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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> <h3>THE COTTAGE AT FROGNAL</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Whose soft voice Should be the sweetest music to his ear.'—Bethune. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The journey was accomplished with less difficulty and fatigue than Mildred had dared to expect. Dr. Heriot's attentions were undemonstrative but unceasing. For a greater part of the way Mildred lay back amongst her snug wrappings, talking little, but enjoying to the full the novelty of being the object of so much care and thought. 'He is kind to everybody, and now he has taken all this trouble for me,' she said to herself; 'it is so like him—so like his goodness.' They were a very quiet party. Dr. Heriot was unusually silent, and Polly sat watching the scenery and flying milestones with half-dreamy absorption. When darkness came on, she nestled down by Mildred's side. From his corner of the carriage, Dr. Heriot secretly peered at the faces before him, under the guttering oil-lamp. Mildred's eyes had closed at last from weariness; her thin cheek was pressed on the dark cushion. In spite of the worn lines, the outline of the face struck him as strangely fair; a fine nature was written there in indelible characters; even in the abandonment of utter weariness, the mouth had not relaxed its firm sweet curve; a chastened will had gradually smoothed the furrows from the brow; it was as smooth and open as a sleeping child, and yet youth had no part there; its tints and roundness had long ago fled. How had it been that Polly's piquant charms had blinded him? As he looked at her now, half-lovingly, half-sadly, he owned that she could not be otherwise than pretty in his eyes, and yet the illusion was dispelled; but even as the thought passed through his mind, Polly's dark eyes unclosed. 'Are we near London? oh, how tired I am!' she said, with a weary, petulant sigh. 'I cannot sleep like Aunt Milly; and the darkness and the swinging make me giddy. One can only see great blanks of mist and rushing walls, and red eyes blinking everywhere.' Dr. Heriot smiled over the girl's discontent. 'You will see the lights of the station in another ten minutes. Poor little Heartsease. You are tired and cold and anxious, and we have still a long drive before us.' 'It has not been so long after all,' observed Mildred, cheerfully. She did not feel cold or particularly tired; pleasant dreams had come to her; some thoughtful hand had drawn the fur-lined rug round her as she slept. As they jolted out of the light station and into the dark Euston Road beyond, she sat thoughtful and silent, reviewing the work that lay before her. It was late in the evening when the travellers reached the little cottage at Frognal. Roy had taken a fancy to the place, and had migrated thither the previous summer, in company with a young artist named Dugald. It was a low, old-fashioned house, somewhat shabby-looking by daylight, but standing back from the road, with a pleasant strip of garden lying round it, and an invisible walk formed of stunted, prickly shrubs, which had led its owner to give it the name of 'The Hollies.' Roy had fallen in love with the straggling lawn and mulberry trees, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. He declared the peonies, hollyhocks, and lupins, and small violet-and-yellow pansies, reminded him of Castlesteads Vicarage; for it was well known that Mr. Delaware clave with fondness to the flowers of his childhood, and was much given to cultivate all manner of herbs, to be used medicinally by the poor of the neighbourhood. A certain long, low room, with an out-of-the-way window, was declared to have the north light, and to be just the thing for a studio, and was shared conjointly by the young artists, who also took their frugal meals together, and smoked their pipes in a dilapidated arbour overlooking the mulberry-tree. Mildred knew that Herbert Dugald was at the present moment in Mentone, called thither by the alarming illness of his father, and that his room had been placed at Roy's disposal. The cottage was a large one, and she thought there would be little difficulty in accommodating Polly and herself; and as Mrs. Madison had no other lodgers, they could count on a tolerable amount of quiet and comfort; and in spite of the quaintness and homeliness of the arrangements, they found this to be the case. Dr. Heriot had telegraphed their probable arrival, so they were not unexpected. Mrs. Madison, an artist's widow herself, welcomed them with unfeigned delight; her pleasant, sensible Scotch face broadened with smiles as she came forward to meet them. 'Eh, he's better, poor lad, though I never thought to say it,' she said, answering Mildred's anxious look. 