fondly termed it in her happy three months' visit, was exactly the same; but Betha's drawing-room was metamorphosed into fairyland. All Arnold's descriptions had not prepared her for the pleasant surprise. Behind the double folding-doors lay a perfect picture-room, its wide bay looking over the sunny hills, and a glass door opening on the beck gravel of the courtyard. Outside, the long levels of green, with Cuyp-like touches of brown and red cattle, grouped together on the shady bank, tender hints of water gleaming through the trees, and the soft billowy ridges beyond; within, the faint purple and golden tints of the antique jars and vases, and shelves of rare porcelain, the rich hues of the china harmonising with the high-backed ebony chairs and cabinet, and the high, elaborately-finished mantelpiece, curiously inlaid with glass, and fitted up with tiny articles of vertu; the soft, blue hangings and Sèvres table and other dainty finishes giving a rich tone of colour to the whole. Mr. Lambert was somewhat of a dilettante, and his accurate taste had effected many improvements in the vicarage, as well as having largely aided in the work nearest his heart—the restoration of his church. The real frontage of the vicarage looked towards the garden terrace and Hillsbottom, the broad meadow that stretched out towards Hartley Fells, with Hartley Fold Farm and Hartley Castle in the distance; from its upper window the Nine Standards and Mallerstang, and to the south Wild-boar Fells, were plainly visible. But the usual mode of entrance was at the back. The gravelled sweep of courtyard, with its narrow grass bordering and flower-bed, communicated with the outhouses and stable-yard by means of a green door in the wall. The part of the vicarage appropriated to the servants' use was very old, dating, it is said, from the days of Henry VIII, and some of the old windows were still remaining. Mildred remembered the great stone kitchen and rambling cellarage and the cosy housekeeper's room, where Betha had distilled her fragrant waters and tied up her preserves. As she passed down the long passage leading to the garden-door she could see old Nan, bare-armed and bustling, clattering across the stones in her country clogs, the sunny backyard distinctly visible. Some hens were clucking round a yellow pan; the goat bleated from the distance; the white tombstones gleamed in the morning sun; a scythe cut crisply through the wet grass; a fleet step on the gravel behind the little summer-house lingered and then turned. 'You are early, Aunt Milly—at least, for a Londoner, though we are early people here, as you will find. I hope you have slept well.' 'Not very well; my thoughts were too busy. Is it too early to go over to the church yet, Richard?' 'The bells will not ring for another half-hour, if that is what you mean; but the key hangs in my father's study. I can take you over if you wish.' 'No, do not let me hinder you,' glancing at the Greek lexicon he held in his hand. 'Oh, my time is not so valuable as that,' he returned, good-humouredly. 'Of course you must see the restoration; it is my father's great work, and he is justly proud of it. If you go over, Aunt Milly, I will be with you in a minute.' Mildred obeyed, and waited in the grand old porch till Richard made his appearance, panting, and slightly disturbed. 'It was mislaid, as usual. When you get used to us a little more, Aunt Milly, you will find that no one puts anything in its proper place. It used not to be so' he continued, in a suppressed voice; 'but we have got into sad ways lately; and Olive is a wretched manager.' 'She is so young, Richard. What can you expect from a girl of fifteen?' 'I have seen little women and little mothers at that age,' he returned, with brusque quaintness. 'Some girls, placed as she is, would be quite different; but Livy cares for nothing but books.' 'She is clever then?' 'I suppose so,' indifferently. 'My father says so, and so did——(he paused, as though the word were difficult to utter)—'but—but she was always trying to make her more womanly. Don't you think clever women are intolerable, Aunt Milly?' 'Not if they have wise heads and good hearts; but they need peculiar training. Oh, how solemn and beautiful!' as Richard at last unlocked the door; and they entered the vast empty church, with the morning sun shining on its long aisles and glorious arcades. Richard's querulous voice was hushed in tender reverence now, as he called Mildred to admire the highly-decorated roof and massive pillars, and pointed out to her the different parts that had been restored. 