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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> <h3>OLIVE'S DECISION</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so make Life, Death, and that vast For Ever, One grand sweet song.' </div> <div class="stanza"> Charles Kingsley. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Ethel Trelawny had long felt as though some crisis in her life were impending. To her it seemed impossible that the unnatural state of things between her father and herself could any longer continue; something must occur to break the hideous monotony and constraint of those slowly revolving weeks and months. Latterly there had come to her that strange listening feeling to which some peculiar and sensitive temperaments are subject, when in the silence they can distinctly hear the muffled footfall of approaching sorrow. Yet what sorrow could be more terrible than this estrangement, this death of a father's love, this chill cloud of distrust that had risen up between them! And yet when the blow fell, filial instinct woke up in the girl's soul, all the stronger for its repression. There were times during those first forty-eight hours when she would gladly have laid down her own life if she could have restored power to those fettered limbs, and peace to that troubled brain. Oh, if she could only have blotted out those last cruel words—if they would cease to ring in her ears! She had met him almost timidly, knowing how heavily the bitterness of his failure would lie upon him. 'Papa, I fear things have not gone well with you,' she had said, and there had been a caressing, almost a pitying chord in her voice as she spoke. 'How should things go well with me when my own child opposes my interest?' he had answered, gloomily. 'I have wasted time and substance, I have fooled myself in the eyes of other men, and now I must hide my head in this obscurity which has grown so hateful to me, and it is all your fault, Ethel.' 'Papa, listen to me,' she pleaded. 'Ambition is not everything; why have you set your heart on this thing? It is embittering your life and mine. Other men have been disappointed, and it has not gone so very hard with them. Why will you not let yourself be comforted?' 'There is no comfort for me,' he had replied, and his face had been very old and haggard as he spoke. It were far better that she had not spoken; her words, few and gentle as they were, only added to the fuel of his discontent; he had meant to shut himself up in his sullenness, and make no sign; but she had intercepted his retreat, and brought down the vials on her devoted head. Could she ever forget the angry storm that followed? Surely he must have been beside himself to have spoken such words! How was it that she had been accused of jilting Mr. Cathcart, of refusing his renewed overtures, merely from obstinacy, and the desire of opposition; that she should hear herself branded as her father's worst enemy? 'You and your pride have done for me!' he had said, lashing himself up to fresh fury with the remembrance of past mortification. 'You have taken from me all that would make life desirable. You have been a bad daughter to me, Ethel. You have spoiled the work of a lifetime.' 'Papa, papa, I have only acted rightly. How could I have done this evil thing, even for your sake?' she had cried, but he had not listened to her. 'You have jilted the man you fancied out of pride, and now the mischief will lie on your own head,' he had answered, angrily, and then he had turned to leave the room. Half an hour afterwards the heavy thud of a fall had been heard, and the man had come to her with a white face to summon her to her father's bedside. She knew then what had come upon them. At the first sight of that motionless figure, speechless, inert, struck down with unerring force, in the very prime and strength of life, she knew how it would be with them both. 'Oh, my dear, my dear, forgive me,' she had cried, falling on her knees beside the bed, and raining tears over the rigid hands; and yet what was there to forgive? Was it not rather she who had been sinned against? What words were those the paralysed tongue refused to speak? What was the meaning of those awful questioning eyes that rested on her day and night, when partial consciousness returned? Could it be that he would have entreated her forgiveness? 'Papa, papa, do not look so,' she would say in a voice that went to Richard's heart. 'Don't you know me? I am Ethel, your own, only child. I will love you and take care of you, papa. Do you hear me, dear? There is nothing to forgive—nothing—nothing.' During the strain of those first terrible days Richard was everything to her; without him she would literally have sunk under her misery. 