'He would not let me write, as I wished, for fear of alarming his father, he said; but as soon as the letter was posted, he made me telegraph for his brother; he arrived last evening.' 'Richard!' ejaculated Mildred, feeling things were worse than even she had expected; but at that moment Richard appeared, gently closing the door behind him. 'Hush! he knows you are here;—you, I mean, Aunt Milly,' perceiving Polly now, with some surprise; 'but we must be very careful. Last night I thought we should have lost him. Ah, Dr. John, how good of you to bring them! Come in here; we expected you, you see, Aunt Milly,' and he led them into poor Roy's sitting-room. There was a blazing fire in the studio; the white china tiles reflected a pleasant glow and heat; the heavy draperies that veiled the cross-lights looked snug and dark; tea was on the little round table; a large old-fashioned couch stood, inviting, near. Richard took off Mildred's bonnet and hung it on an empty easel; Polly's furs found a place on a wonderfully carved oak-chest. There was all the usual lumber belonging to a studio. Richard, in an interval of leisure, had indeed cleared away a heterogeneous rubbish of pipes, boxing-gloves, and foils, but the upper part of the room was a perfect chaos of portfolios, books, and musical instruments, the little square piano literally groaned under the dusty records; still there was a wide space of comfort round the tiled fireplace, where all manner of nursery tales leaped into existence under the kindling flame, with just enough confusion to be quaint and picturesque. Neither Mildred nor Polly found fault with the suit of armour and the carved chair, that was good for everything but to sit upon; the plaster busts and sham bronzes struck them as beautiful; the old red velvet curtain had an imposing effect, as well as the shreds and scraps of colour introduced everywhere. Roy's velvet coat and gold-tasselled smoking-cap lay side by side with an old Venetian garment, stiff with embroidery and dirt. Polly touched it caressingly as she passed. Mildred's eyes had noted all these surroundings while she sat down on the couch where Roy had tossed for so many, many days, and let Richard wait on her; but her anxious looks still mutely questioned him. 'You shall go in and see him directly you are rested and have had some tea,' said Richard, busily occupying himself with the little black kettle. 'He heard your bell, and made a sign to me to come to you; he has been wishing for you all night, poor fellow; but it was his own fault, telegraphing to me instead.' 'You look fagged, Cardie; and no wonder—it must have been dreadful for you alone.' 'Mrs. Madison was with me. I would not have been without her; she is a capital nurse, whatever Rex may say. At one time I got alarmed; the pain in the side increased, and the distressed breathing was painful to hear, the pulse reaching to a great height. I fancied once or twice that he was a little light-headed.' 'Very probably,' returned Dr. Heriot, gravely, placing himself quietly between Mildred and the fire, as she shielded her face from the flame. 'I cannot understand how such a state of things should be. I always thought Roy's a tolerably sound constitution; nothing ever seemed to give him cold.' 'He has never been right since he was laid up with his foot,' replied Richard, with a slight hesitation in his manner. 'He did foolish things, Mrs. Madison told me: took long walks after painting-hours in the fog and rain, and on more than one occasion forgot to change his wet things. She noticed he had a cold and cough, and tried once or twice to dissuade him from venturing out in the damp, but he only laughed at her precautions. I am afraid he has been very reckless,' finished Richard, with a sigh, which Dr. Heriot echoed. Alas! he understood too well the cause of Roy's recklessness. Polly had been shrinking into a corner all this time, her cheeks paling with every word; but now Dr. Heriot, without apparently noticing her agitation, placed her in a great arm-chair beside the table, and insisted that she should make tea for them all. 'We have reason to be thankful that the inflammation has subsided,' he said, gravely. 'From what Richard tells us he has certainly run a great risk, but I must see him and judge for myself.' And as Richard looked doubtfully at Mildred, he continued, decidedly, 'You need not fear that my presence will harass or excite him, if he be as ill as you describe. I will take the responsibility of the act on myself.' 'It will be a great relief to my mind, I confess,' replied Richard, in a low voice. 'I like Dr. Blenkinsop, but still a second opinion would be a great satisfaction to all of us; and then, you know him so well.' 'Are you sure it will not be a risk?' whispered Polly, as he stood beside her. She slid a hot little hand into his as she spoke, 'Heriot, are you sure it will be wise?' 