'The nave is Early English, and was built in 1220; the north aisle is of the original width, and was restored in Perpendicular style; the window at the eastern end is Early English too. The south aisle was widened about 1500, and has been restored in the Perpendicular; and the transepts are Early English, in which style the chancel also has been rebuilt. Nothing of the original remains except the Sedilia, probably late Early English, or perhaps the period sometimes called Wavy, or Decorated.' 'You know it all by heart, Richard. How grand those arches are; the church itself is almost cathedral-like in its vast size.' 'We are very fond of it,' he returned, gravely. 'Do you recollect this chapel? It is called the Musgrave Chapel. One of these tombs belonged to Sir Thomas Musgrave, who is said to have killed the last wild boar seen in these parts, about the time of Edward III.' 'Ah! I remember hearing that. You are a capital guide, Richard.' 'Since my father has been ill, I have always taken strangers over the church, and so one must be acquainted with the details. This is the Wharton Chapel, Aunt Milly; and here is the tomb of Lord Thomas Wharton and his two wives; it was built as a mortuary chapel, in the reign of Elizabeth, so my father says. Ah! there is the bell, and I must go into the vestry and see if my father be ready.' 'You have not got a surpliced choir yet, Richard?' He shook his head. 'We have to deal with northern prejudices; you have no idea how narrow and bigoted some minds can be. I could tell you of a parish, not thirty miles from here, where a sprig of holly in the church at Christmas would breed a riot.' 'Impossible, Richard!' 'You should hear some of the Squire's stories about twenty years ago; these are enlightened times compared to them. We are getting on tolerably well, and can afford to wait; our daily services are badly attended. There is the vicarage pew, Aunt Milly; I must go now.' Only nineteen—Richard's mannishness was absolutely striking; how wise and sensible he seemed, and yet what underlying bitterness there was in his words as he spoke of Olive. 'His heart is sore, poor lad, with missing his mother,' thought Mildred, as she watched the athletic figure, rather strong than graceful, cross the broad chancel; and then, as she sat admiring the noble pulpit of Shap granite and Syenetic marble, the vicarage pew began slowly to fill, and two or three people took their places. Mildred stole a glance at her nieces: Olive looked heavy-eyed and absent; and Chriss more untidy than she had been the previous night. When service had begun she nudged her aunt twice, once to say Dr. Heriot was not there, and next that Roy and Polly had come in late, and were hiding behind the last pillar. She would have said more, but Richard frowned her into silence. It was rather a dreary service; there was no music, and the responses, with the exception of Richard's, were inaudible in the vast building; but Mildred thought it restful, though she grieved to see that her brother's worn face looked thinner and sadder in the morning light, and his tall figure more bowed and feeble. He waited for her in the porch, where she lingered behind the others, and greeted her with his old smile; and then he took Richard's arm. 'We have a poor congregation you see, Mildred; even Heriot was not there.' 'Is he usually?' she asked, somewhat quickly. 'I have never known him miss, unless some bad case has kept him up at night. He joined us reluctantly at first, and more to please us than himself; but he has grown into believing there is no fitter manner of beginning the day; his example has infected two or three others, but I am afraid we rarely number over a dozen. We do a little better at six o'clock.' 'It must be very disheartening to you, Arnold.' 'I do not permit myself to feel so; if the people will not come, at least they do not lack invitation—twice a day the bells ring out their reproachful call. I wish Christians were half as devout as Mahometans.' 'Mrs. Sadler calls it new-fangled nonsense, and says she has not time to be always in church,' interrupted Chrissy, in her self-sufficient treble. 'My little Chriss, it is not good to repeat people's words. Mrs. Sadler has small means and a large family, and the way she brings them up is highly creditable.' But his gentle reproof fell unheeded. 'But she need not have told Miss Martingale that she knew you were a Ritualist at heart, and that the daily services were unnecessary innovations,' returned Chrissy, stammering slightly over the long words. 'Now, Contradiction, no one asked for this valuable piece of information,' exclaimed Roy, with a warning pull at the rough tawny mane; 'little girls like you ought not to meddle in parish matters. You see Gregory has been steadily at work this morning, father,' pointing to the long swathes of cut grass under the trees; 'the churchyard will be a credit to us yet.' But Roy's good-natured artifice to turn his father's thoughts into a pleasanter channel failed to lift the cloud that Chrissy's unfortunate speech had raised. 