"Please do not talk so, John," she whispered. "I should not like you to think too well of me, for fear I should, ever disappoint you."
"Do you believe that would be possible?" he asked, reproachfully.
Then she gave him one of her lovely smiles.
"No, I do not," she returned, simply; "because, though we love each other, we do not believe each other perfect. You have often called me self-willed, John, and I daresay you are right."
He laughed a little at that; her quaint gentleness had often amused him; he knew he should always hear the truth from her. She would tell him of her faults over and over again, and he would listen to them gravely and pretend to believe them rather than wound her exquisite susceptibility; but to himself he declared that she had no flaw--that she was the dearest, the purest, a pearl among women. Mildred would have shrunk in positive pain and humility if she had known the extravagant standard to which he had raised her.
Sometimes he would crave to know her opinion of him in return. Like many men, he was morbidly sensitive on this point, and was inclined to take blame to himself where he did not deserve it, and she would point out his errors to him in the simplest way, and so that the most delicate self-consciousness could not have been hurt.
"What, all those faults, Mildred?" he would say, with a pretence at a sigh. "I thought love was blind."
"I could never be blind about anything that concerns you, John," she would return, in the sweetest voice possible; "our faults will only bind us all the closer to each other. Is not that what helpmeet means?" she went on, a soft gravity stealing over her words,--"that I should try to help you in everything, even against yourself? I always see faults clearest in those I love best," she finished, somewhat shyly.
"The last is the saving clause," he replied, with a look that made her blush. "In this case I shall have no objection to be told of my wrong-doings every day of my life. What a blessing it is that you have common sense enough for both. I am obliged to believe what you tell me about yourself of course, and mean to act up to my part of our contract, but at present I am unable to perceive the most distant glimmer of a fault."
"John!"
"Seriously and really, Mildred, I believe you to be as near perfection as a living woman can be," and when Dr. Heriot spoke in this tone Mildred always gave up the argument with a sigh.
But with all her self-accusations Mildred promised to be a most submissive wife. Already she proved herself docile to her lover"s slightest wish. She did not even remonstrate when Dr. Heriot pleaded with her brother and herself that an early day should be fixed for the marriage; for herself she could have wished a longer delay, but he was lonely and wanted her, and that was enough.
Perhaps the decision was a little difficult when she thought of Olive, but the time once fixed, there was no hesitation. She went about her preparations with a quiet precision that made Dr. Heriot smile to himself.
"One would think you are planning for somebody else"s wedding, not your own," he said once, when she came down to him with her face full of gentle bustle; "come and sit down a little; at least I have the right to take care of you now, you precious woman."
"Yes; but, John, I am so busy; I have to think for them all, you know; and Olive, poor girl, is so scared at the thought of her responsibilities, and Richard is so occupied he cannot spare me time for anything," for Richard, now in deacon"s orders, was working up the parish under Hugh Marsden"s supervision. Hugh had lost his mother, and had finally yielded his great heart and strength to the South African Mission.
"But there is Polly?" observed Dr. Heriot.
"Yes, there is Polly until Roy comes," she returned, with a smile. "She is my right hand at present, until he monopolises her; but one has to think for them all, and arrange things."
"You shall have no one but yourself to consider by and by," was his lover-like reply.
"Oh, John, I shall only have time then to think of you!" was her quiet answer.
And so one sweet June morning, when the swathes and lines of new-mown hay lay in the crofts round Kirkby Stephen, and while the little rush-bearers were weaving their crowns for St. Peter"s Day, and the hedges were thick with the pink and pearly bloom of brier roses, Mildred Heriot stood leaning on her husband"s arm in St. Stephen"s porch.
Merrily the worn old bells were pealing out, the sunlight streamed across the market-place, the churchyard paths, and the paved lanes, and the windows of the houses ab.u.t.ting on the churchyard, were crowded with sympathising faces.
Not young nor beautiful, save to those who loved her; yet as she stood there in her soft-eyed graciousness, many owned that they had never seen a sweeter-faced bride.
"My wife, is this an emblem of our future life?" whispered Dr. Heriot, as he led her proudly down the path, almost hidden by the roses her little scholars" hands had strewn; but Mildred"s lip quivered, and the pressure of her hand on his arm only answered him.
"How had she deserved such happiness?" the humble soul was asking herself even at this supreme moment. Under her feet lay the fast-fading roses, but above and around spread the pure arc of central blue--the everlasting arms of a Father"s providence about her everywhere. Before them was the gray old vicarage, now no longer her home, the soft violet hills circling round it; above it a heavy snow-white cloud drooped heavily, like a guardian angel in mid-air; roses, and sunlight, and G.o.d"s heavenly blue.