'Trust me,' was his sole reply; but the look that accompanied it might well reassure her, it was so full of pity for her and Roy; it seemed to say that he so perfectly understood her, that as far as in him lay he would take care of them both. Poor Polly! she spent a forlorn half-hour when the others had left; strange terrors oppressed her; a gnawing pain, for which she knew no words, fevered and kept her restless. What if Roy should die? What if the dear companion of her thoughts, and hopes, should suddenly be snatched from them in the first fervour of youth? Would she ever cease to reproach herself that she had so misunderstood him? Would not the consequences of his unhappy recklessness (ah, they little knew how they stabbed her there) lie heavily on her head, however innocent she might own herself? Perhaps in his boyish way he had wooed her, and she had failed to comprehend his wooing. How many times he had told her that she was dearer to him than Olive and Chriss, that she was the sunshine of his home, that he cared for nothing unless Polly shared it; and she had smiled happily over such evidence of his affection. Had she ever understood him? She remembered once that he had brought her some trinket that had pleased his fancy, and insisted on her always wearing it for his sake, and she had remonstrated with him on its costliness. 'You must not spend all your money on me, Rex. It is not right,' she had said to him more seriously than usual; 'you know how Aunt Milly objects to extravagance; and then it will make the others jealous, you know. I am not your sister—not your real sister, I mean.' 'If you were, I should not have bought you this,' he had answered, laughing, and clasping it with boyish force on her arm. 'Polly, what a child you are! when will you be grown up?' and there was an expression in his eyes that she had not understood. A hundred such remembrances seemed crowding upon her, Would other girls have been as blind in her place? Would they not have more rightly interpreted the loving looks and words that of late he had lavished upon her? Doubtless in his own way he had been wooing her, but no such thought had entered her mind, never till she had heard his bitter words, 'You are Heriot's now, Polly,' had she even vaguely comprehended his meaning. And now she had gone near to break his heart and her own too, for if Roy should die, she verily believed that hers would be broken by the sheer weight of remorseful pity. Ah, if he would only live, and she might care for him as though he were her own brother, how happy they might be still, for Polly's heart was still loyal to her guardian. But this suspense was not to be borne, and, unable to control her restlessness any longer, Polly moved with cautious steps across the room, and peeped fearfully into the dark passage. She knew exactly where Roy's room was. He had often described to her the plan of the cottage. Across the passage was a little odd-shaped room, full of cupboards, which was Mrs. Madison's sitting-room. The kitchen was behind, and to the left there was a small garden-room where the young men kept their boots, and all manner of miscellaneous rubbish, in company with Mrs. Madison's geraniums and cases of stuffed birds. A few winding, crooked stairs led to Roy's room; Mr. Dugald's was a few steps higher; beyond, there was a perfect nest of rooms hidden down a dark passage; there were old musty cupboards everywhere; a clear scent of dry lavender pervaded the upper regions; a swinging lamp burnt dimly in a sort of alcove leading to Roy's room. As Polly groped her way cautiously, a short, yapping sound was distinctly audible, and a little black-and-tan terrier came from somewhere. Polly knelt down and coaxed the creature to approach: she knew it was Sue, Roy's dog, whom he had rescued from drowning; but the animal only whined and shivered, and went back to her lair, outside her master's door. 'Sue is more faithful to him than I,' thought the girl, with a sigh. The studio seemed more cheerful than the dark, cold passage. Sue's repulse had saddened her still more. When Dr. Heriot returned some time afterwards, he found her curled up in the great arm-chair, with her face buried in her hands, not crying, as he feared, but with pale cheeks and wide distended eyes that he was troubled to see. 'My poor Polly,' smoothing her hair caressingly. Polly sprang up. 'Oh, Heriot, how long you have been. I have been so frightened; is he—will he live?' the stammering lips not disguising the terrible anxiety. 'There is no doubt of it; but he has been very ill. No, my dear child, you need not fear I shall misunderstand you,' as Polly tried to hide her happy face, every feature quivering with the joyful relief. 'You cannot be too thankful, too glad, for he has had a narrow escape. Aunt Milly will have her hands full for some time.' 'I thought if he died that it would be my fault,' she faltered, 'and then I could not have borne it.' 