'Oh, Richard, have I killed my father? Am I his murderess?' she cried once almost hysterically when they were left alone together. 'Oh, poor papa—poor papa!' 'Dear Ethel, you have done no wrong,' he replied, taking her unresisting hand; 'it is no fault of yours, dearest; you have been the truest, the most patient of daughters. He has brought it on himself.' 'Ah, but it was through me that this happened,' she returned, shuddering through every nerve. 'If I had married Mr. Cathcart, he would not have lost his seat, and then he would not have fretted himself ill.' 'Ought we to do evil that good may come, Ethel?' replied Richard, gravely. 'Are children responsible for the wrongdoing of their parents? If there be sin, it lies at your father's door, not yours; it is you to forgive, not he.' 'Richard, how can you be so hard?' she demanded, with a flash of her old spirit through her sobs; but it died away miserably. 'I am not hard to him—God forbid! Am I likely to be hard to your father, Ethel, and now especially?' he said, somewhat reproachfully, but speaking with the quiet decision that soothed her even then. 'I cannot have you unfitting yourself for your duties by indulging these morbid ideas; no one blames you—you have done right; another time you will be ready to acknowledge it yourself; you have enough to suffer, without adding to your burden. I entreat you to banish these fancies, once and for ever. Ethel, promise me you will try to do so.' 'Yes, yes, I know you are right,' she returned, weeping bitterly; 'only it breaks my heart to see him like this.' 'You are spent and weary,' he replied, gently; 'to-morrow you will look at these things in a different light. It has been such an awful shock to you, you see,' and then he brought her wine, and compelled her to drink it, and with much persuasion induced her to seek an hour or two's repose before returning to the sickroom. What would she have done without him, she thought, as she closed her heavy eyes. Unconsciously they seemed to have resumed their old relations towards each other; it was Richard and Ethel now. Richard's caressing manner had returned; no brother could have watched over her more devotedly, more reverently; and yet he had never loved her so well as when, all her imperiousness gone, and with her brave spirit well-nigh broken, she seemed all the more dependent on his sympathy and care. But the first smile that crossed her face was for Mildred, when Dr. Heriot brought her up to Kirkleatham the first evening after their arrival. Mildred almost cried over her when she took her in her arms; the contrast to her own happiness was so great. 'Oh, Ethel, Ethel,' was all she could say, 'my poor girl!' 'Yes, I am that and much more,' she returned, yielding to her friend's embrace; 'utterly poor and wretched. Has he—has Dr. Heriot told you all he feared?' 'That there can only be partial recovery? Yes, I know he fears that; but then one cannot tell in these cases; you may have him still for years.' 'Ah, but if he should have another stroke? I know what Dr. Heriot thinks—it is a bad case; he has said so to Richard.' 'Poor child! it is so hard not to be able to comfort you.' 'No one can do that so long as I have him before my eyes in this state. Mildred, you cannot conceive what a wreck he is; no power of speech, only those inarticulate sounds.' 'I am glad Cardie is able to be so much with you.' A sensitive colour overspread Ethel's worn face. 'I do not know what I should have done without him,' she returned, in a low voice. 'If he had been my own brother he could not have done more for me; we fancy papa likes to have him, he is so strong and quiet, and always sees what is the right thing to be done.' 'I found out Cardie's value long ago; he was my right hand during Olive's illness.' 'He is every one's right hand, I think,' was the quiet answer. 'He was the first to suggest telegraphing for Dr. Heriot. I could not bear breaking in upon your holiday, but it could not be helped.' 'Do you think we could have stayed away?' 'All the same it is a sad welcome to your new home; but you are a doctor's wife now. Mildred, if you knew what it was to me to see your dear face near me again.' 'I am so thankful John brought me.' 'Ah, but he will take you away again. I can hear his step now.' 'Poor girl! her work is cut out for her,' observed Dr. Heriot, thoughtfully, as they walked homewards through the crofts. 'It will be a sad, lingering case, and I fear that the brain is greatly affected from what they tell me. He must have had a slight stroke many years ago.' 'Poor, poor Ethel,' replied Mildred, sorrowfully. 