Heriot's Choice Part 27

Ethel arched her eyebrows slightly, 'Mentor approves then?'

'Can you doubt it?' in a more serious tone. 'I feel we may still have hopes of you;' then turning to Mildred, with the play of fun still in his eyes, 'Our aside baffles you, Miss Lambert. Miss Trelawny is good enough to style me her Mentor, which means that she has given me a right to laugh at her nonsense and talk sense to her sometimes.'

'You are too bad,' returned Ethel in a low voice; but she was evidently hurt by the raillery, gentle as it was.

'Miss Trelawny forms such extravagant ideals of men and women, that no one but a moral Anak can possibly reach to her standard; the rest of us have to stand tiptoe in the vain effort to raise ourselves.'

'Dr. Heriot, how can you be so absurd?' laughed Mildred.

'It must be very fatiguing to stand on tiptoe all one's life; perhaps we might feel a difficulty of breathing in your rarer atmosphere, Miss Trelawny--fancy one's ideas being always in full dress, from morning to night. When you marry, do you always mean to dish up philosophy with your husband's breakfast?'

The hot colour mounted to Ethel's forehead.

'I give you warning that he will yawn over it sometimes, and refresh himself by talking to his dogs; even Bayard, that peerless knight, _sans peur_ and _sans reproche_, could be a little sulky at times, you may depend on it!'

'Bayard is not my hero now,' she returned, trying to pluck up a little spirit with which to answer him. 'I have decided lately in favour of Sir Philip Sidney, as my beau-ideal of an English gentleman.'

'Rex and I chose him for our favourite ages ago,' observed Richard eagerly, who until now had remained silent.

'Yes,' continued Ethel, enthusiastically, 'that one act of unselfishness has invested him with the reverence of centuries; can you not fancy the awful temptation, Mildred--the death thirst under the scorching sun, the unendurable agony of untended wounds, the cup of cold water, just tasted and refused for the sake of the poor wretch lying beside him; one could lay down one's life for such a man as that!'

'Yes, it was a gentlemanly action,' observed Dr. Heriot, coolly; and as Ethel's face expressed resentment at the phrase, 'have you ever thought how much is comprehended under the term gentleman? To me the word is fuller and more comprehensive than that of hero; your heroes are such noisy fellows; there is always a sound of the harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer about them; and they pa.s.s their life in fitting their att.i.tudes to their pedestal.'

'Dr. John is riding one of his favourite hobbies,' observed Richard, in a low voice. 'Never mind, he admires Sir Philip as much as we do!'

'True, Cardie; but though I do not deny the heroism of the act, I maintain that many a man in his place would do the same thing. Have we no stories of heroism in our Crimean annals? Amongst the hideous details of the Indian mutiny were there no deeds that might match that of the dying soldier at Zutphen?'

'Perhaps so; but all the same I have a right to my own ideal.'

A mocking smile swept over Dr. Heriot's face.

'Virtue in an Elizabethan ruff surpa.s.ses virtue clad in nineteenth century broadcloth and fustian. I suspect even in your favourite Sir Philip's case distance lends enchantment to the view; he wrote very sweetly on Arcadia, but who knows but a twinge of the gout may not have made him cross?'

'How you persist in misunderstanding me,' returned Ethel, with a touch of feeling in her voice. 'I suppose as usual I have brought this upon myself, but why will you believe that I am so hard to please? After all you are right; Bayard and Sir Philip Sidney are only typical characters of their day; there must be great men even in this generation.'

'There are downright honest men--men who are not ashamed to confess to flaws and inconsistencies, and possible twinges of gout.'

'There you spoil all,' said Mildred, with an amused look; but Dr.

Heriot's mischievous mood was not to be restrained.

'One of these honest fellows with a tolerably tough will, and not an ounce of imagination in his whole composition--positively of the earth, earthy--will strike the right chord that is to bring Hermione from off her pedestal--don't frown, Miss Trelawny; you may depend upon it those old Turks were right, and there is a fate in these things.'

Ethel curved her long neck superbly, and turned with a slightly contemptuous expression to Richard: her patience was exhausted.

