Heriot's Choice Part 56

'Do you hear Heriot's gone and made a fool of himself?' he said, as he sat facing her at table; 'he has engaged himself to that ward of his; why, he is twenty years older than the girl if he is a day!'

'Papa, do you know what you are saying?' expostulated Ethel; the audacity of the statement bewildered her; she would have scorned herself for her credulity if she had believed him. Dr. Heriot--their Dr. Heriot!

No, she would not so malign his wisdom.

The quiet scepticism of her manner excited Mr. Trelawny's wrath.

'You women all set such store by Heriot,' he returned, sneeringly; 'everything he did was right in your eyes; you can't believe he would be caught like other men by a pretty face, eh?'

'No, I cannot believe it,' she returned, still firmly.

'Then you may go into the town and hear it for yourself,' he continued, taking up his paper with a pretence of indifference, but his keen eyes still watched her from beneath it. Was it only her usual obstinacy, or was she really incredulous of his tidings? 'I had it from Davidson, who had congratulated the Doctor himself that morning,' he continued, sullenly; 'he said he never saw him look better in his life; the girl was with him.'

'But not Polly--you cannot mean Polly Ellison?' and now Ethel turned strangely white. 'Papa, there must be some mistake about it all. I--I will go and see Mildred.'

'You may spare yourself that trouble,' returned Mr. Trelawny, gloomily.

Ethel's changing colour, her evident pain, were not lost upon him.

'There may be a chance for Cathcart still,' was his next thought; 'women's hearts as well as men are often caught at the rebound; she'll have him out of pique--who knows?' and softened by this latter reflection he threw down his paper, and continued almost graciously--

'Yes, you may spare yourself that trouble, for I met Miss Lambert myself this afternoon.'

'And you spoke to her?' demanded Ethel, with almost trembling eagerness.

'I spoke to her, of course; we had quite a long talk, till she said the sun was in her eyes, and walked on. She seemed surprised that I had heard the news already, said it was so like Kirkby Stephen gossip, but corroborated it by owning that they were all as much in the dark as we were; but Miss Ellison being such a child, no one had thought of such a thing.'

'Was that all she said? Did she look as well as usual? I have not seen her for nearly a fortnight, you know,' answered Ethel, apologetically.

'I can't say I noticed. Miss Lambert would be a nice-looking woman if she did not dress so dowdily; but she looked worse than ever this morning,' grumbled the Squire, who was a _connoisseur_ in woman's dress, and had eyed Mildred's brown hat and gray gingham with marked disfavour.

'She said the sun made her feel a little faint, and then she sent her love to you and moved away. I think we might as well do the civil and call at the vicarage this afternoon; we shall see the bride-elect herself then,' and Ethel, who dared not refuse, agreed very unwillingly.

The visit was a trying ordeal for every one concerned. Polly indeed looked her prettiest, and blushed very becomingly over the Squire's laboured compliments, though, to do him justice, they were less hollow than usual; he was too well pleased at the match not to relapse a little from his frigidity.

'You must convince my daughter--she has chosen to be very sceptical,' he said, with a side-long look at Ethel, who just moved her lips and coloured slightly. She had kissed Polly in her ordinary manner, with no special effusion, and added a quiet word or two, and then she had sat down by Mildred.

'Polly looks very pretty and very happy, does she not?' asked Mildred after a time, lifting her quiet eyes to Ethel.

'I beg your pardon--yes, she looks very nice,' returned Ethel, absently.

'I suppose I ought to say I am glad about this,' she continued with some abruptness as Mildred took up her work again, and sewed with quick even st.i.tches, 'but I cannot; I am sorry, desperately sorry. She is a dear little soul, I know, but all the same I think Dr. Heriot has acted foolishly.'

'My dear Ethel,--hush, they will hear you!' The busy fingers trembled a little, but Mildred did not again raise her eyes.

'I do not care who hears me; he is just like other men. I am disappointed in him; I will have no Mentor now but you, Mildred.'

'Dr. Heriot has done nothing to deserve your scorn,' returned Mildred, but her cheek flushed a little. Did she know that instinctively Ethel had guessed her secret, that her generous heart throbbed with sympathy for a pain which, hidden as it was, was plainly legible to her clear-sightedness? 'We ought all to be glad that he has found comfort at last,' she said, a little unsteadily.

Ethel darted a singular look at her, admiring, yet full of pain.

'I am not so short-sighted as you. I am sorry for a good man's mistake--for it is a mistake, whatever you may say, Mildred. Polly is pretty and good, but she is not good enough for him. And then, he is more than double her age!'

