Heriot's Choice Part 84

'Not more than he will miss us, he says. He will have it we have done him so much good; but there is one thing he feels, that Richard will soon be able to take his place. In any case he will not go until the autumn, not then if his mother be still alive.'

'Is he still so hopeless about her condition?'

'How can he be otherwise, Aunt Milly, when the doctor tells him it is only a question of time. Did you hear that he has resigned all share in the little legacy that has lately come to them? He says it will make them so comfortable that they will not need to keep their little school any longer; is it not good of him?' went on Olive, warming into enthusiasm.

'I think he has done the right thing, just what I should have expected him to do. And so you have strengthened him in his decision, Olive?'

'How could I help it?' she returned, simply. 'Can there be any life so n.o.ble, so self-denying? I told him once that I envied him, and he looked so pleased, and then the tears came into his eyes, and he seemed as though he wanted to say something, but checked himself. Do you know,'

drooping her head and speaking in a deprecating tone, 'that hearing him talk like this made me feel dissatisfied with myself and--and my work?'

'Poor little nightingale! you would rather be a working bee,' observed Mildred, smiling. This was the meaning then of the shadowed brightness she had noticed last night.

'No, but somehow I could not help feeling his work was more real. The very self-sacrifice it involves sets it apart in a higher place, and then the direct blessing, Aunt Milly,' with an effort. 'What good does my poetry do to any one but myself?'

'St. Paul speaks of the diversities of gifts,' returned Mildred, soothingly. She saw that daily contact with perfect health and intense vitality and usefulness had deadened the timid and imaginative forces that worked beneath the surface in the girl's mind; a warped sense of duty or fear from the legions of her old enemies had beset her pleasure with sick loathing--for some reason or other Olive's creative work had lain idle.

'Do you recollect the talent laid up in the napkin, Olive?'

'But if it should not be a talent, rather a temptation,' whispered the girl, under her breath. 'No, I cannot believe it is that, after all, Aunt Milly, only I have got weary about it. Have I not chosen the work I liked best--the easiest, the most attractive?'

'Do you think a repulsive service would please our beneficent Creator best?'

Olive was silent. Were the old shadows creeping round her again?

'Your work just now seems very small by the side of Mr. Marsden's. His vocation and consecration to a new work in some way, and by comparison, overshadows yours; perhaps, unconsciously, his words have left an unfavourable impression; you know how sensitive you are, Olive.'

'He never imagined that they could influence me.'

'No, he is the kindest-hearted being in the world, and would not willingly damp any one, but all the same he might unconsciously vaunt his work before your eyes; but before we decide on the reality or unreality of your talent, I want to recall something to your mind that this same good Bishop of Bloemfontein said in his paper on women's work.

I remember how greatly I was struck with it. His exact words, as far as I can remember them, were--"that work--missionary work--demands fair health, unshattered nerves, and that general equableness of spirits which so largely depends upon the physical state. A morbid mind or conscience" (mark that, Olive) "is unfit for the work."'

'But, Aunt Milly,' blus.h.i.+ng slightly, 'I never meant that I thought myself fit for mission work. You do not think that I would ever leave papa?'

'No, but a certain largeness of view may help us to exorcise the uneasy demon that is hara.s.sing you. You may not have Bloemfontein in your thoughts, but you may be trying to work yourself into the belief that G.o.d may be better pleased if you immolate your favourite and peculiar talent and devote yourself to some repugnant ministry of good works where you would probably do more harm than good.'

'I confess some such thoughts as these have been troubling me.'

'I read them in your eyes. So genius is given for no purpose but to be thrown aside like a useless toy. What a degradation of a sacred thing!

How could you be such a traitor to your own order, Olive? This vacillating mood of yours makes me ashamed.'

'I wish you would scold me out of it, Aunt Milly; you are doing me good already. Any kind of doubt makes me positively unhappy, and I really did begin to believe that I had mistaken my vocation.'

'Olive will always be Olive as long as she lives,' returned Mildred, in a grieved tone; but as the girl shrank back somewhat pained, she hastened to say--'I think doubtfulness--the inward tremblings of the fibres of hope and fear--are your peculiar temptation. How would you repel any evil suggestion that came to you, Olive--any unmistakably bad thought, I mean?'

'I would try and shut my mind to it, not look at it,' replied Olive, warmly.

'Repel it with disdain. Well, I think I should deal with your doubts in the same way; if they will not yield after a good stand-up fight, entrench yourself in your citadel and shut the door on them. Every work of G.o.d is good, is it not?'

'The Bible says so.'

'Then yours must be good, since He has given you the power and delight in putting together beautiful thoughts for the pleasure and, I trust, the benefit of His creatures, and especially as you have dedicated it to His service. What if after all you are right?' she continued, presently, 'and if it be not the very highest work, can you not be among "the little ones" that do His will? Will not this present duty and care for your father and the small daily charities that lie on your threshold suffice until a more direct call be given to you? It may come--I do not say it will not, Olive; but I am sure that the present work is your duty now.'

