"He married a woman whom he loved, but whose heart he had not won. Not that he knew that. Heaven forbid that any one calling himself a man should do so base a thing as that; but his wishes and his affection blinded him, and the result was misery for many a year to come."
"But he grew comforted in time," interrupted Polly, softly.
"Yes, time, and friendship, and other blessings, bestowed by the good G.o.d, healed the bitterness of the wound, but it still bled inwardly. He was a weary-hearted man, with a secret disgust of life, and full of sad loathing for the empty home that sheltered his loneliness, all the more," as Polly pressed closer to him, "that he was one who had ever craved for wife and children.
"It was at this time, just as memory was growing faint, that a certain young girl, the daughter of an old college friend of his, was left to his care. Think, Polly, how sacred a charge to this desolate man; a young orphan, alone in the world, and dependent on his care."
"Heriot, I beseech you to stop; you are breaking my heart."
"Nay, dearest, there is nothing sad in my story; there are only wheels within wheels, a complication heightening the interest of the plot.
Well, was it a wonder that this man, this nameless hero of ours, a species of Don Quixote in his way, should weave a certain sweet fancy into his dreary life, that he should conceive the idea of protecting and loving this young girl in the best way he could by making her his wife, thinking that he would make himself and her happy, but always thinking most of her."
"Oh, Heriot, no more; have pity on me."
"What, stop in the middle of my story, and before my second hero makes his appearance? For shame, Heartsease; but this man, for all his wise plans and benevolent schemes, proved himself miserably blind.
"He knew that this girl had an adopted brother whom she loved dearly.
Nay, do not hide your face, Polly; no angel"s love could have been purer than this girl"s for this friend of hers; but alas, what no one had foreseen had already happened; unknown to her guardian, and to herself, this young man had always loved, and desired to win her for his wife."
"She never knew it," in a stifled voice.
"No, she never knew it, any more than she knew her own heart. Why do you start, Heartsease? Ah, she was so sure of that, so certain of her love for her affianced husband, that when she knew her friend was ill, she pleaded to be allowed to nurse him. Yes, though she had found out then the reason of his unhappiness."
"She hoped to do good," clasping her hands before her face.
"True, she hoped to do good; she fancied, not knowing the world and her own heart, that she could win him back to his old place, and so keep them both, her guardian and her friend. And her guardian, heart-sick at the mistake he had made, and with a new and secret sorrow preying upon him, deliberately suffered her to be exposed to the ordeal that her own generous imprudence had planned."
"Heriot, one moment; you have a secret sorrow?"
"Not an incurable one, my sweet; you shall know it by and by; if I do not mistake, it will yield us a harvest of joy; but I am drawing near the end of the story."
"Yes, you have quite finished--there is nothing more to say; nothing, Heriot."
"You shall tell me the rest, then," he returned, gravely. Was she true to her guardian, this girl; true in every fibre and feeling? or did her faithful heart really cleave to the companion of her youth, calling her love by the right name, and acknowledging it without fear?
"Polly, this is no time for a half-truth; which shall it be? Is your heart really mine, or does it belong to Roy?"
She would have hidden her face in her hands, but he would not suffer it.
"Child, you must answer me; there must be no shadow between us," he said, holding her before him. There was a touch of sternness in his voice; but as she raised her eyes appealingly to his, she read there nothing but pity and full understanding; for one moment she stood irresolute, with palpitating heart and white quivering lips, and then she threw herself into his arms.
"Oh, Heriot, what shall I do? What shall I do? I love you both, but I love Roy best."
When Mildred re-entered the room, an hour later, somewhat weary of her banishment, she found the two still talking together. Polly was sitting in her little low chair, her cheek resting on her hand. Dr. Heriot seemed speaking earnestly, but as the door opened, he broke off hastily, and the girl started to her feet.
"I must go now," she whispered; "don"t tell Aunt Milly to-night. Oh, Heriot, I am so happy; this seems like some wonderful dream; I don"t half believe it."
"We must guard each other"s confidence. Remember, I have trusted you, Polly," was his answer, in a low tone. "Good-night, my dearest child; sleep well, and say a prayer for me."