'Yes—yes—I know,' he returned, soothingly; 'but now this fear is removed, you will be our Heartsease again, and cheer us all up. I cannot bear to see your bright face clouded. You will be yourself again, Polly, will you not?' 'I will try,' she returned, lifting up her face to be kissed like a child. She had never but once offered him the most timid caress, and this maidenly reserve and shyness had been sweet to him; but now he told himself it was different. Alas! he knew her better than she knew herself, and there was sadness in his looks, as he gently bade her good-night. She detained him with some surprise. 'Where are you going, Heriot? you know there is plenty of room; Richard said so.' 'I shall watch in Roy's room to-night,' he replied. 'Richard looks worn out, and Aunt Milly must recruit after her journey. I shall not leave till the middle of the day to-morrow, so we shall have plenty of time to talk. You must rest now.' 'Are you going away to-morrow?' repeated Polly, looking blank. 'I—I had hoped you would stay.' 'My child, that would be impossible; but Richard will remain for a few days longer. I will promise to come back as soon as I can.' 'But—but if you leave me—oh, you must not leave me, Heriot,' returned the girl, with sudden inexplicable emotion; 'what shall I do without you?' 'Have I grown so necessary to you all at once?' he returned, and there was an accent of reproach in his voice. 'Nay, Polly, this is not like your sensible little self; you know I must go back to my patients.' 'Yes, I know; but all the same I cannot bear to let you go; promise me that you will come back soon—very soon—before Roy gets much better.' 'I will not leave you longer than I can help,' he replied, earnestly, distressed at her evident pain at losing him, but steadfast in his purpose to leave her unfettered by his presence. 'Now, sweet one, you must not detain me any longer, as to-night I am Roy's nurse,' and with that she let him leave her. There was a bright fire in the room where Mildred and she were to sleep. When Mrs. Madison had lighted the tall candle-sticks on the mantelpiece, and left her to finish her unpacking, Polly tried to amuse herself by imagining what Olive would think of it all. It was a long, low room, with a corner cut off. All the rooms at The Hollies were low and oddly shaped, but the great four-post bed, with the moreen hangings, half filled it. As far as curiosities went, it might have resembled either the upper half of a pawnbroker's window, or a mediæval corner in some shop in Wardour Street—such a medley of odds and ends were never found in one room. A great, black, carved wardrobe, which Roy was much given to rave about in his letters home, occupied one side; two or three spindle-legged and much dilapidated chairs, dating from Queen Anne's time, with an oaken chest, filled up all available space; but wardrobe, mantelpiece, and even washstand, served as receptacles for the more ornamental objects. Peacocks' feathers and an Indian canoe were suspended over the dim little oblong glass. Underneath, a Japanese idol smiled fiendishly; the five senses, and sundry china shepherdesses, danced round him like wood-nymphs round a satyr; a teapot, a hunting-watch, and an emu's egg garnished the toilet-table; over which hung a sampler, worked by Mrs. Madison's grandmother; two little girls in wide sashes, with a long-eared dog, simpered in wool-work; a portrait of some Madison deceased, in a short-waisted tartan satin, and a velvet hat and feathers, hung over them. The face attracted Polly in spite of the grotesque dress and ridiculous headgear—the feathers would have enriched a hearse; under the funeral plumes smiled a face still young and pleasant—it gave one the impression of a fresh healthy nature; the ruddy cheeks and buxom arms, with plenty of soft muscle, would have become a dairymaid. 'I wonder,' mused the girl, with a sort of sorrowful humour, 'who this Clarice was—Mrs. Madison's grandmother or great-grandmother most likely, for of course she married—that broad, smiling face could not belong to an old maid; she was some squire or farmer's wife most likely, and he bought her that hat in London when they went up to see the Green Parks, and St. James's, and Greenwich Hospital, and Vauxhall,—she had a double chin, and got dreadfully stout, I know, before she was forty. And I wonder,' she continued, with unconscious pathos, 'if this Clarice liked the squire, or farmer, or whatever he may be, as I like Heriot. Or if, when she was young, she had an adopted brother who gave her pain; she looks as though she never knew what it was to be unhappy or sorry about anything.' Polly's fanciful musings were broken presently by Mildred's entrance; she accosted the girl cheerfully, but there was no mistaking her pale, harassed looks. 'It is nearly twelve, you ought not to have waited for me, my dear; there was so much to do—and then Richard kept me.' 