'AND MAIDENS CALL IT LOVE-IN-IDLENESS'
'Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.'
Adelaide Anne Procter.
The news of Dr. Heriot's engagement soon spread fast; he was amused, and
Polly half frightened, by the congratulations that poured upon them. Mr.
Trelawny, restored to something like good humour by the unexpected
tidings, made surly overtures of peace, which were received on Dr.
Heriot's part with his usual urbanity. The Squire imparted the news to
his daughter after his own ungracious fashion.
'Do you hear Heriot's gone and made a fool of himself?' he said, as he
sat facing her at table; 'he has engaged himself to that ward of his;
why, he is twenty years older than the girl if he is a day!'
'Papa, do you know what you are saying?' expostulated Ethel; the
audacity of the statement bewildered her; she would have scorned herself
for her credulity if she had believed him. Dr. Heriot--their Dr. Heriot!
No, she would not so malign his wisdom.
The quiet scepticism of her manner excited Mr. Trelawny's wrath.
'You women all set such store by Heriot,' he returned, sneeringly;
'everything he did was right in your eyes; you can't believe he would be
caught like other men by a pretty face, eh?'
'No, I cannot believe it,' she returned, still firmly.
'Then you may go into the town and hear it for yourself,' he continued,
taking up his paper with a pretence of indifference, but his keen eyes
still watched her from beneath it. Was it only her usual obstinacy, or
was she really incredulous of his tidings? 'I had it from Davidson, who
had congratulated the Doctor himself that morning,' he continued,
sullenly; 'he said he never saw him look better in his life; the girl
was with him.'
'But not Polly--you cannot mean Polly Ellison?' and now Ethel turned
strangely white. 'Papa, there must be some mistake about it all. I--I
will go and see Mildred.'
'You may spare yourself that trouble,' returned Mr. Trelawny, gloomily.
Ethel's changing colour, her evident pain, were not lost upon him.
'There may be a chance for Cathcart still,' was his next thought;
'women's hearts as well as men are often caught at the rebound; she'll
have him out of pique--who knows?' and softened by this latter
reflection he threw down his paper, and continued almost graciously--
'Yes, you may spare yourself that trouble, for I met Miss Lambert myself
this afternoon.'
'And you spoke to her?' demanded Ethel, with almost trembling eagerness.
'I spoke to her, of course; we had quite a long talk, till she said the
sun was in her eyes, and walked on. She seemed surprised that I had
heard the news already, said it was so like Kirkby Stephen gossip, but
corroborated it by owning that they were all as much in the dark as we
were; but Miss Ellison being such a child, no one had thought of such a
thing.'
'Was that all she said? Did she look as well as usual? I have not seen
her for nearly a fortnight, you know,' answered Ethel, apologetically.
'I can't say I noticed. Miss Lambert would be a nice-looking woman if
she did not dress so dowdily; but she looked worse than ever this
morning,' grumbled the Squire, who was a _connoisseur_ in woman's dress,
and had eyed Mildred's brown hat and gray gingham with marked disfavour.
'She said the sun made her feel a little faint, and then she sent her
love to you and moved away. I think we might as well do the civil and
call at the vicarage this afternoon; we shall see the bride-elect
herself then,' and Ethel, who dared not refuse, agreed very unwillingly.
The visit was a trying ordeal for every one concerned. Polly indeed
looked her prettiest, and blushed very becomingly over the Squire's
laboured compliments, though, to do him justice, they were less hollow
than usual; he was too well pleased at the match not to relapse a little
from his frigidity.
'You must convince my daughter--she has chosen to be very sceptical,' he
said, with a side-long look at Ethel, who just moved her lips and
coloured slightly. She had kissed Polly in her ordinary manner, with no
special effusion, and added a quiet word or two, and then she had sat
down by Mildred.
'Polly looks very pretty and very happy, does she not?' asked Mildred
after a time, lifting her quiet eyes to Ethel.