'I must be with her as much as possible; but Richard seems her greatest comfort.' 'Perhaps good may come out of evil. You see, I can guess at your thought, Milly darling,' and then their talk flowed into a less sad channel. But not all Mildred's sympathy, or Richard's goodness, could avail to make those long weeks and months of misery otherwise than dreary; and nobly as Ethel Trelawny performed her duty, there were times when her young heart sickened and grew heavy with pain in the oppressive atmosphere of that weary sickroom. To her healthy vitality, the spectacle of her father's helplessness was simply terrible; the inertness of the fettered limbs, the indistinct utterance of the tied and faltering tongue, the confusion of the benumbed brain, oppressed her like a nightmare. There were times when her pity for him was so great, that she would have willingly laid down all her chances of happiness in this life if she could have restored to him the prospect of health. It was now that the real womanhood of Ethel Trelawny rose to the surface. Richard's heart ached with its fulness of love when he saw her day after day so meekly and patiently tending her afflicted father; the worn, pale face and eyes heavy with trouble and want of sleep were far more beautiful to him now; but he hid his feelings with his usual self-control. She had learned to depend upon him and trust him, and this state of things was too precious to be disturbed. Richard was his father's sole curate now. Towards the end of October, Hugh Marsden had finished his preparations, and had bidden good-bye to his friends at the vicarage. Mildred, who saw him last, was struck with the change in the young man's manner; his cheerful serenity had vanished—he looked subdued, almost agitated. She was sitting at work in the little glass room; a tame canary was skimming among the flowers, Dr. Heriot's voice was heard cheerfully whistling from an inner room, some late blooming roses lay beside Mildred, her husband's morning gift, the book from which he had been reading to her was still open on the table; the little domestic picture smote the young man's heart with a dull pain. 'I am come to say good-bye, Mrs. Heriot,' he said, in a sadder voice than she had ever heard from him before; 'and it has come to this, that I would sooner say any other word.' 'We shall miss you dreadfully, Mr. Marsden,' replied Mildred, looking regretfully up at the plain honest face. Hugh Marsden had always been a favourite with her, and she was loath to say good-bye to him. 'Others have been kind enough to tell me so,' he rejoined, twirling his shabby felt hat between his fingers. 'Miss Olive, Miss Lambert I mean, said so just now. Somehow, I had hoped—but no, she has decided rightly.' Mildred looked up in surprise. Incoherence was new in Hugh Marsden; but just now his clumsy eloquence seemed to have deserted him. 'What has Olive decided?' she asked, with a sudden spasm of curiosity; and then she added kindly, 'Sit down, Mr. Marsden, you do not seem quite yourself; all this leave-taking has tired you.' But he shook his head. 'I have no time: you must not tempt me, Mrs. Heriot; only you have always been so good to me, that I wanted to ask you to say this for me.' 'What am I to say?' asked Mildred, feeling a little bewildered. He was still standing before her, twirling his hat in his big hands, his broad face flushed a little. 'Tell Miss Olive that I know she has acted rightly; she always does, you know. It would be something to have such a woman as that beside one, strengthening one's hands; but of course it cannot be—she could not deviate from her duty by a hair's-breadth.' 'I do not know if I understand you,' began Mildred, slowly, and groping her way to the truth. 'I think you do. I think you have always understood me,' returned the young man, more quickly. 'And you will tell her this from me. Of course one must have regrets, but it cannot be helped; good-bye, Mrs. Heriot. A thousand thanks for all you have done for me.' And before Mildred could answer, he had wrung her hand, and was half-way through the hall. An hour later, Mildred stole softly down the vicarage lobby, and knocked at the door of the room she had once occupied, and Olive's voice bade her enter. 'Aunt Milly, I never thought it was you,' she exclaimed, rising hastily from the low chair by the window. 'Is Dr. Heriot with you?' 'No; I left John at home. I told him that I wanted to have a little talk with you, and like a model husband he asked no questions, and raised no obstacles. All the same I expect he will follow me.' 'You wanted to talk to me?' returned Olive, in a questioning tone, but her sallow face flushed a little. 