"Oh, it is all so beautiful!--how is one to deserve such happiness?" she thought; and then it came to her that this was a free gift, a loan, a talent that the Father had given to be used for the Master"s service, and the slight trembling pa.s.sed away, and the beautiful serene eyes raised themselves to her husband"s face with the meek trustfulness of old.
Mildred was not too much engrossed even in her happiness to notice that Olive held somewhat aloof from her through the day. Now and then she caught a glimpse of a weary, abstracted face. Just as she had finished her preparations for departure, and the travelling carriage had driven into the courtyard, she sent Ethel and Polly down on some pretext, and went in search of her favourite.
She found her in the lobby, sitting on the low window-seat, looking absently at the scene below her. The courtyard of the vicarage looked gay enough; the horses were champing their bits, and stamping on the beck gravel; the narrow strip of daisy turf was crowded with moving figures; Polly, in her pretty bridesmaid"s dress, was talking to Roy; Ethel stood near them, with Richard and Hugh Marsden; Dr. Heriot was in the porch in earnest conversation with Mr. Lambert. Beyond lay the quiet churchyard, shimmering in the sunlight; the white, crosses gleamed here and there; the garlands of sweet-smelling flowers still strewed the paths.
"Dear Olive, are you waiting for me? I wanted just to say a last word or two;" and Mildred sat down beside her in her rich dress, and took the girl"s listless hand in hers. "Promise me, my child, that you will do the best for yourself and them."
"It will be a poor best after you, Aunt Milly," returned Olive, with a grateful glance at the dear face that had been her comfort so long. It touched her that even now she should be remembered; with an impulse that was rare with her she put her arms round Mildred, and laid her face on her shoulder. "Aunt Milly, I never knew till to-day what you were to me--to all of us."
"Am I not to be Aunt Milly always, then?" for there was something ineffably sad in the girl"s voice.
"Yes, but we can no longer look to you for everything. We shall miss you out of our daily life. I do not mean to be selfish, Aunt Milly. I love to think of your happiness; but all the same I must feel as though something has pa.s.sed out of my life."
"I understand, dear. You know I never think you selfish, Olive. Now I want you to do something for me--a promise you must make me on my wedding-day."
A flickering smile crossed Olive"s pale face. "It must not be a hard one, then."
"It is one you can easily keep,--promise me to try to bear your failures hopefully. You will have many; perhaps daily ones. I am leaving you heavy responsibilities, my poor child; but who knows? They may be blessings in disguise."
An incredulous sigh answered her.
"It will be your own fault if they do not prove so. When you fail, when things go wrong, think of your promise to me, and be patient with yourself. Say to yourself, "It is only one of Olive"s mistakes, and she will try to do better next time." Do you understand me, my dear?"
"Yes, I will try, Aunt Milly."
"I am leaving you, my darling, with a confidence that nothing can shake.
I do not fear your goodness to others, only to this weary self," with a light caressing touch on the girl"s bowed head and shoulders. "Hitherto you have leaned on me; I have been your crutch, Olive. Now you will rely on yourself. You see I do not make myself miserable about leaving you. I think even this is ordered for the best."
"Yes, I know. How dear of you to say all this! But I must not keep you.
Hark, they are calling you!"
Mildred rose with a blush; she knew the light agile step on the stairs.
In another moment Dr. Heriot"s dark face appeared.
"They are waiting, Mildred; we have not a moment to lose. You must come, my dear wife!"
"One moment, John"; and as she folded the girl in a long embrace, she whispered, "G.o.d bless my Olive!" and then suffered him to lead her away.
But when the last good-byes were said, and the carriage door was closed by Richard, Mildred looked up and waved her hand towards the lobby window. She could see the white dress and dusky halo of hair, the drooping figure and tightly locked hands; but as the sound of the wheels died away in the distance, Olive hid her face in her hands and prayed, with a burst of tears, that the promise she had made might be faithfully kept.
An hour later, Richard found her still sitting there, looking spent and weary, and took her out to walk with him.
"The rest have all started for Podgill. We will follow them more leisurely. The air will refresh us both, Olive;" stealing a glance at the reddened eyelids, that told their own tale. Olive so seldom shed tears, that the relief was almost a luxury to her. She felt less oppressed now.
"But Ethel--where is she, Cardie?" unwilling to let him sacrifice himself for her pleasure. She little knew that Richard was carrying out Mildred"s last injunctions.
"I leave Olive in your care; be good to her, Richard," she had said as he had closed the carriage door on her, and he had understood her and given her an affirmative look.
"Ethel has a headache, and has gone home," he replied. "She feels this as much as any of us; she did not like breaking up the party, but I saw how much she needed quiet, and persuaded her. She wants you to go up there to-morrow and talk to her."
"But, Cardie," stopping to look at him, "I am sure you have a headache too."