'I beg your pardon--yes, she looks very nice,' returned Ethel, absently.
'I suppose I ought to say I am glad about this,' she continued with some
abruptness as Mildred took up her work again, and sewed with quick even
stitches, 'but I cannot; I am sorry, desperately sorry. She is a dear
little soul, I know, but all the same I think Dr. Heriot has acted
foolishly.'
'My dear Ethel,--hush, they will hear you!' The busy fingers trembled a
little, but Mildred did not again raise her eyes.
'I do not care who hears me; he is just like other men. I am
disappointed in him; I will have no Mentor now but you, Mildred.'
'Dr. Heriot has done nothing to deserve your scorn,' returned Mildred,
but her cheek flushed a little. Did she know that instinctively Ethel
had guessed her secret, that her generous heart throbbed with sympathy
for a pain which, hidden as it was, was plainly legible to her
clear-sightedness? 'We ought all to be glad that he has found comfort at
last,' she said, a little unsteadily.
Ethel darted a singular look at her, admiring, yet full of pain.
'I am not so short-sighted as you. I am sorry for a good man's
mistake--for it is a mistake, whatever you may say, Mildred. Polly is
pretty and good, but she is not good enough for him. And then, he is
more than double her age!'
'I thought that would be an additional virtue in your eyes,' returned
Mildred, pointedly. She was sufficiently mistress of herself and secure
enough in her quiet strength to be able to retaliate in a gentle womanly
way. Ethel coloured and changed her ground.
'They have nothing in common. She is nice, but then she is not clever;
you know yourself that her abilities are not above the average,
Mildred.'
'Dr. Heriot does not like clever women, he has often said so; Olive
would not suit him at all.'
'I never thought of Olive,' in a piqued voice. Ethel was losing her
temper over Mildred's calmness. 'I am aware plain people are not to his
taste.'
'No, Polly pleases him there; and then, she is so sweet.'
'I should have thought him the last man to care for insipid sweetness,'
began Ethel, stormily, but Mildred stopped her with unusual warmth.
'You are wrong there; there is nothing insipid about Polly; she is
bright, and good, and true-hearted; you undervalue his choice when you
say such things, Ethel. Polly's extreme youthfulness and gaiety of
spirits have misled you.'
'How lovingly you defend your favourite, Mildred; you shall not hear
another word in her disparagement. What does he call her? Mary?'
'No, Polly; but I believe he has plenty of pet names for her.'
'Yes, he will pet her--ah, I understand, and I am not to scorn him. I am
not to call him foolish, Mildred?'
'Of course not. Why should you?'
'Ah, why should I? Papa, it is time for us to be going; you have talked
to Miss Ellison long enough. My pretty bird,' as Polly stole shyly up to
them, 'I have not wished you joy yet, but it is not always to be had for
the wishing.'
'I wish every one would not be so kind,' stammered Polly. Mr. Trelawny's
condescension and elaborate compliments had almost overwhelmed the poor
little thing.
'How the child blushes! I wonder you are not afraid of such a grave
Mentor, Polly.'
'Oh, no, he is too kind for that--is he not, Aunt Milly?'
'I hope you do not make Mildred the umpire,' replied Ethel, watching
them both. 'Oh these men!' she thought to herself, as she dropped the
girl's hand; her eyes grew suddenly dim as she stooped and kissed
Mildred's pale cheek. 'Good--there is no one worthy of you,' she said to
herself; 'he is not--he never will be now.'
'People are almost too kind; I wish they would not come and talk to me
so,' Polly said, with one of her pretty pouts, as she walked with Dr.
Heriot that evening. He was a little shy of courting in public, and
loved better to have her with him in one of their quiet walks; this
evening he had come again to fetch her, and Mildred had given him some
instruction as to the length and duration of their walk.
'Had you not better come with us?' he had said to her, as though he
meant it; but Mildred shook her head with a slight smile. 'We shall all
meet you at Ewbank Scar; it is better for you to have the child to
yourself for a little,' she had replied.