'I think my father will be wondering what has become of me; will you take me to him?'

'There they go, Ethel and her knight; how little she knows that perhaps her fate is beside her; they are too much of an age, but that lad has the will of half a dozen men.'

'Why do you tease her so?' remonstrated Mildred. Dr. Heriot still retained his seat comfortably beside her. 'She is very girlish and romantic, but she hardly deserved such biting sarcasms.'

'Was I sarcastic?' he asked, evidently surprised. 'Poor child! I would not have hurt her for the world. And these luxuriant fancies need pruning; hers is a fine nature run to seed for want of care and proper nurture.'

'I think she needs sympathy,' returned gentle Mildred.

'Then she has sought it in the right quarter,' with a look she could hardly misunderstand, 'and where the supply is always equal to the demand; but I warn you she is somewhat of an egotist.'

'Oh no!' warmly. 'I am sure Miss Trelawny is not selfish.'

'That depends how you interpret the phrase. She would give you all her jewels without a sigh, but you must allow her to talk out all her fine feeling in return. After all, she is only like others of her s.e.x.'

'You are in one of your misanthropical moods.'

'Men are not always feeling their own pulse and detailing their moral symptoms, depend upon it; it is quite a feminine weakness, Miss Lambert.

I think I know one woman tolerably free from the disease, at least outwardly;' and as Mildred blushed under the keen, yet kindly look, Dr.

Heriot somewhat abruptly changed the subject.

CHAPTER XII

THE WELL-MEANING MISCHIEF-MAKER

'And in that shadow I have pa.s.s'd along, Feeling myself grow weak as it grew strong; Walking in doubt and searching for the way, And often at a stand--as now to-day.

Perplexities do throng upon my sight Like scudding fogbanks, to obscure the light; Some new dilemma rises every day, And I can only shut my eyes and pray.'--Anon.

Mildred had been secretly reproaching herself for allowing Dr. Heriot's pleasing conversation so completely to monopolise her, and even her healthy conscience felt a pang something like remorse when, half an hour later, they came upon Olive sitting alone on a tree-trunk, having evidently stolen apart from her companions to indulge un.o.bserved in one of her usual reveries.

She was too much absorbed to notice them till addressed by name, and then, to Mildred's surprise, she started, coloured from chin to brow, and, muttering some excuse, seemed only anxious to effect her escape.

'I hope you are not composing an Ode to Melancholy,' observed Dr.

Heriot, with one of his quizzical looks. 'You look like a forsaken wood-nymph, or a disconsolate Chloe, or Jacques' sobbing deer, or any other uncomfortable image of loneliness. What an unsociable creature you are, Olive.'

'Why are you not with Chrissy and the Chestertons? I hope we have not all neglected you,' interposed Mildred in her soft voice, for she saw that Olive shrank from Dr. Heriot's good-humoured raillery. 'Are you tired, dear? Roy has not ordered the carriage for another hour, I am afraid.'

'No, I am not tired; I was only thinking. I will find Chriss,' returned Olive, stammering and blushing still more under her aunt's affectionate scrutiny. 'Don't come with me, please, Aunt Milly. I like being alone.'

And before Mildred could answer, she had disappeared down a little side-walk, and was now lost to sight.

Dr. Heriot laughed at Mildred's discomposed look.

'You remind me of the hen when she hatched the duckling and found it taking kindly to the unknown element. You must get used to Olive's odd ways; she is decidedly original. I should not wonder if we disturbed her in the first volume of some wonderful scheme-book, where all the heroines are martyrs and the hero is a full-length portrait of Richard.

I warn you all her _denouements_ will be disastrous. Olive does not believe in happiness for herself or other people.'

'How hard you are on her!' returned Mildred, finding it impossible to restrain a smile; but in reality she felt a little anxious. Olive had seemed more than usually absorbed during the last few days; there was a concentrated gravity in her manner that had struck Mildred more than once, but all questioning had been in vain. 'I am not unhappy--at least, not more than usual. I am only thinking out some troublesome thoughts,'