'I thought that would be an additional virtue in your eyes,' returned Mildred, pointedly. She was sufficiently mistress of herself and secure enough in her quiet strength to be able to retaliate in a gentle womanly way. Ethel coloured and changed her ground.

'They have nothing in common. She is nice, but then she is not clever; you know yourself that her abilities are not above the average, Mildred.'

'Dr. Heriot does not like clever women, he has often said so; Olive would not suit him at all.'

'I never thought of Olive,' in a piqued voice. Ethel was losing her temper over Mildred's calmness. 'I am aware plain people are not to his taste.'

'No, Polly pleases him there; and then, she is so sweet.'

'I should have thought him the last man to care for insipid sweetness,'

began Ethel, stormily, but Mildred stopped her with unusual warmth.

'You are wrong there; there is nothing insipid about Polly; she is bright, and good, and true-hearted; you undervalue his choice when you say such things, Ethel. Polly's extreme youthfulness and gaiety of spirits have misled you.'

'How lovingly you defend your favourite, Mildred; you shall not hear another word in her disparagement. What does he call her? Mary?'

'No, Polly; but I believe he has plenty of pet names for her.'

'Yes, he will pet her--ah, I understand, and I am not to scorn him. I am not to call him foolish, Mildred?'

'Of course not. Why should you?'

'Ah, why should I? Papa, it is time for us to be going; you have talked to Miss Ellison long enough. My pretty bird,' as Polly stole shyly up to them, 'I have not wished you joy yet, but it is not always to be had for the wishing.'

'I wish every one would not be so kind,' stammered Polly. Mr. Trelawny's condescension and elaborate compliments had almost overwhelmed the poor little thing.

'How the child blushes! I wonder you are not afraid of such a grave Mentor, Polly.'

'Oh, no, he is too kind for that--is he not, Aunt Milly?'

'I hope you do not make Mildred the umpire,' replied Ethel, watching them both. 'Oh these men!' she thought to herself, as she dropped the girl's hand; her eyes grew suddenly dim as she stooped and kissed Mildred's pale cheek. 'Good--there is no one worthy of you,' she said to herself; 'he is not--he never will be now.'

'People are almost too kind; I wish they would not come and talk to me so,' Polly said, with one of her pretty pouts, as she walked with Dr.

Heriot that evening. He was a little shy of courting in public, and loved better to have her with him in one of their quiet walks; this evening he had come again to fetch her, and Mildred had given him some instruction as to the length and duration of their walk.

'Had you not better come with us?' he had said to her, as though he meant it; but Mildred shook her head with a slight smile. 'We shall all meet you at Ewbank Scar; it is better for you to have the child to yourself for a little,' she had replied.

Polly wished that Aunt Milly had come with them after all. Dearly as she loved her kind guardian and friend, she was still a little shy of him; a consciousness of girlish incompleteness, of undeveloped youth, haunted her perpetually. Polly was sufficiently quick-witted to feel her own deficiencies. How should she ever be able to satisfy him? she thought.

Aunt Milly could talk so beautifully to him, and even Olive had brief spasms of eloquence. Polly felt sometimes as she listened to them as though she were craning her neck to look over a wall at some unknown territory with strange elevations and giddy depths, and wide bridgeless rivers meandering through it.

Suppositions, vague imaginations, oppressed her; Polly could talk sensibly in a grave matter-of-fact way, and at times she had a pretty _piquante_ language of her own; but Chriss's erudition, and Olive's philosophy, and even Mildred's gentle sermonising, were wearying to her.

'I can talk about what I have seen and what I have heard and read,' she said once, 'but I cannot play at talk--make believe--as you grown-up children do. I think it is hard,' continued practical Polly, 'that Aunt Milly, who has seen nothing, and has been shut up in a sickroom all the best years of her life, can spin yards of talk where I cannot say a word.' But Dr. Heriot found no fault with his young companion; on the contrary, Polly's _navete_ and freshness were infinitely refreshing to the weary man, who, as he told himself, had lived out the best years of his life. He looked at her now as she uttered her childish complaint.

One little gloved hand rested on his arm, the other held up the long skirts daintily, under the broad-brimmed hat a pretty oval face dimpled and blushed with every word.

'If people would only not be so kind--if they would let me alone,' she grumbled.

'That is a singular grievance, Polly,' returned Dr. Heriot, smiling; 'happiness ought not to make us selfish.'