Polly wished that Aunt Milly had come with them after all. Dearly as she
loved her kind guardian and friend, she was still a little shy of him; a
consciousness of girlish incompleteness, of undeveloped youth, haunted
her perpetually. Polly was sufficiently quick-witted to feel her own
deficiencies. How should she ever be able to satisfy him? she thought.
Aunt Milly could talk so beautifully to him, and even Olive had brief
spasms of eloquence. Polly felt sometimes as she listened to them as
though she were craning her neck to look over a wall at some unknown
territory with strange elevations and giddy depths, and wide bridgeless
rivers meandering through it.
Suppositions, vague imaginations, oppressed her; Polly could talk
sensibly in a grave matter-of-fact way, and at times she had a pretty
_piquante_ language of her own; but Chriss's erudition, and Olive's
philosophy, and even Mildred's gentle sermonising, were wearying to her.
'I can talk about what I have seen and what I have heard and read,' she
said once, 'but I cannot play at talk--make believe--as you grown-up
children do. I think it is hard,' continued practical Polly, 'that Aunt
Milly, who has seen nothing, and has been shut up in a sickroom all the
best years of her life, can spin yards of talk where I cannot say a
word.' But Dr. Heriot found no fault with his young companion; on the
contrary, Polly's _naivete_ and freshness were infinitely refreshing to
the weary man, who, as he told himself, had lived out the best years of
his life. He looked at her now as she uttered her childish complaint.
One little gloved hand rested on his arm, the other held up the long
skirts daintily, under the broad-brimmed hat a pretty oval face dimpled
and blushed with every word.
'If people would only not be so kind--if they would let me alone,' she
grumbled.
'That is a singular grievance, Polly,' returned Dr. Heriot, smiling;
'happiness ought not to make us selfish.'
'That is what Aunt Milly says. Ah, how good she is!' sighed the girl,
enviously; 'almost a saint. I wish I were more like her.'
'I am satisfied with Polly as she is, though she is no saint.'
'No, are you really?' looking up at him brightly. 'Do you know, I have
been thinking a great deal since--you know when----' her colour giving
emphasis to her unfinished sentence.
'Indeed? I should like to know some of those thoughts,' with a playful
glance at her downcast face. 'I must positively hear them, Polly. How
sweet and still it is this evening. Suppose we sit and rest ourselves
for a little while, and you shall tell me all about them.'
Polly shook her head. 'They are not so easy to tell,' she said, looking
very shy all at once. Dr. Heriot had placed her on a stile at the head
of the little lane that skirted Podgill; the broad sunny meadow lay
before them, gemmed with trefoil and Polly's favourite eyebright; blue
gentian, and pink and white yarrow, and yellow ragwort, wove straggling
colours in the tangled hedgerows; the graceful campanula, with its
bell-like blossoms, gleamed here and there, towering above the lowlier
rose-campion, while meadow-sweet and trails of honeysuckle scented the
air.
Dr. Heriot leant against the fence with folded arms; his mood was sunny
and benignant. In his gray suit and straw hat he looked young, almost
handsome. Under the dark moustache his lip curled with an amused,
undefinable smile.
'I see you will want my help,' he said, with a sort of compassion and
amusement at her shyness. Whatever she might own, his little fearless
Polly was certainly afraid of him.
'I have tangled them dreadfully,' blushed Polly; 'the thoughts, I mean.
Every night when I go to bed I wish--I wish I were as wise as Aunt
Milly, and then perhaps I should satisfy you.'
'My dear child!' and then he stopped a little, amazed and perplexed. Why
was Mildred Lambert's goodness to be ever thrust on him, he thought,
with a man's natural impatience? He had not bent his neck to her mild
sway; her friendship was very precious to him--one of the good things
for which he daily thanked God; but this innocent harping on her name
fretted him with a vague sense of injury. 'Polly, who has put this in
your head?' he said; and there was a shadow of displeasure in his tone,
quiet as it was.