'How strange, when I was just wishing for you too.' 'There must be some electric sympathy between us,' replied her aunt, smiling. 'Nothing could have induced me to sleep until I had seen you. Mr. Marsden wished me to give you a message from him; he was a little incoherent, but so far as I understand, he wished me to assure you that he considers yours a right decision.' Olive's face brightened a little. Mildred had already detected unusual sadness on it, but her calmness was baffling. 'Did he tell you to say that? How kind of him!' 'He did not stop to explain himself; he was in too great a hurry; but I thought he seemed troubled. What was the decision, Olive? Has this helped you to make it?' touching reverently the open page of a Bible that lay beside her. The brown light in Olive's eyes grew steady and intense; she looked like one who had found rest in a certainty. 'I have just been preaching to myself from that text: "He that putteth his hand to the plough and looketh backward," you know, Aunt Milly. Well, that seems to point as truly to me as it does to Mr. Marsden.' 'Yes, dearest,' replied Mildred, softly; 'and now what has he said to you?' 'I hardly know myself,' was the low-toned answer. 'I have been thinking it all over, and I cannot now understand how it was; it seems so wonderful that any one could care enough for me,' speaking to herself, with a soft, bewildered smile. 'Does Mr. Marsden care for you. I thought so from the first, Olive.' 'I suppose he does, or else he would not have said what he did; it was difficult to know his meaning at first, he was so embarrassed, and I was so slow; but we understood each other at last.' 'Tell me all he said, dear,' pleaded Mildred. Could it be her own love story that Olive was treating so simply? There was a chord of sadness in her voice, and a film gathered over the brightness of her eyes, but there was no agitation in her manner; the deep of her soul might be touched, but the surface was calm. 'There is not much to tell, Aunt Milly, but of course you may know all. We had said good-bye, and I had spoken a word or two about his work, and how I thought it the most beautiful work that a man could do, and then he asked me if I should ever be willing to share in it.' 'Well?' 'I did not understand him at first, as I told you, until he made his meaning more plain, and then I saw how it was, that he hoped that one day I might give myself heart and soul to the same work; that my talent, beautiful, as he owned it to be, might not hinder me from such a glorious reality—"the reality,"' and here for the first time she faltered and grew crimson, '"of such work as must fall to a missionary's wife."' 'Olive, my dear child,' exclaimed Mildred, now really startled, 'did he say as much as that?' 'Yes, indeed, Aunt Milly; and he asked if I could care enough for him to make such a sacrifice.' 'My dear, how very sudden.' 'It did not seem so. I cannot make out why I was not more surprised. It came to me as though I had expected it all along. Of course I told him that I liked him better than any one else I had seen, but that I never thought that any one could care for me in that way; and then I told him that while my father lived nothing would induce me to leave him.' 'And what did he say to that?' 'That he was afraid this would be my answer, but that he knew I was deciding rightly, that he had never meant to say so much, only that the last minute he could not help it; and then he begged that we might remain friends, and asked me not to forget him and his work in my prayers, and then he went away.' 'And for once in your life you decided without Aunt Milly.' The girl looked up quickly. 'Was it wrong? You could not have counselled me to give a different answer, and even if you had—' hesitating, 'Oh, I could not have said otherwise; there was no conflicting duty there, Aunt Milly.' 'Dearest, from my heart I believe you are right. Your father could ill spare you.' 'I am thankful to hear you say so. Of course,' heaving a little sigh, 'it was very hard seeing him go away like that, but I never doubted which was my duty for a moment. As long as papa and Cardie want me, nothing could induce me to leave them.' 'I suppose you will tell them this, Olive?' 'No, oh no,' she replied, shrinking back, 'that would spoil all. It would be to lose the fruit of the sacrifice; it might grieve them too. No, no one must know this but you and I, Aunt Milly; it must be sacred to us three. I told Mr. Marsden so.' 'Perhaps you are right,' returned her aunt, thoughtfully. 