Heriot's Choice Part 74

'You look f.a.gged, Cardie; and no wonder--it must have been dreadful for you alone.'

'Mrs. Madison was with me. I would not have been without her; she is a capital nurse, whatever Rex may say. At one time I got alarmed; the pain in the side increased, and the distressed breathing was painful to hear, the pulse reaching to a great height. I fancied once or twice that he was a little light-headed.'

'Very probably,' returned Dr. Heriot, gravely, placing himself quietly between Mildred and the fire, as she shielded her face from the flame.

'I cannot understand how such a state of things should be. I always thought Roy's a tolerably sound const.i.tution; nothing ever seemed to give him cold.'

'He has never been right since he was laid up with his foot,' replied Richard, with a slight hesitation in his manner. 'He did foolish things, Mrs. Madison told me: took long walks after painting-hours in the fog and rain, and on more than one occasion forgot to change his wet things.

She noticed he had a cold and cough, and tried once or twice to dissuade him from venturing out in the damp, but he only laughed at her precautions. I am afraid he has been very reckless,' finished Richard, with a sigh, which Dr. Heriot echoed. Alas! he understood too well the cause of Roy's recklessness.

Polly had been shrinking into a corner all this time, her cheeks paling with every word; but now Dr. Heriot, without apparently noticing her agitation, placed her in a great arm-chair beside the table, and insisted that she should make tea for them all.

'We have reason to be thankful that the inflammation has subsided,' he said, gravely. 'From what Richard tells us he has certainly run a great risk, but I must see him and judge for myself.' And as Richard looked doubtfully at Mildred, he continued, decidedly, 'You need not fear that my presence will hara.s.s or excite him, if he be as ill as you describe.

I will take the responsibility of the act on myself.'

'It will be a great relief to my mind, I confess,' replied Richard, in a low voice. 'I like Dr. Blenkinsop, but still a second opinion would be a great satisfaction to all of us; and then, you know him so well.'

'Are you sure it will not be a risk?' whispered Polly, as he stood beside her. She slid a hot little hand into his as she spoke, 'Heriot, are you sure it will be wise?'

'Trust me,' was his sole reply; but the look that accompanied it might well rea.s.sure her, it was so full of pity for her and Roy; it seemed to say that he so perfectly understood her, that as far as in him lay he would take care of them both.

Poor Polly! she spent a forlorn half-hour when the others had left; strange terrors oppressed her; a gnawing pain, for which she knew no words, fevered and kept her restless.

What if Roy should die? What if the dear companion of her thoughts, and hopes, should suddenly be s.n.a.t.c.hed from them in the first fervour of youth? Would she ever cease to reproach herself that she had so misunderstood him? Would not the consequences of his unhappy recklessness (ah, they little knew how they stabbed her there) lie heavily on her head, however innocent she might own herself?

Perhaps in his boyish way he had wooed her, and she had failed to comprehend his wooing. How many times he had told her that she was dearer to him than Olive and Chriss, that she was the sunshine of his home, that he cared for nothing unless Polly shared it; and she had smiled happily over such evidence of his affection.

Had she ever understood him?

She remembered once that he had brought her some trinket that had pleased his fancy, and insisted on her always wearing it for his sake, and she had remonstrated with him on its costliness.

'You must not spend all your money on me, Rex. It is not right,' she had said to him more seriously than usual; 'you know how Aunt Milly objects to extravagance; and then it will make the others jealous, you know. I am not your sister--not your real sister, I mean.'

'If you were, I should not have bought you this,' he had answered, laughing, and clasping it with boyish force on her arm. 'Polly, what a child you are! when will you be grown up?' and there was an expression in his eyes that she had not understood.

A hundred such remembrances seemed crowding upon her, Would other girls have been as blind in her place? Would they not have more rightly interpreted the loving looks and words that of late he had lavished upon her? Doubtless in his own way he had been wooing her, but no such thought had entered her mind, never till she had heard his bitter words, 'You are Heriot's now, Polly,' had she even vaguely comprehended his meaning.

And now she had gone near to break his heart and her own too, for if Roy should die, she verily believed that hers would be broken by the sheer weight of remorseful pity. Ah, if he would only live, and she might care for him as though he were her own brother, how happy they might be still, for Polly's heart was still loyal to her guardian. But this suspense was not to be borne, and, unable to control her restlessness any longer, Polly moved with cautious steps across the room, and peeped fearfully into the dark pa.s.sage.

She knew exactly where Roy's room was. He had often described to her the plan of the cottage. Across the pa.s.sage was a little odd-shaped room, full of cupboards, which was Mrs. Madison's sitting-room. The kitchen was behind, and to the left there was a small garden-room where the young men kept their boots, and all manner of miscellaneous rubbish, in company with Mrs. Madison's geraniums and cases of stuffed birds.

A few winding, crooked stairs led to Roy's room; Mr. Dugald's was a few steps higher; beyond, there was a perfect nest of rooms hidden down a dark pa.s.sage; there were old musty cupboards everywhere; a clear scent of dry lavender pervaded the upper regions; a swinging lamp burnt dimly in a sort of alcove leading to Roy's room. As Polly groped her way cautiously, a short, yapping sound was distinctly audible, and a little black-and-tan terrier came from somewhere.

Polly knelt down and coaxed the creature to approach: she knew it was Sue, Roy's dog, whom he had rescued from drowning; but the animal only whined and shivered, and went back to her lair, outside her master's door.