'Innovations! new-fangled ideas!' he muttered, in a grieved voice, 'simple obedience—that I dare not, on the peril of a bad conscience, withhold, to the rules of the Church, to the loving precept that bids me gather her children into morning and evening prayer.' 'Contradiction, you deserve half-a-dozen pinches for this,' whispered Roy; 'you have set him off on an old grievance.' 'Never sacrifice principles, Cardie, when you are in my position,' continued Mr. Lambert. 'If I had listened to opposing voices, our bells would have kept silence from one Sunday to another. Ah, Milly! I often ask myself, "Can these dry bones live?" The husks and tares that choke the good seed in these narrow minds that listen to me Sunday after Sunday would test the patience of any faithful preacher.' 'Aunt Milly looks tired, and would be glad of her breakfast,' interposed Richard. Mildred thanked him silently with her eyes; she knew her brother sufficiently of old to dread the long vague self-argument that would have detained them for another half-hour in the porch had not Richard's dexterous hint proved effectual. Mildred learnt a great deal of the habits of the family during the hour that followed; the quiet watchful eyes made their own observation—and though she said little, nothing escaped her tender scrutiny. She saw her brother would have eaten nothing but for the half-laughing, half-coaxing attentions of Roy, who sat next him. Roy prepared his egg, and buttered his toast, and placed the cresses daintily on his plate, unperceived by Mr. Lambert, who was opening his letters and glancing over his papers. When he had finished—and his appetite was very small—he pushed away his plate, and sat looking over the fells, evidently lost in thought. But his children, as though accustomed to his silence, took no further notice of him, but carried on the conversation among themselves, only dropping their voices when a heavier sigh than usual broke upon their ears. The table was spread with a superabundance of viands that surprised Mildred; but the cloth was not over clean, and was stained with coffee in several places. Mildred fancied that it was to obviate such a catastrophe for the future that Richard sat near the urn. A German grammar lay behind the cups and saucers, and Olive munched her bread and butter very ungracefully over it, only raising her head when querulous or reproachful demands for coffee roused her reluctant attention, and it evidently needed Richard's watchfulness that the cups were not returned unsweetened to their owner. 'There, you have done it again,' Mildred heard him say in a low voice. 'The second clean cloth this week disfigured with these unsightly brown patches.' 'Something must be the matter with the urn,' exclaimed Olive, looking helplessly with regretful eyes at the mischief. 'Nonsense, the only fault is that you will do two things at a time. You have eaten no breakfast, at least next to none, and made us all uncomfortable. And pray how much German have you done?' 'I can't help it, Cardie; I have so much to do, and there seems no time for things.' 'I should say not, to judge by this,' interposed Roy, wickedly, executing a pirouette round his sister's chair, to bring a large hole in his sock to view. 'Positively the only pair in my drawers. It is too hard, isn't it, Dick?' But Richard's disgust was evidently too great for words, and the unbecoming flush deepened on Olive's sallow cheeks. 'I was working up to twelve o'clock at night,' she said, looking ready to cry, and appealing to her silent accuser. 'Don't laugh, Chriss, you were asleep; how could you know?' 'Were you mending this?' asked her brother gravely, holding up a breadth of torn crape for her inspection, fastened by pins, and already woefully frayed out. 'I had no time,' still defending herself heavily, but without temper. 'Please leave it alone, Cardie, you are making it worse. I had Chriss's frock to do; and I was hunting for your things, but I could not find them.' 'I dare say not. I dare not trust myself to your tender mercies. I took a carpet bagful down to old Margaret. If Rex took my advice, he would do the same.' 'No, no, I will do his to-day. I will indeed, Rex. I am so sorry about it. Chriss ought to help me, but she never does, and she tears her things so dreadfully,' finished Olive, reproachfully. 'What can you expect from a contradicting baby,' returned Roy, with another pull at the ill-kempt locks as he passed. Chriss gave him a vixenish look, but her aunt's presence proved a restraining influence. Evidently Chriss was not a favourite with her brothers, for Roy teased, and Richard snubbed her pertness severely. Roy, however, seemed to possess a fund of sweet temper for family use, which was a marked contrast to Richard's dictatorial and somewhat stern manner, and he hastened now to cover poor Olive's discomfiture. 