Heriot's Choice Part 54

She had planned it all out. There must be no faltering, no flinching; not a moment must be unoccupied. Work must be found, new interests sought after, heart-sickness subdued by labour and fatigue; there was only idleness to be dreaded, so she told herself.

It has been often said by cynical writers that women are better actors than men; that they will at times play out a part in the dreary farce of life that is quite foreign to their real character, dressing their face with smiles while their heart is still sore within them.

But Mildred was not one of these; she had been taught in no ordinary school of adversity. In the dimness of that seven years' seclusion she had learnt lessons of fort.i.tude and endurance that would have baffled the patience of weaker women. Flesh and blood might shrink from the unequal combat, but her courage would not fail; her strength, fed from the highest sources, would still be found sufficient.

Henceforth for Mildred Lambert there should s.h.i.+ne the light of a day that was not 'clear nor dark;' she knew that for her no dazzling sunrise of requited love should flood her woman's kingdom with brightness; happiness must be replaced by duty, by the quiet contentment of a heart 'at leisure from itself.'

'There is no trouble unendurable but sin,' she had said to herself. Oh, that other poor sufferers--sufferers in heart, in this world's good things--would lay this truth to their souls! It would rob sorrow of its sting, it would lift the deadly mists from the charnel-house itself. For to the Mildreds of life religion is no Sunday garb, to be laid aside when the week-day burdens press heaviest; no garbled mixture of sentiment and symbolic rites, of lip-wors.h.i.+p and heart freedom, tolerated by 'the civilised heathenism' of the present day, for in their heart they know that to the Christian, suffering is a privilege, not a punishment; that from the days of Calvary 'Take up thy cross and follow Me' is the literal command literally obeyed by the true followers of the great Master of suffering.

Mildred was resolved to tolerate no weakness; she dressed herself quickly, and was down at the usual time. 'How old and faded I look,' she thought, as she caught the reflection of herself in the gla.s.s.

Her changed looks would excite comment, she knew, and she braced herself to meet it with tolerable equanimity; a sleepless night could be pleaded as an excuse for heavy eyes and swollen eyelids. Polly indeed seemed disposed to renew her soft manipulations and girlish officiousness, but Mildred contrived to put them aside. 'She was going down to the schools, and after that there were the old women at the workhouse and at Nateby,'

she said, with the quiet firmness which always made Aunt Milly's decrees unalterable. 'Her girls must take care of themselves until she returned.'

'Charity begins at home, Aunt Milly. I am sure Olive and I are worth a score of old women,' grumbled Polly, who in season and out of season was given to clatter after Mildred in her little high-heeled shoes.

Dr. Heriot's ward was becoming a decidedly fas.h.i.+onable young lady; the pretty feet were set off by silver buckles, Polly's heels tapped the floor endlessly as she tripped hither and thither; Polly's long skirts, always crisp and rustling, her fresh dainty muslins, her toy ap.r.o.ns and s.h.i.+ning ribbons, were the themes of much harmless criticism; the little hands were always faultlessly gloved; London-marked boxes came to her perpetually, with Roy's saucy compliments; wonderful ruby and cream-coloured ribbons were purchased with the young artist's scanty savings. Nor was Dr. Heriot less mindful of the innocent vanity that somehow added to Polly's piquancy. The little watch that ticked at her waist, the gold chain and locket, the girlish ring with its turquoise heart, were all the gifts of the kind guardian and friend.

Dr. Heriot's bounty was unfailing. The newest books found their way to Olive's and Mildred's little work-tables; Chriss was made happy by additions to her menagerie of pets; a gray parrot, a Skye terrier whose s.h.a.ggy coat swept the ground, even pink-eyed rabbits found their way to the vicarage; the grand silk dresses that Dr. Heriot had sent down on Polly's last birthday for her and Olive were nothing in Chriss's eyes compared to Fritter-my-wig, who could smoke, draw corks, bark like a dog, and reduce Veteran Rag to desperation by a vision of concealed cats on the stable wall. Chriss's oddities were not disappearing with her years--indeed she was still the same captious little person as of old; with her bright eyes and tawny-coloured mane she was decidedly picturesque, though stooping shoulders, and the eye-gla.s.s her short-sight required, detracted somewhat from her good looks.

On any sunny afternoon she could be seen sitting on the low step leading to the lawn, her parrot, Fritter-my-wig, on her shoulder, and Tatters and Witch at her feet, and most likely a volume of Euripides on her lap.