'Where is Richard?' asked Polly, abruptly. 'He has gone to bed; he is to have Mr. Dugald's room. Dr. Heriot is sitting up with Roy.' 'Yes, I know. Oh, Aunt Milly, he says there is no doubt of his living; the inflammation has subsided, and with care he has every hope of him.' 'Thank God! He will tell his father so; we none of us knew of his danger till it was past, and so we were saved Richard's terrible suspense; he has been telling me about it. I never saw him more cut up about anything—it was a sharper attack than we believed.' 'Could he speak to you, Aunt Milly?' 'Only a word or two, and those hardly audible; the breathing is still so oppressed that we dare not let him try—but he made me a sign to kiss him, and once he took hold of my hand; he likes to see us there.' 'He did not mind Dr. Heriot, then?' and Polly turned to the fire to hide her sudden flush, but Mildred did not notice it. 'He seemed a little agitated, I thought, but Dr. Heriot soon succeeded in calming him; he managed beautifully. I am sure Roy likes having him, though once or twice he looked pained—at least, I fancied so; but you have no idea what Dr. Heriot is in a sickroom,' and Mildred paused in some emotion. She felt it was impossible to describe to Polly the skilful tenderness with which he had tended Roy; the pleasant cordiality which had evaded awkwardness, the exquisite sympathy that dealt only with present suffering; no, it could only be stored sacredly in her memory, as a thing never to be forgotten. The girl drooped her head as Mildred spoke. 'I am finding out more every day what he is, but one will never come to the bottom of his goodness,' she said, humbly. 'Aunt Milly, I feel more and more how unworthy I am of him,' and she rested her head against Mildred and wept. There was a weary ring in Mildred's voice as she answered her. 'He would not like to hear you speak so despairingly of his choice; you must make yourself worthy of him, dear Polly.' 'I will try—I do try, till I get heart-sick over my failures. I know when he is disappointed, or thinks me silly; he gives me one of his quiet looks that seem to read one through and through, and then all my courage goes. I do so long to tell him sometimes that he must be satisfied with me just as I am, that I shall never get wiser or better, that I shall always be Polly, and nothing more.' 'Only his precious little Heartsease!' 'No,' she returned, sighing, 'I fear that has gone too. I feel so sore and unhappy about all this. Does he—does Roy know I am here?' 'No, no, not yet; he is hardly strong enough to bear any excitement. It will be very dull for you, my child, for you will not even have my company.' 'Oh, I shall not mind it—not much, I mean,' returned Polly, stoutly. But, nevertheless, her heart sank at the prospect before her; she would not see him perhaps for weeks, she would only see Mildred by snatches, she would be debarred from Dr. Heriot's society; it was a dreary thought for the affectionate girl, but her resolution did not falter, things would look brighter by the morning light as Mildred told her, and she fell asleep, planning occupation for her solitary days. Dr. Heriot's watch had been a satisfactory one, and he was able to report favourably of the invalid. Roy still suffered greatly from the accelerated and oppressed breathing and distressing cough, but the restlessness and fever had abated, and towards morning he had enjoyed some refreshing sleep, and he was able to leave him more comfortably to Mildred and Richard. He took Polly for a long walk after breakfast, which greatly brightened the girl's spirits, after which Richard and he had a long talk while pacing the lawn under the mulberry trees; both of them looked somewhat pale and excited when they came in, and Richard especially seemed deeply moved. Polly moped somewhat after Dr. Heriot's departure, but Richard was very kind to her, and gave her all his leisure time; but he was obliged to return to Oxford before many days were over. Polly had need of all her courage then, but she bore her solitude bravely, and resorted to many ingenious experiments to fill up the hours that hung so heavily on her hands. She wrote daily letters to Olive and Dr. Heriot, kept the studio in dainty order, gathered little inviting bouquets for the sickroom, and helped Mrs. Madison to concoct invalid messes. By and by, as she grew more skilful, all Roy's food was dressed by her hands. Polly would arrange the tray with fastidious taste, and carry it up herself to the alcove in defiance of all Mildred's warnings. 