'Never mind, Lily, a little extra ventilation is not unhealthy, and is a somewhat wholesome discipline; you may cobble me up a pair for to-morrow if you like.' 'You are very good, Roy, but I am sorry all the same, only Cardie will not believe it,' returned Olive. There were tears in the poor girl's voice, and she evidently felt her brother's reproof keenly. 'Actions are better than words,' was the curt reply. 'But this is not very amusing for Aunt Milly. What are you and Miss Ellison going to do with yourselves this morning?' 'Bother Miss Ellison; why don't you call her Polly?' burst in Roy, irreverently. 'I have not given him leave,' returned the little lady haughtily. 'You were rude, and took the permission without asking.' 'Nonsense, don't be dignified, Polly; it does' not suit you. We are cousins, aren't we? brothers and sisters once removed?' 'I am Aunt Milly's niece; but I am not to call him Uncle Arnold, am I?' was Polly's unexpected retort. But the shout it raised roused even Mr. Lambert. 'Call me what you like, my dear; never mind my boy's mischief,' laying his hand on Roy's shoulder caressingly. 'He is as skittish and full of humour as a colt; but a good lad in the main.' Polly contemplated them gravely, and pondered the question; then she reached out a little hand and touched Mr. Lambert timidly. 'No! I will not call you Uncle Arnold; it does not seem natural. I like Mr. Lambert best. But Roy is nice, and may call me what he likes; and Richard, too, if he will not be so cross.' 'Thanks, my princess,' answered Roy, with mocking reverence. 'So you don't approve of Dick's temper, eh?' 'I think Olive stupid to bear it; but he means well,' returned Polly composedly. And as Richard drew himself up affronted at the young stranger's plain speaking, she looked in his face, in her frank childish way, 'Cardie is prettier than Richard, and I will call you that if you like, but you must not frown at me and tell me to do things as you tell Olive. I am not accustomed to be treated like a little sheep,' finished Polly, naively; and Richard, despite his vexed dignity, was compelled to join in the laugh that greeted this speech. 'Polly and I ought to unpack,' suggested Mildred, in her wise matter-of-fact way, hoping to restore the harmony that every moment seemed to disturb. 'No one will invade your privacy to-day, Aunt Milly; it would be a violation of county etiquette to call upon strangers till they had been seen at church. You and Miss——' Richard paused awkwardly, and hurried on—'You will have plenty of time to settle yourself and get rested.' 'Fie, Dick—what a blank. You are to be nameless now, Polly,' 'Don't be so insufferably tiresome, Rex; one can never begin a sensible conversation in this house, what with Chriss's contradictions on one side and your jokes on the other.' 'Poor old Issachar between two burdens,' returned Roy, patting him lightly. 'Cheer up; don't lose heart; try again, my lad. Aunt Milly, when you have finished with Polly, I want to show her Podgill, our favourite wood; and Olive and Chriss shall go too.' 'Wait till the afternoon, Roy, and then we can manage it,' broke in Chriss, breathlessly. 'You can go, Christine, but I have no time,' returned Olive wearily; but as Richard seemed on the point of making some comment, she gathered up her books, and, stumbling heavily over her torn dress in her haste, hurried from the room. Mildred and Polly shut themselves in their rooms, and were busy till dinner-time. Once or twice when Mildred had occasion to go downstairs she came upon Olive; once she was standing by the hall table jingling a basket of keys, and evidently in weary argument on domestic matters with Nan—Nan's broad Westmorland dialect striking sharply against Olive's feeble refined key. 'Titter its dune an better, Miss Olive—t' butcher will send fleshmeat sure enough, but I maun gang and order it mysel'.' 'Very well, Nan, but it must not be that joint; Mr. Richard does not like it, and——' 'Eh! I cares lile for Master Richard,' grumbled Nan, crossly. 'T'auld maister is starved amyast—a few broth will suit him best.' 'But we can have the broth as well,' returned Olive, with patient persistence. 'Mamma always studied what Richard liked, and he must not feel the difference now.' 'Nay, then I maun just gang butcher's mysel', and see after it.' But Mildred heard no more. By and by, as she was sorting some books on the window seat, she saw Chrissy scudding across the courtyard, and Olive following her with a heavy load of books in her arms; the elder girl was plodding on with downcast head and stooping shoulders, the unfortunate black dress trailing unheeded over the rough beck gravel, and the German grammar still open in her hand. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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