'No one,' she returned, in surprise; 'the thought has often come to me.
Are you never afraid,' she continued, timidly, but her young face grew
all at once sweet and earnest--'are you not afraid that you will be
tired--dreadfully tired--when you have only me to whom to talk?'
Then his gravity relaxed: the speech was so like Polly,--so like his
honest, simple-minded girl.
'And what if I were?' he repeated, playing with her fears.
'I should be so sorry,' she returned, seriously. 'No, I should be more
than sorry; I think it would make me unhappy. I should always be trying
to get older and wiser for your sake; and if I did not succeed I should
be ready to break my heart. No, do not smile,' as she caught a glimpse
of his amused face; 'I was never more serious in my life.'
'Why, Mary, my little darling, what is this?' he said, lifting the
little hand to his lips; for the bright eyes were full of tears now.
'No, call me Polly--I like that best,' she returned, hurriedly. 'Only my
father called me Mary; and from you----'
'Well, what of me, little one?'
'I do not know. It sounds so strange from your lips. It makes me feel
afraid, somehow, as though I were grown up and quite old. I like the
childish Polly best.'
'You shall be obeyed, dear--literally and entirely, I mean;' for he saw
her agitation needed soothing. 'But Polly is not quite herself to-night;
these fears and scruples are not like her. Let me hear all these
troublesome thoughts, dearest; you know I am a safe confidant.' And
encouraged by the gentleness of his tone, Polly crept close into the
shelter of the kind arm that had been thrown round her.
'I don't think it hurts one to have fears,' she said, in her simple way;
'they seem to grow out of one's very happiness. You must not mind if I
am afraid at times that I shall not always please you; it will only be
because I want to do it so much.'
'There, you wound and heal in one breath,' he replied, half-laughing,
and half-touched.
'It has come into my mind more than once that when we are alone
together; when I come to take care of you; you know what I mean.'
'When you are my own sweet wife--I understand, Polly;' and now nothing
could exceed the grave tenderness of his voice.
'Yes, when you bring me home to the fireside, which you say has been so
lonely,' she returned, with touching frankness, at once childlike and
womanly. 'When you have no one but me to comfort you, what if you find
out too late that I am so young--so very young--that I have not all you
want?'
'Polly--my own Polly!'
'Ah, you may call me that, and yet the disappointment may be bitter. You
have been so good to me, I love you so dearly, that I could not bear to
see a shade on your face, young as I am. I do not feel like a child
about this.'
'No, you are not a child,' he returned, looking at her with new
reverence in his eyes. In her earnestness she had forgotten her girlish
shyness; her hands were clasped fearlessly on his arm, truth was written
on her guileless face, her words rang in his ear with mingled pathos and
purity.
'No, you are not a child,' he repeated, and then he stopped all of a
sudden; his wooing had grown difficult to him. He had never liked her so
well, he had never regarded her with such proud fondness, as now, when
she pleaded with him for toleration of her undeveloped youth. For one
swift instant a consciousness of the truth of her words struck home to
him with a keen sense of pain, marring the pleasant harmony of his
dream; but when, he looked at her again it was gone.
And yet how was he to answer her? It was not petting fondness she
wanted--not even ordinary love-speeches--only rest from an uneasy fear
that harassed her repose--an assurance, mute or otherwise, that she was
sufficient for his peace. If he understood her aright, this was what she
wanted.
'Polly, I do not think you need to be afraid,' he said at last,
hesitating strangely over his words. 'I understand you, my darling; I
know what you mean; but I do not think you need be afraid.'
'Ah, if I could only feel that!' she whispered.
'I will make you feel it; listen to me, dear. We men are odd,
unaccountable beings; we have moods, our work worries us, we have tired
fits now and then, nothing is right, all is vanity of vanity, disgust,
want of success, blurred outlines, opaque mist everywhere--then it is I
shall want my little comforter. You will be my veritable Sunbeam then.'