The quaint little figure, the red-brown touzle of curls, the short striped skirt, and gold eye-gla.s.ses, struck Roy on one of his rare visits home; one of his most charming pictures was painted from the recollection. 'There was an Old Woman,' it was called. Chriss objected indignantly to the dolls that were introduced, though Roy gravely a.s.sured her that he had adhered to Hugh's beautiful idea of the twelve months.

Polly had some reason for her discontent and grumbling. The weather had changed, and heavy summer rains seemed setting in, and Mildred's plan for her day did not savour of prudence. It suited Mildred's sombre thoughts better than suns.h.i.+ne; she went upstairs almost cheerfully, and took out a gray cloak that was Polly's favourite aversion on the score that it reminded her of a Sister-of-Charity cloak. 'Not that I do not love and honour Sisters,' she had added by way of excuse, 'but I should not like you to be one, Aunt Milly,' and Mildred had hastened to a.s.sure her that she had never felt it to be her vocation.

She remembered Polly's speech now as she shook out the creases; the straight, long folds, the un.o.btrusive colour, somehow suited her. 'I think people who are not young ought always to dress in black or gray,'

she said to herself; 'b.u.t.terfly colours are only fit for girls. I should like nothing better than to be allowed to hide all this hair under a cap and Quaker's bonnet.' And yet, as she said this, Mildred remembered with a sudden pang that Dr. Heriot had once observed in her hearing that she had beautiful hair.

She went on bravely through the day--no work came amiss to her; after a time she ceased even to feel fatigue. Once the crowded schoolroom would have made her head ache after the first hour or so, but now she sat quite pa.s.sive, with the girls sewing round her, and the boys spelling out their tasks with incessant buzz and movement.

The old women in the workhouse did not tire her with their complaints; she sat for a long time by the side of one old creature who was bedridden and palsied; the idiot girl--alas! she was forty years old--blinked at her with small dazed eyes, as she showed her the gaily-coloured pictures she had pasted on rag for her amus.e.m.e.nt, and followed her contentedly up and down the long whitewashed wards.

In the cottages she was as warmly welcomed as ever; one sick child, whom she had often visited, held out his little arms and ceased crying with pain when he saw her. Mildred laid aside her damp cloak, and walked up and down the flagged kitchen for a long time with the boy's head on her shoulder; singing to him with her low sweet voice.

'Ay, but he's terrible fond of you, poor thing!' exclaimed the mother gratefully. She was an invalid too, and lay on a board beside the empty fireplace, looking out of the low latticed window crowded with flower-pots. The other children gathered round her, plucking her skirt shyly, and listening to Mildred's cooing voice; the little fellow's blue eyes seemed closing drowsily, one small blackened hand stole very near Mildred's neck.

'There's a home for little children Above the bright blue sky,'

sang Mildred.

'Ay, Jock; but, thoo lile varment, thoo'll nivver gang oop if thou bealst like a bargeist,' whispered the woman to a white-headed urchin beside her, who seemed disposed for a roar.

'I cares lile--nay, I dunn't,' muttered Jock, contumaciously; to Jock's unregenerated mind the white robes and the palms seemed less tempting than the shouts of his little companions outside. 'There's lile Geordie and Dawson's Sue,' he grumbled, rubbing his eyes with his dirty fists.

'Gang thee thy ways, or I'll fetch thee a skelp wi' my stick,' returned the poor mother, weary of the discussion, and Jock scampered off, nothing loth.

Mildred sang her little hymn all through as the boy's head drooped heavily on her shoulder; as she walked up and down, her dreamy eyes had a far-off look in them, and yet nothing escaped her notice. She saw the long rafter over her head, with the Sunday boots and shoes neatly arranged on it, with bunches of faint-smelling herbs hanging below them; the adjoining door was open, the large bare room, with its round table and bedstead, and heaped up coals on the floor, was plainly visible to her, as well as its lonely occupant darning black stockings in the window.

'After all, was she as lonely,' she thought, 'as Bett Hutchinson, who lived by herself, with only a tabby cat for company, and kept her coal-cellar in her bedroom? and yet, though Bett had weak eyes and weak nerves, and was clean out of her wits on the subject of the boggle family, from the "boggle with twa heeds" down to Jock's "bargheist ahint the yat-stoop."'

