Jean Ingelow.
Dr. Heriot started for London the day after he had received Mildred"s letter; as he intended, his appearance took them all by surprise.
Mildred was the first to detect the well-known footsteps on the gravelled path; but she held her peace. Dr. Heriot"s keen glance, as he stood on the threshold, had time to scan the features of the little fireside group before a word of greeting had crossed his lips; he noticed Polly"s listless att.i.tude as she sat apart in the dark window-seat, and the moody restlessness of Roy"s face as he lay furtively watching her. Even Mildred"s heightened colour, as she bent industriously over her work, was not lost on him.
"Polly!" he said, crossing the room, and marvelling at her unusual abstraction.
At the sound of the kind, well-known voice, the girl started violently; but as he stooped over her and kissed her, she turned very white, and involuntarily shrank from him, but the next moment she clung to him almost excitedly.
"Oh, Heriot, why did you not come before? You knew I wanted you--you must have known how I wanted you."
"Yes, dear, I knew all about it," he replied, quietly, putting away the little cold hands that detained him, and turning to the others.
A few kind inquiries after the invalid were met at first very irritably, but even Roy"s jealousy could not be proof against such gentleness, and he forgot his wretchedness for a time while listening to home messages, and all the budget of Kirkby Stephen gossip which Dr. Heriot retailed over the cosy meal that Mildred provided for the traveller.
For once Dr. Heriot proved himself an inexhaustible talker; there was no limit to his stock of anecdotes. Roy"s sulkiness vanished; he grew interested, almost amused.
"You remember old Mrs. Parkinson and her ginger-cakes, Polly," he said, with a weak ghost of a laugh; but then he checked himself with a frown.
How was it one could not hate this fellow, who had defrauded him of Polly? he thought, clenching his hand impatiently. Why was he to succ.u.mb to a charm of manner that had worked him such woe?
Dr. Heriot"s fine instinct perceived the lad"s transition of mood.
"Yes, Polly has a faithful memory for an old friend," he said, answering for the girl, who sat near him with a strip of embroidery from which she had not once raised her eyes. As he looked at her, his face worked with some strong emotion; his eyes softened, and then grew sad.
"Polly is faith itself," speaking with peculiar intonation, and laying his hand on the small shining head. "You see I have a new name for you to-night, Heartsease."
"I think I will go to bed, Aunt Milly," broke out poor Roy, growing suddenly pale and haggard. "I--I am tired, and it is later to-night, I think."
Dr. Heriot made no effort to combat his resolution. He stood aside while Mildred offered her arm to the invalid. He saw Polly hurriedly slip her hand in Roy"s, who wrung it hard with a sort of laugh.
"It is good-bye for good and all, I suppose to-night?" he said. "Heriot means to take you away, of course?"
But Polly did not answer; she only hid her red quivering hand under her work, as though she feared Dr. Heriot would see it.
But the next moment the work was thrown lightly to the ground, and Dr.
Heriot"s fingers were gently stroking the ill-used hand.
"Poor little Polly; does he often treat you to such a rough hand-shake?"
he said, with a half-amused, tender smile.
"No, never," she stammered; but then, as though gaining courage from the kind face looking down at her, "Oh, Heriot, I am so glad he is gone.
I--I want to speak to you."
"Is that why you have been so silent?" drawing her nearer to him as she stood beside him on the rug. "Little Heartsease, did you like my new name?"
"Don"t, Heriot; I--I do not understand you; I have not been faithful at least."
"Not in your sense of the word, perhaps, dear Polly, but in mine. What if your faithfulness should save us both from a great mistake?"
"I--I do not understand you," she said again, looking at him with sad, bewildered eyes. "You shall talk to me presently; but now I want to speak to you. Heriot, I was wrong to come here--wrong and self-willed.
Aunt Milly was right; I have done no good. Oh, it has all been so miserable--a mistake from beginning to end; and then I thought you would never come."
"Dear Polly, it could not be helped. Neither can I stay now."
"You will not go and leave me again?" she said, faltering and becoming very pale. "Heriot, you must take me with you; promise me that you will take me with you."
"I cannot, my dear child. Indeed--indeed--I cannot"
"Then I will go alone," she said, throwing back her head proudly, but trembling as she spoke. "I will not stay here without you--not for a day--not for a single day."
"But Roy wants you. You cannot leave him until he is better," he said, watching her; but though she coloured perceptibly, she stood her ground.
"I was wrong to come," she returned, piteously. "I cannot help it if Rex wants me. I know he does. You are saying this to punish me, and because I have failed in my duty."
"Hush, my child; I at least have not reproached you."
"No, you never reproach me; you are kindness itself. Heriot," laying down her face on his arm, and now he knew she was weeping, "I never knew until lately how badly I have treated you. You ought not to have chosen a child like me. I have tried your patience, and given you no return for your goodness; but I have resolved that all this shall be altered."
"Is it in your power, Polly?" speaking now more gravely.
"It must--it shall be. Listen to me, dear. You asked me once to make no unnecessary delay, but to be your wife at once. Heriot, I am ready now."
"No, my child, no."
"Ah, but I am," speaking with difficulty through her sobs. "I never cared for you so much. I never wanted you so much. I am so full of grat.i.tude--I long to make you so happy--to make somebody happy. You must take me away from here, where Roy will not make me miserable any more, and then I shall try to forget him--his unhappiness, I mean--and to think only of you."
"Poor child," speaking more to himself than to her; "and this is to what I have brought her."
"You must not be angry with Roy," continued the young girl, when her agitation had a little subsided. "He could not help my seeing what he felt; and then he told me to go back to you. He has tried his hardest, I know he has; every night I prayed that you might come and take me away, and every morning I dreaded lest I should be disappointed. Heriot, it was cruel--cruel to leave me so long."
"And you will come back with me now?"
"Oh yes," with a little sighing breath.
"And I am to make you my wife? I am not to wait for your nineteenth birthday?"
"No. Oh, Heriot, how self-willed and selfish I was."
"Neither one nor the other. Listen to me, dear Polly. Nay, you are trembling so that you can hardly stand; sit beside me on this couch; it is my turn to talk now. I have a little story to tell you."
"A story, Heriot?"
"Yes; shall we call it "The Guardian"s Mistake"? I am not much of a hand in story-telling, but I hope I shall make my meaning clear. What, afraid, my child? nay, there is no sad ending to this story of mine; it runs merrily to the tune of wedding bells."
"I do not want to hear it," she said, shrinking nervously; but he, half-laughingly and half-seriously, persisted:--
"Once upon a time, shall we say that, Polly? Little Heartsease, how pale you are growing. Once upon a time, a great many years ago, a man committed a great mistake that darkened his after life.