'But if I fail you?'
'Hush, you will never fail me. What heresy, what disbelief in a wife's
first duty! Do you know, Polly, it is just three years since I first
dreamt of the beneficent fairy who was to rise up beside my hearth.'
'You thought of me three years ago?'
'Thought of you? No, dreamt of you, fairy. You know you came to me first
in a ladder of motes and beams. Don't you remember Dad Fabian's attic,
and the picture of Cain, and the strange guardian coming in through the
low doorway?'
'Yes, I remember; you startled me.'
'Polly is a hundred times prettier now; but I can recognise still in you
the slim creature in the rusty black frock, with thin arms, and large
dark eyes, drinking in the sunlight. It was such a forlorn Polly then.'
'And then you were good to me.'
'I am afraid I must have seemed stern to you, poor child, repelling your
young impulse in such a manner. I remember, while you were pleading in
your innocent fashion, and Miss Lambert was smiling at you, that a
curious fancy came into my head. Something hardly human seemed to
whisper to me, "John Heriot, after all, you may have found a little
comforter."'
'I am so glad. I mean that you have thought of me for such a time.'
Polly was dimpling again; the old happy light had come back to her eyes.
'You see it is no new idea. I have watched my Polly growing sweeter and
brighter day by day. How often you have confided in me; how often I have
shared your innocent thoughts. You were not afraid to show me affection
then.'
'I am not now,' she stammered.
'Perhaps not now, my bright-eyed bird; you have borrowed courage and
eloquence for the occasion, inciting me to all manner of lover-like and
foolish speeches. What do you say, little one--do you think I play the
lover so badly, after all?'
'Yes--no--it does not suit you, somehow,' faltered Polly, truthful
still.
'What, am I too old?' but Dr. Heriot's tone was piqued in spite of its
assumed raillery.
'No, you know you are not; but I like the old ways and manners best.
When you talk like this I get shy and stupid, and do not feel like Polly
at all.'
'You are the dearest and sweetest Polly in the world,' he returned, with
a low, satisfied laugh; 'the most delightful combination of quaintness
and simplicity. I wonder what wise Aunt Milly would say if she heard
you.'
'That reminds me that she will be expecting us,' returned Polly,
springing off the stile without waiting for his hand. She had shaken off
her serious mood, and chatted gaily as they hurried along the upper
woodland path; her hands were full of roses and great clusters of
campanula by the time they reached Mildred, who was sitting on a little
knoll that overlooked the Scar. In winter-time the beck rushed noisily
down the high rocky face of the cliff, but now the long drought had
dried up its sources, and with the exception of a few still pools the
riverbed was dry.
Mildred sat with her elbow on her knee, looking dreamily at the gray
scarped rock and overhanging vegetation; while Olive and Chriss
scrambled over the slippery boulders in search of ferns. Behind the dark
woods the sunset clouds were flaming with breadths of crimson and yellow
glory. Over the barren rocks a tiny crescent moon was rising; Mildred's
eyes were riveted on it.
'We have found some butterwort and kingcups; Dr. Heriot declares it is
the same that Shakespeare calls "Winking Mary-buds." You must add it to
your wild-flower collection, Aunt Milly.'
'Are you tired of waiting for us, Miss Lambert? Polly has been giving me
some trouble, and I have had to lecture her.'
'Not very severely, I expect,' returned Mildred. She looked anxiously
from one to another, but Polly's gaiety reassured her as she flung a
handful of flowers into her lap, and then proceeded to sort and arrange
them.
'You might give us Perdita's pretty speech, Polly,' said Dr. Heriot, who
leant against a young thorn watching her.
Polly gave a mischievous little laugh. She remembered the quotation; Roy
had so often repeated it. He would spout pages of Shakespeare as they
walked through the wintry woods. 'You have brought it upon yourself,'
she cried, holding up to him a long festoon of gaudy weeds, and
repeating the lines in her fresh young voice.