"I do--I do pray for you always," she affirmed, looking at him with her soul in her eyes; but as he merely pressed her hand kindly, she suddenly raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Dear--dear Heriot, I shall pray for you all my life long."
"Are you going, Polly?" asked Mildred, in surprise.
"Yes, I am tired. I cannot talk any more to-night," returned the girl, hastily.
Her face was pale, as though, she had been weeping; but her eyes smiled radiantly under the wet lashes.
Mildred turned to the fire, somewhat dissatisfied.
"I hope things are right between you and Polly," she said, anxiously, when she and Dr. Heriot were left alone.
"They have never been more so," he replied, with a mischievous smile; "for the first time we thoroughly understand ourselves and each other; she is a dear good child, and deserves to be happy." But as Mildred, somewhat bewildered at the ambiguous tone, would have questioned him still further, he gently but firmly changed the subject.
It was a strange evening to Mildred; outside, the rain lashed the panes.
Dr. Heriot had drawn his arm-chair nearer to the glowing fire; he looked spent and weary--some conflicting feelings seemed to fetter him with sadness. Mildred, sitting at her little work-table, scarcely dared to break the silence. Her own voice sounded strange to her. Once when she looked up she saw his eyes were fixed upon her, but he withdrew them again, and relapsed into his old thoughtfulness.
By and by he began to talk, and then she laid down her work to listen.
Some strange chord of the past seemed stirred in the man"s heart to-night. All at once he mentioned his mother; her name was Mildred, he said, looking into the embers as he spoke; and a little sister whom they had lost in her childhood had been called Milly too. For their sakes the name had always been dear to him. She was a good woman, he said, but her one fault in his eyes had been that she had never loved Margaret; a certain bitter scene between them had banished his widowed mother from his house. Margaret had not understood her, and they were better apart; but it had been a matter of grief to him.
And then he began to talk of his wife--at first hesitatingly--and then, as Mildred"s silent sympathy seemed to open the long-closed valves, the repressed sorrow of years began to find vent. Well might Mildred marvel at the secret strength that had sustained the generous heart in its long struggle, at "the charity that suffered so long." What could there have been about this woman, that even degradation and shame could not weaken his faithful love, that even in his misery he should still pity and cleave to her.
As though answering her thought, Dr. Heriot suddenly placed a miniature in her hand.
"That was taken when I first saw her," he said, softly; "but it does not do her justice; and then, one cannot reproduce that magnificent voice. I have never heard a voice like it."
Mildred bent over it for a moment without speaking; it was the face of a girl taken in the first flush of her youth; but there was nothing youthful in the face, which was full of a grave matured beauty.
The dark melancholy eyes seemed to rivet Mildred"s; a wild sorrow lurked in their inscrutable depths; the brow spoke intellect and power; the mouth had a pa.s.sionate, irresolute curve. As she looked at it she felt that it was a face that might well haunt a man to his sorrow.
"It is beautiful--beautiful--but it oppresses me," she said, laying it down with a sigh. "I cannot fancy it ever looking happy."
"No," he returned, with a stifled voice. "Her one trouble embittered her life. I never remember seeing her look really happy till I placed our boy in her arms; he taught her to smile first, and then he died, and our happiness died with him."
"You must try to forget all this now," she said, alluding to his approaching marriage. "It is not well to dwell upon so mournful a past."
"You are right; I think I shall bury it from this night," he returned, with a singular smile. "I feel as though you have done me good, Mildred--Miss Lambert--but now I am selfishly keeping you up, after all your nursing too. Good-night."
He held her hand for a moment in both his; his eyes questioned the pale worn face, anxiously, tenderly.
"When are you going to get stronger? You do me no credit," he said, sadly.
And his look and tone haunted her, in spite of her efforts. He had called her Mildred too.
"How strange that he should have told me all this about his wife. I am glad he treats me as a friend," she thought. "A little while ago I could not have spoken to him as I have to-night, but his manner puts me at my ease. How can I help loving one of the n.o.blest of G.o.d"s creatures?"
"Can you trust Roy to me this morning, Miss Lambert?" asked Dr. Heriot, as they were sitting together after breakfast.