'Richard thinks so highly of him, he might give you no peace on the subject. When we have once made up our minds to a certain course of action, arguments are as wearying as they are fruitless, and overmuch pity is good for no one. But, dear Olive, I cannot refrain from telling you how much I honour you for this decision.' 'Honour me, Aunt Milly!' and Olive's pale face flushed with strong emotion. 'How can I help it? There are so few who really act up to their principles in this world, who when the moment for self-sacrifice comes are able cheerfully to count the cost and renounce the desire of their heart. Ah!' she continued, 'when I think of your yearning after a missionary life, and that you are giving up a woman's brightest prospect for the sake of an ailing parent, I feel that you have done a very noble thing indeed.' 'Hush, I do not deserve all this praise. I am only doing my duty.' 'True; and after all we are only unprofitable servants. I wish I had your humility, Olive. I feel as though I should be too happy sometimes if it were not for the sorrows of others. They are shadows on the sunshine. Ethel is always in my thoughts, and now you will be there too.' 'I do not think—I do not mean to be unhappy,' faltered Olive. '"God loveth a cheerful giver," I must remember that, Aunt Milly. Perhaps,' she continued, more humbly, 'I am not fit for the work. Perhaps he might be disappointed in me, and I should only drag him down. Don't you recollect what papa once said in one of his sermons about obstacles standing like the angel with the drawn sword before Balaam, to turn us from the way?' Mildred sighed. How often she had envied the childish faith which lay at the bottom of Olive's character, though hidden by the troublesome scrupulousness of a too sensitive conscience. Was the healthy growth she had noticed latterly owing to Mr. Marsden's influence, or had she really, by God's grace, trodden on the necks of her enemies? 'You must not be sorry about all this,' continued the girl, earnestly, noticing the sigh. 'You don't know how glad I am that Mr. Marsden cares for me.' 'I cannot help feeling that some day it will all come right,' returned Mildred. 'I must not think about that,' was the hurried answer. 'Aunt Milly, please never to say or hint such a thing again. It would be wrong; it would make me restless and dissatisfied. I shall always think of him as a dear friend—but—but I mean to be Olive Lambert all my life.' Mildred smiled and kissed her, and then consented very reluctantly to change the subject, but nevertheless she held to her opinion as firmly as Olive to hers. Mildred might well say that the sorrows of others shadowed her brightness. During the autumn and winter that followed her marriage her affectionate heart was often oppressed by thoughts of that dreary sickroom. Her husband had predicted from the first that only partial recovery could be expected in Mr. Trelawny's case. A few months or years of helplessness was all that remained to the once lithe and active frame of the master of Kirkleatham. It was a pitiable wreck that met Richard's eyes one fine June evening in the following year, when he went up to pay his almost daily visit. They had wheeled the invalid on to the sunny terrace that he might enjoy the beautiful view. Below them lay the old gray buildings and church of Kirkby Stephen. The pigeons were sitting in rows on the tower, preparatory to roosting in one of the unoccupied rooms; through the open door one had glimpses of the dark-painted window, with its fern-bordered ledge, and the gleaming javelins on the wall. A book lay on Ethel's lap, but she had long since left off turning the pages. The tale, simple as it was, was wearying to the invalid's oppressed brain. Her wan face brightened at the young curate's approach. 'How is he?' asked Richard in a low voice as he approached her, and dropping his voice. Ethel shook her head. 'He is very weary and wandering to-night; worse than usual, I fancy. Papa, Richard has come to see us; he is waiting to shake hands with you.' 'Richard—ay, a good lad—a good lad,' returned the sick man, listlessly. His voice was still painfully thick and indistinct, and his eyes had a dull look of vacancy. 'You must excuse my left hand, Richard,' with an attempt at his old courtliness; 'the other is numb or gone to sleep; it is of no use to me at all. Ah, I always told Lambert he ought to be proud of his sons.' 'His thoughts are running on the boys to-night,' observed Ethel, in a low voice. 'He keeps asking after Rupert, and just now he fancied I was my poor mother.' Richard gave her a grave pitying look, and turned to the invalid. 'I am glad to see you out this lovely evening,' he said, trying gently to rouse his attention, for the thin, dark face had a painful abstracted look. 