Heriot's Choice Part 81

Polly, who was arranging a jar of chrysanthemums, dropped a handful of flowers on the floor, and stooped to pick them up.

'I think Roy will like his old nurse best,' she returned, doubtfully.

But Dr. Heriot looked obstinate.

'A new regime and a new prescription might be beneficial,' he replied, with a suspicion of a smile. 'Roy and I must have some conversation together, and there's no time like the present,' and with a grave, mischievous bow, he quietly quitted the room.

'Aunt Milly, I must go and match those wools, and get the books for Roy,' began Polly, hurriedly, as they were left alone. 'The rain does not matter a bit, and the air is quite soft and warm.'

Mildred shook her head.

'You had better wait an hour or two till it clears up,' she said, looking dubiously at the wet garden paths and soaking rain. 'I am going to my own room to write letters. I have one from Olive that I must answer. If you will wait until the afternoon, Dr. Heriot will go with you.'

But Polly was not to be dissuaded; she had nothing to do, she was restless, and wanted a walk; and Roy must have his third volume when he came down.

It was not often that Polly chose to be wilful, and this time she had her way. Now and then Mildred paused in the midst of her correspondence to wonder what had detained the girl so long. Once or twice she rose and went to the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the dark blue cloak and black hat but hours pa.s.sed and she did not return.

By and by Dr. Heriot's quick eyes saw a swift shadow cross the studio window; and, as Polly stole noiselessly into the dark pa.s.sage, she found herself captured.

'Naughty child, where have you been?' he said, removing her wet cloak, and judging for himself that she had sustained no further damage.

Polly's cheeks, rosy with exercise, paled a little, and she pleaded piteously to be set free.

'Just for a moment, Heriot. Please let me go for a moment. I will come presently.'

'You are not to be trusted,' he replied, not leaving hold of her. 'Do you think this excitement is good for Roy--that in his state he can bear it. He has been dressed and waiting for you for hours. You must think of him, Polly, not of yourself.' And Polly resisted no longer.

She followed Dr. Heriot, with downcast eyes, into the studio. Roy was not on his couch; he was standing on the rug, in his velvet coat; one thin hand grasped the mantelpiece nervously: the other was stretched out to Polly.

'You must not let him excite himself,' was Dr. Heriot's warning, as he left them together.

Poor Polly, she stood irresolute, not daring to advance, or look up, and wishing that the ground would swallow her.

'Polly--dear Polly--will you not come to me?' and Roy walked feebly to meet her. Before she could move or answer, his arms were round her. 'My Polly--my own now,' he cried, rapturously pressing her to him with weak force; 'Heriot has given you to me.'

Polly looked up at her young lover shyly. Roy's face was flushed, his eyes were shining with happiness, a half-proud, half-humble expression lingered round his mouth; the arm that supported her trembled with weakness.

'Oh, Rex, how wrong of me to let you stand,' she said, waking up from her bewilderment; 'you must lie down, and I will take my old place beside you.'

'Yes, he has given you the right to nurse me now,' whispered Roy, as she arranged the cushions under his head. 'I am more than your adopted brother now.' And Polly's happy blush was her only answer.

'You will never refuse to sing to me again?' he said presently, when their agitation had a little subsided.

'No, and you will let me have my old ring,' she returned, softly. 'Oh, Rex, I cried half the night, when you would not let me wear it. I never cared so much for my beautiful diamonds.'

A misty smile crossed Roy's face.

'No, Polly, I never mean to part with it again. Look here,'--and he showed her the garnets suspended to his watch-chain--'we will exchange rings in the old German fashion, dear. I will keep the garnets, and I will buy you the pearl hoop you admired so much; you must remember, you have chosen only a poor artist.'

'Oh, Rex, how I shall glory in your pictures!' cried the girl, breathlessly. 'I have always loved them for your sake, but now it will be so different. They will be dearer than ever to me.'

'I never could have worked without you, Polly,' returned the young man, humbly. 'I tried, but it was a miserable failure; it was your childish praise that first made me seriously think of being an artist; and when you failed me, all the spirit seemed to die out of me, just as the sunshine fades out of a landscape, leaving nothing but a gray mist. Oh, Polly, even you scarcely know how wretched you made me.'

'Do not let us talk of it,' she whispered, pressing closer to him; 'let us only try to deserve our happiness.'

'That is what he said,' replied Roy, in a low voice. 'He told me that we were very young to have such a responsibility laid upon us, and that we must help each other. Oh, what a good man he is,' he continued, with some emotion, 'and to think that at one time I almost hated him.'

'You could not help it,' she answered, shyly. To her there was no flaw in her young lover; his impatience and jealousy, his hot and cold fits that had so sorely tried her, his singular outbursts of temper, had only been natural under the circ.u.mstances; she would have forgiven him harder usage than that; but Roy judged himself more truly.

'No, dear, you must not excuse me,' was the truthful answer. 'I bore my trouble badly, and made every one round me wretched; and now all these coals of fire are heaped upon me. If he had been my brother, he could not have borne with me more gently. Oh,' cried the lad, earnestly, 'it is something to see into the depths of a good man's heart. I think I saw more than he meant me to do, but time will prove. One thing is certain, that he never loved you as I do, Polly.'

'No; it was all a strange mistake,' she returned, blushing and smiling; 'but hush! here comes Aunt Milly.'

'Am I interrupting you?' asked Mildred, a little surprised at Polly's anxious start.

She had moved a little away from Roy; but now he stretched out his hand to detain her.

'No, don't go, Aunt Milly,' and a gleam of mischief shot from his blue eyes. 'Polly has only been telling me a new version of the old song--"It is well to be off with the old love before you are on with the new."

After all, Polly has found out that she likes me best.'

'Children, what do you mean?' returned Mildred, somewhat sternly.

Polly and even Roy were awed by the change in her manner; a sort of spasm crossed her face, and then the features became almost rigid.

'Aunt Milly, don't be angry with us,' faltered Polly; and her breast heaved a little. Did this dearest and gentlest creature, who had stood her in the stead of mother, think she was wrong? 'Listen to me, dear; I would have married Heriot, but he would not let me; he showed me what was the truth--that my heart was more Roy's than his, and then he brought us together; it is all his doing, not Roy's.'

'Yes, it was all my doing,' repeated Dr. Heriot, who had followed Mildred in unperceived. 'Did I not tell you last night that Polly and I never understood each other so well;' and he put his arm round the girl with almost fatherly fondness, as he led her to Mildred. 'You must blame me, and not this poor child, for all that has happened.'

But the colour did not return to Mildred's face; she seemed utterly bewildered. Dr. Heriot wore his inscrutable expression; he looked grave, but not otherwise unhappy.

'I suppose it is all for the best,' she said, somewhat unsteadily. 'I had hoped that Polly would have been a comfort to you, but it seems you--you are never to have that.'

'It will come to me in time,' he returned, with a strange smile; 'at least, I hope so.'

'Come here, Aunt Milly,' interrupted Roy; and as Mildred stooped over her boy he looked up in her face with the old Rex-like smile.

'Dr. Heriot says I should never have lived if it had not been for you, Aunt Milly. You have given me back my life, and he has given me Polly, and,' cried the lad, and now his lips quivered, 'G.o.d bless you both.'

CHAPTER x.x.xII

A TALK IN FAIRLIGHT GLEN

O finer far! What work so high as mine, Interpreter betwixt the world and man, Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, The mystery she wraps her in to scan; Her unsyllabic voices to combine, And serve her with such love as poets can; With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, Then die, and leave the poem to mankind?'

Jean Ingelow.