'Sue is more faithful to him than I,' thought the girl, with a sigh. The studio seemed more cheerful than the dark, cold pa.s.sage. Sue's repulse had saddened her still more. When Dr. Heriot returned some time afterwards, he found her curled up in the great arm-chair, with her face buried in her hands, not crying, as he feared, but with pale cheeks and wide distended eyes that he was troubled to see.

'My poor Polly,' smoothing her hair caressingly.

Polly sprang up.

'Oh, Heriot, how long you have been. I have been so frightened; is he--will he live?' the stammering lips not disguising the terrible anxiety.

'There is no doubt of it; but he has been very ill. No, my dear child, you need not fear I shall misunderstand you,' as Polly tried to hide her happy face, every feature quivering with the joyful relief. 'You cannot be too thankful, too glad, for he has had a narrow escape. Aunt Milly will have her hands full for some time.'

'I thought if he died that it would be my fault,' she faltered, 'and then I could not have borne it.'

'Yes--yes--I know,' he returned, soothingly; 'but now this fear is removed, you will be our Heartsease again, and cheer us all up. I cannot bear to see your bright face clouded. You will be yourself again, Polly, will you not?'

'I will try,' she returned, lifting up her face to be kissed like a child. She had never but once offered him the most timid caress, and this maidenly reserve and shyness had been sweet to him; but now he told himself it was different. Alas! he knew her better than she knew herself, and there was sadness in his looks, as he gently bade her good-night. She detained him with some surprise. 'Where are you going, Heriot? you know there is plenty of room; Richard said so.'

'I shall watch in Roy's room to-night,' he replied. 'Richard looks worn out, and Aunt Milly must recruit after her journey. I shall not leave till the middle of the day to-morrow, so we shall have plenty of time to talk. You must rest now.'

'Are you going away to-morrow?' repeated Polly, looking blank. 'I--I had hoped you would stay.'

'My child, that would be impossible; but Richard will remain for a few days longer. I will promise to come back as soon as I can.'

'But--but if you leave me--oh, you must not leave me, Heriot,' returned the girl, with sudden inexplicable emotion; 'what shall I do without you?'

'Have I grown so necessary to you all at once?' he returned, and there was an accent of reproach in his voice. 'Nay, Polly, this is not like your sensible little self; you know I must go back to my patients.'

'Yes, I know; but all the same I cannot bear to let you go; promise me that you will come back soon--very soon--before Roy gets much better.'

'I will not leave you longer than I can help,' he replied, earnestly, distressed at her evident pain at losing him, but steadfast in his purpose to leave her unfettered by his presence. 'Now, sweet one, you must not detain me any longer, as to-night I am Roy's nurse,' and with that she let him leave her.

There was a bright fire in the room where Mildred and she were to sleep.

When Mrs. Madison had lighted the tall candle-sticks on the mantelpiece, and left her to finish her unpacking, Polly tried to amuse herself by imagining what Olive would think of it all.

It was a long, low room, with a corner cut off. All the rooms at The Hollies were low and oddly shaped, but the great four-post bed, with the moreen hangings, half filled it.

As far as curiosities went, it might have resembled either the upper half of a p.a.w.nbroker's window, or a mediaeval corner in some shop in Wardour Street--such a medley of odds and ends were never found in one room. A great, black, carved wardrobe, which Roy was much given to rave about in his letters home, occupied one side; two or three spindle-legged and much dilapidated chairs, dating from Queen Anne's time, with an oaken chest, filled up all available s.p.a.ce; but wardrobe, mantelpiece, and even washstand, served as receptacles for the more ornamental objects.

Peac.o.c.ks' feathers and an Indian canoe were suspended over the dim little oblong gla.s.s. Underneath, a j.a.panese idol smiled fiendishly; the five senses, and sundry china shepherdesses, danced round him like wood-nymphs round a satyr; a teapot, a hunting-watch, and an emu's egg garnished the toilet-table; over which hung a sampler, worked by Mrs.

Madison's grandmother; two little girls in wide sashes, with a long-eared dog, simpered in wool-work; a portrait of some Madison deceased, in a short-waisted tartan satin, and a velvet hat and feathers, hung over them.

The face attracted Polly in spite of the grotesque dress and ridiculous headgear--the feathers would have enriched a hea.r.s.e; under the funeral plumes smiled a face still young and pleasant--it gave one the impression of a fresh healthy nature; the ruddy cheeks and buxom arms, with plenty of soft muscle, would have become a dairymaid.

'I wonder,' mused the girl, with a sort of sorrowful humour, 'who this Clarice was--Mrs. Madison's grandmother or great-grandmother most likely, for of course she married--that broad, smiling face could not belong to an old maid; she was some squire or farmer's wife most likely, and he bought her that hat in London when they went up to see the Green Parks, and St. James's, and Greenwich Hospital, and Vauxhall,--she had a double chin, and got dreadfully stout, I know, before she was forty. And I wonder,' she continued, with unconscious pathos, 'if this Clarice liked the squire, or farmer, or whatever he may be, as I like Heriot. Or if, when she was young, she had an adopted brother who gave her pain; she looks as though she never knew what it was to be unhappy or sorry about anything.'

Polly's fanciful musings were broken presently by Mildred's entrance; she accosted the girl cheerfully, but there was no mistaking her pale, hara.s.sed looks.

'It is nearly twelve, you ought not to have waited for me, my dear; there was so much to do--and then Richard kept me.'

'Where is Richard?' asked Polly, abruptly.

'He has gone to bed; he is to have Mr. Dugald's room. Dr. Heriot is sitting up with Roy.'

'Yes, I know. Oh, Aunt Milly, he says there is no doubt of his living; the inflammation has subsided, and with care he has every hope of him.'