'Ah, it is beautiful enough,' replied Mr. Trelawny, absently. 'I am waiting for the boys; have you seen them, Richard? Agatha sent them down to the river to bathe; she spoils them dreadfully. Rupert is a fine swimmer; he does everything well; he is his mother's favourite.' 'I think Ethel is looking pale, Mr. Trelawny. Aunt Milly has sent me to fetch her for an hour, if you can spare her?' 'I can always spare Ethel; she is not much use to me. Girls are generally in the way; they are poor things compared with boys. Where is the child, Agatha? Tell her to make haste; we must not keep Richard waiting.' 'Dear papa,' pleaded the girl, 'you are dreaming to-night. Your poor Ethel is beside you.' 'Ah, to be sure,' passing his hand wearily through his whitening hair. 'I get confused; you are so like your mother. Ask this gentleman to wheel me in, Ethel; I am getting tired.' 'Is he often like this?' asked Richard, when at last she was free to join him in the porch. The curfew bell was ringing as they walked through the dewy crofts among the tall, sleeping daisies; the cool breeze fanned Ethel's hot temples. 'Yes, very often,' she returned, in a dejected tone. 'It is this that tries me so. If he would only talk to me a little as he used to do before things went wrong; but he only seems to live in the past—his wife and his boys—but it is chiefly Rupert now.' 'And yet he seems restless without you.' 'That is the strangest part; he seems to know me through it all. There are times when he is a little clearer; when he seems to think there is something between us; and then nothing satisfies him, unless I sit beside him and hold his hand. It is so hard to hear him begging my forgiveness over and over again for some imaginary wrong he fancies he has done me.' 'Poor Ethel! Yet he was never dearer to you than he is now?' 'Never,' she returned, drying her eyes. 'Night and day he engrosses my thoughts. I seem to have no room for anything else. Do you know, Richard, I can understand now the passionate pity mothers feel for a sick child, for whom they sacrifice rest and comfort. There is nothing I would not do for papa.' 'Aunt Milly says your devotion to him is beautiful.' Ethel's face grew paler. 'You must not tell me that, Richard; you do not consider that I have to retrieve the coldness of a lifetime. After all, poor papa is right. I have not been a good daughter to him; I have been carping and disagreeable; I have presumed to sit in judgment on my own father; I have separated myself and my pursuits from his, and alienation was the result.' 'For which you were not wholly to blame,' he replied, gently, unable to hear those self-accusations unmoved. Why was she, the dearest and the truest, to go heavily all her days for sins that were not her own? 'No, you must not blame him,' she continued, beseechingly. 'Is he not bearing his own punishment? am I not bearing mine? Oh, it is dreadful!' her voice suddenly choked with strong emotion. 'Bodily sufferings I could have witnessed with far less misery than I feel at the spectacle of this helplessness and mental decay; to talk to dull ears, to arrest wandering thoughts, to listen hour after hour to confused rambling, Richard, this seems harder than anything.' 'If He—the Master I mean—fell under His cross, do we wonder that we at times sink under ours?' was the low, reverent answer. 'Ethel, I sometimes think how wonderful it will be to turn the page of suffering in another world, and, with eyes purified from earthly rheum, to spell out all the sacred meaning of the long trial that we considered so unbearable—nay, sometimes so unjust.' Ethel did not trust herself to speak, but a grateful glance answered him. It was not the first time he had comforted her with words which had sunk deep into a subdued and softened heart. She was learning her lesson now, and the task was a hard one to poor passionate human flesh and blood. If what Richard said was true, she would not have a pang too many; the sorrowful moments would be numbered to her by the same Father, without whom not even a sparrow could fall to the ground. Could she not safely trust her father to Him? 'Richard, I am always praying to come down from my cross,' she said at last, looking up at the young clergyman with sweet humid eyes. 'And after all He has fastened us there with His own hands. I suppose it is faith and patience for which one should ask, and not only relief?' 'He will give that too in His own good time,' returned Richard, solemnly, and then, as was often the case, a short silence fell between them. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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