Bett's superst.i.tion was a household word with her neighbours, 'daft Bett and her boggles' affording a mine of entertainment to the gossips of Nateby. Mildred, and latterly Hugh Marsden, had endeavoured to reason Bett out of her fancies, but it was no use. 'I saw summut--nay, nay, I saw summut,' she always persisted. 'I was a'most daft--'twas t'boggle, and nought else,' she murmured.

Mildred was no weak girl, to go moaning about the world because her heart must be emptied of its chief treasure. Bett's penurious loneliness read her a salutary lesson; her own life, saddened as it was, grew rich by comparison. '"If in mercy Thou wilt spare joys that yet are mine,"'

she whispered, as she laid the sleeping child down in the wooden cot and spread the patched quilt lovingly over him.

Jock grinned at her from behind an oyster-sh.e.l.l and mud erection; lile Geordie and Dawson's Sue were with him. 'Aw've just yan hawpenny left,'

she heard him say as she pa.s.sed.

Mildred had finished the hardest day's work that she had ever done in her life, but she knew that it was not yet over. Dr. Heriot was not one to linger over a generous impulse; 'If it is worth doing at all, one should do it at once,' was a favourite maxim of his.

Mildred knew well what she had to expect. She was only thankful that the summer's dusk allowed her to slip past the long French window that always stood open. They were lighting the lamp already--some one, probably Olive, had asked for it. A voice, that struck Mildred cold with a sudden anguish, railed playfully against bookworms who could not afford a blind-man's holiday.

'He is here; of course I knew how it would be,' she murmured, as she groped her way a little feebly up the stairs. She would have given much for a quiet half-hour in her room, but it was not to be; the tapping sound she dreaded already struck upon her ear, the crisp rustle of garments in the pa.s.sage, then the faint knock and timid entrance. 'I knew it was Polly. Come in; do you want me, my dear?' the tired voice striving bravely after cheerfulness.

'Aunt Milly--oh, Aunt Milly!--I thought you would never come;' and in the dark two soft little hands clasped her tight, and a burning face hid itself in her neck. 'Oh,' with a sort of gasp, 'I have wanted my Aunt Milly so badly!'

Then the n.o.ble, womanly heart opened with a great rush of tenderness, and took in the girl who had so unconsciously become a rival.

'What is this, my pet--not tears, surely?' for Polly had laid her head down, and was sobbing hysterically with excitement and relief.

'I cannot help it. I was longing all the time for papa to know; and then it was all so strange, and I thought you would never come. I shall be more comfortable now,' sobbed Polly, with a girlish abandon of mingled happiness and grief. 'Directly I heard your step outside the window I made an excuse to get away to you.'

'I ought not to have left you--it was wrong; but, no, it could not be helped,' returned Mildred, in a low voice. She pressed the girl to her, and stroked the soft hair with cold, trembling fingers. 'Are those happy tears, my pet? Hush, you must not cry any more now.'

'They do me good. I felt as though I were some one else downstairs, not Polly at all. Oh, Aunt Milly, can you believe it?--do you think it is all real?'

'What is real? You have told me nothing yet, remember. Shall I guess, Polly? Is it a great secret--a very great secret, my darling?'

'Aunt Milly, as though you did not know, when he told me that you and he had had a long talk about it yesterday!'

'He--Dr. Heriot, I suppose you mean?'

'He says I must call him something else now,' returned the girl in a whisper, 'but I have told him I never shall. He will always be Dr.

Heriot to me--always. I don't like his other name, Aunt Milly; no one does.'

'John--I think it beautiful!' with a certain sharp pain in her voice.

She remembered how he had once owned to her that no one had called him by this name since he was a boy. He had been christened John Heriot--John Heriot Heriot--and his wife had always called him Heriot.

'Only my mother ever called me John,' he had said in a regretful tone, and Mildred had softly repeated the name after him.

'It has always been my favourite name,' she had owned with that simplicity that was natural to her; and his eyes had glistened as though he were well-pleased.

'It is beautiful; it reminds one of St. John. I have always liked it,'

she said a little quickly.

'His wife called him Heriot; yes, I know, he told me--but I am so young, and he--well, he is not exactly old, Aunt Milly, but----'

'Do you love him, Polly?--child, do you really love him?' and for a moment Mildred put the girl from her with a sort of impatience and irritation of suspense. Polly's pretty face was suffused with hot blushes when she came back to her place again.