'You have lifted a burden off me,' returned Olive, gratefully, and there was something in the clear s.h.i.+ning of her eyes that echoed the truth of her words; 'it was not that I loved my work less, but that I tried not to love it. I like what you said, Aunt Milly, about being one of "His little ones."'

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

'YES'

'Some one came and rested there beside me, Speaking words I never thought would bless Such a loveless life. I longed to hide me, Feasting lonely on my happiness.

But the voice I heard Pleaded for a word, Till I gave my whispered answer, "Yes!"

'Yes, that little word, so calmly spoken, Changed all life for me--my own--my own!

All the cold gray spell I saw unbroken, All the twilight days seemed past and gone.

And how warm and bright, In the ruddy light, Pleasant June days of the future shone!'

Helen Marion Burnside.

It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and regret that Mildred saw the gray walls of the vicarage again. It was harder than she imagined to say good-bye to Roy, knowing that she would not see him again until the summer, but her position as nurse had long become a sinecure; the place was now rightfully usurped by his young betrothed. The sea-breezes had already proved so beneficial to his health, that it was judged that he might safely be permitted at the end of another month to resume work in the old studio, by which time idleness and love-making might be expected to lose their novelty, and Mildred hoped that Polly would settle down happily with the others, when her good sense should be convinced that an early marriage would be prejudicial to Roy's interest.

It was very strange to find Chriss the only welcoming home presence--Chriss in office was a highly ludicrous idea. She had taken advantage of her three days' housekeeping to introduce striking reforms in the _menage_, against which Nan had stormed and threatened in vain; the housemaid looked hara.s.sed, and the parlour-maid on the eve of giving warning; the little figure with the touzled curls and holland ap.r.o.n, and rattling keys, depending from the steel chatelaine, looked oddly picturesque in the house porch as the travellers drove up. When Mr.

Marsden came in after even-song to inquire after their well-being, and Richard insisted on his remaining to tea, Chriss looked mightily haughty and put on her eye-gla.s.ses, and presided at the head of the table in a majestic way that tried her aunt's gravity. 'The big young man,' as she still phrased Hugh Marsden, was never likely to be a favourite with Chriss; but she thawed presently under Mildred's genial influence; no one knew so well how to bend the p.r.i.c.kles, and draw out the wholesome sweetness that lay behind. By the end of the third cup, Chriss was able to remember perfectly that Mr. Marsden did not take sugar, and could pa.s.s his cup without a glacial stare or a tendency to imitate the swelling and ruffling out of a dignified robin.

At the end of the evening, Mildred, who had by that time grown a little weary and silent, heard the footstep in the lobby for which she had been unconsciously listening for the last two hours.

'Here comes Dr. John at last,' observed Richard, in strange echo of her thought. 'I expected he would have met us at the station, but I suppose he was called away as usual.'

Dr. Heriot gave no clue to his absence. He shook hands very quietly with Mildred, and hoped that she was not tired, and then turned to Richard for news of the invalid; and when that topic was exhausted, seemed disposed to relapse into a brown study, from which Mildred curiously did not care to wake him.

She was quite content to see him sitting there in his old place, playing absently with her paper-knife, and dropping a word here and there, but oftener listening to the young men's conversation. Hugh was eagerly discussing the Bloemfontein question. He and Richard had been warmly debating the subject for the last hour. Richard was sympathetic, but he had a notion his friend was throwing himself away.

'We don't want to lose such men as you out of England, Marsden, that's the fact. I have always looked upon you as just the sort of hard worker for a parish at the East end of London. Look at our city Arabs; it strikes me there is room for missionary work there--not but what South Africa has a demand on us too.'

'When a man feels he has a call, there is nothing more to be said,'

replied Hugh, striking himself energetically on his broad chest, and speaking in his most powerful ba.s.s. 'One has something to give up, of course; all colonial careers involve a degree of hards.h.i.+p and self-sacrifice; not that I agree with your sister in thinking either the one or the other point to the right decision. Because we may consider it our duty to undertake a pilgrimage, it does not follow we need have pebbles or peas in our shoes, or that the stoniest road is the most direct.'

'Of course not.'

'We don't need these by-laws to guide us; there's plenty of hards.h.i.+p everywhere, and I hope no amount would frighten me from any work I undertake conscientiously. It may be pleasanter to remain in England. I am rather of your opinion myself; but, all the same, when a man feels he has a call----'

'I should be the last to dissuade him from it; I only want you to look at the case in all its bearing. I believe after all you are right, and that I should do the same in your place.'

'One ought never to decide too hastily for fear of regretting it afterwards,' put in Dr. Heriot. Mildred gave him a half-veiled glance.

Why was he so quiet and abstracted, she wondered? Another time he would have entered with animation into the subject, but now some grave thought sealed his lips. Could it be that Polly's decision had had more effect on him than he had chosen to avow--that he felt lonely and out of spirits? She watched timidly for some opportunity of testing her fears; she was almost sure that he was dull or troubled about something.

'Some people are so afraid of deciding wrong that they seldom arrive at any decision at all,' returned Hugh, with one of his great laughs.