'I will step so lightly that he cannot possibly recognise my footsteps, and I always wear velvet slippers now,' she said, pleadingly; and Mildred, not liking to damp the girl's innocent pleasure, withdrew the remonstrance in spite of her better judgment. Dr. Heriot had strictly prohibited Polly's visits to the sickroom for the present, as he feared the consequences of any great excitement in Roy's weakened condition. Polly would stand listening to the low weak tones, speaking a word or two at intervals, and Mildred's cheerful voice answering him; now and then the terrible cough seemed to shatter him, and there would be long deathlike silences; when Polly could bear it no longer, she would put on her hat, coaxing Sue to follow her, and take long walks down the Finchley Road or over Hampstead Heath. There was a little stile near The Hollies where she loved to linger; below her lay the fields and the long, dusty road; all manner of lights gleamed through the twilight, the dark lane lay behind her; passers-by marvelled at the girl standing there in her soft furs with the dog lying at her feet; the air was full of warm dampness, a misty moon hung over the leafless trees. 'I wonder what Heriot is doing,' she would say to herself; 'his letters are beautiful—just what I expected; they refresh me to read them; how can he care for mine in return, as he says he does! Roy liked them, but then——' Here Polly broke off with a shiver, and Sue growled at a dark figure coming up the field-path. 'Come, Sue, your master will want his tea,' cried the girl, waking up from her vague musings, 'and no one but Polly shall get it for him. Aunt Milly says he always praises Mrs. Madison's cookery;' and she quickened her steps with a little laugh. Polly was only just in time; before her preparations were completed the bell rang in the sickroom. 'There, it is ready; I will carry it up. Never mind me, Mrs. Madison, it is not very heavy,' cried the girl, bustling and heated, and she took up the tray with her strong young arms, but, in her hurry, the velvet slippers had been forgotten. Mildred started with dismay at the sound of the little tapping heels. Would Roy recognise it? Yes, a flush had passed over his wan face; he tried to raise himself feebly, but the incautious movement brought on a fit of coughing. Mildred passed a supporting arm under the pillows, and waited patiently till the paroxysm had passed. 'Dear Rex, you should not have tried to raise yourself—there, lean back, and be quiet a moment till you have recovered,' and she wiped the cold drops of exhaustion from his forehead. But he still fought with the struggling breath. 'Was it she—was it Polly?' he gasped. 'Yes,' returned Mildred, alarmed at his excessive agitation and unable to withhold the truth; 'but you must not talk just now.' 'Just one word; when did she come?' he whispered, faintly. 'With me; she has been here all this time. It is her cookery, not Mrs. Madison's, that you have been praising so highly. No, you must not see her yet,' answering his wistful glance; 'you are so weak that Dr. Blenkinsop has forbidden it at present; but you will soon be better, dear,' and it was a proof of his weakness that Roy did not contest the point. But the result of Polly's imprudence was less harmful than she had feared. Roy grew less restless. From that evening he would lie listening for hours to the light footsteps about the house, his eyes would brighten as they paused at his door. The flowers that Polly now ventured to lay on his tray were always placed within his reach; he would lie and look at them contentedly. Once a scrap of white paper attracted his eyes. How eagerly his thin fingers clutched it There were only a few words traced on it—'Good-night, my dear brother Roy; I am so glad you are better;' but when Mildred was not looking the paper was pressed to his lips and hidden under his pillow. 'You need not move about so quietly, I think he likes to hear you,' Mildred said to the girl when she had assured herself that no hurtful effect had been the result of Polly's carelessness, and Polly had thanked her with glistening eyes. How light her heart grew; she burst into little quavers and trills of song as she flitted about Mrs. Madison's bright kitchen. Roy heard her singing one of his favourite airs, and made Mildred open the door. 'She has the sweetest voice I ever heard,' he said with a sigh when she had finished. 'Ask her to do that oftener; it is like David's harp to Saul,' cried the lad, with tears in his eyes; 'it refreshes me.' Once they could hear her fondling the dog in the entry below. 'Dear old Sue, you are such a darling old dog, and I love you so, though you are too stupid to be taught any tricks,' she said, playfully. When Sue next found admittance into her master's room Roy called the animal to him with feeble voice. 'Let her be, I like to have her here,' he said, when Mildred would have lifted her from the snow-white counterpane. 'Sue loves her master, and her master loves Sue,' and as the creature thrust its slender nose delightedly into his hand Roy dropped a furtive kiss on the smooth black head. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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