'Here's flowers for you!
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and I think they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.'
'Oh, Polly--Polly--fie!'
'Little Heartsease, do you know what you deserve?' but Dr. Heriot
evidently enjoyed the mischief. 'After all, I brought it on myself. I
believe I was thinking of the crazy Danish maid, Ophelia, all the time.'
'You have had your turn,' answered Polly, with her prettiest pout; 'my
next shall be for Aunt Milly. I am afraid I don't look much like
Ophelia, though. There, Aunt Milly--there's rosemary, that's for
remembrance--pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for
thoughts.'
'Make them as gay as your own, Heartsease;' then--
'Hush, don't interrupt me; I am making Aunt Milly shiver. "There's
fennel for you and columbines; there's rue for you, and here's some for
me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. You may wear your rue with
a difference."'
'You are offering me a sorry garland;' and Mildred forced a smile over
the girl's quaint conceit. 'Mints, savory, marjoram, all the homeliest
herbs you could find in your garden. I shall not forget the compliment
to my middle age,' grumbled Dr. Heriot, who was unusually tickled at the
goodness of the _repartee_ Polly was never so thoroughly at her ease as
when she was under Aunt Milly's wing. Just then Mildred rose to recall
Olive and Chriss; as she went down the woody hillock a quick contraction
of pain furrowed her brow.
'There's rue for you,' she said to herself; 'ah, and rosemary, that's
for remembrance. Oh, Polly, I felt tempted to use old Polonius's words,
and say, "there's a method in madness"; how little you know the true
word spoken in jest; never mind, if I can only take it as "my herb of
grace o' Sundays," it will be well yet.'
Mildred found herself monopolised by Chriss during their homeward walk.
Polly and Dr. Heriot were in front, and Olive, as was often her custom,
lingering far behind.
'Let them go on, Aunt Milly,' whispered Chriss; 'lovers are dreadfully
poor company to every one but themselves. Polly will be no good at all
now she is engaged.'
'What do you know about lovers, a little girl like you?' returned
Mildred, amused in spite of herself.
'I am not a little girl, I am nearly sixteen,' replied Chriss,
indignantly. 'Romeo and Juliet were all very well, and so were Ferdinand
and Miranda, but in real life it is so stupid. I have made up my mind
that I shall never marry.'
'Wait until you are asked, puss.'
'Ah, as to that,' returned the young philosopher, calmly, 'as Dr. John
says, it takes all sorts of people to make up a world, and I daresay
some one will be found who does not object to eye-glasses.'
'Or to blue stockings,' observed Mildred, rather slyly.
'You forget we live in enlightened days,' remarked Chriss,
sententiously; 'this sort of ideas belonged to the Dark Ages. Minds are
not buried alive now because they happen to be born in the feminine
gender,' continued Chriss, with a slight confusion of metaphor.
Mildred smiled. Chriss's odd talk distracted her from sad thoughts. The
winding path had already hidden the lovers from her; unconsciously she
slackened her pace.
'I should not mind a nice gray professor, perhaps, if he knew lots of
languages, and didn't take snuff. But they all do; it clears the brain,
and is a salutary irritant,' went on Chriss, who had only seen one
professor in her life, and that one a very dingy specimen. 'I should
like my professor to be old and sensible, and not young and silly, and
he must not care about eating and drinking, or expect me to sew on his
buttons, or mend his gloves. Some one ought to invent a mending-machine.
I am sure these things take away half the pleasure of living.'
'My little Chriss, do you mean to be head without hands? You will be a
very imperfect woman, I am afraid, and I hope in that case you will not
find your professor.'
'I would rather be without him, after all,' replied Chriss,
discontentedly. 'Men are so stupid; they want their own way, and every
one has to give in to them. I would rather live in lodgings like Roy,
somewhere near the British Museum, where I could go and read every day,
and in the evening I would go to lectures and concerts, or stop at home
and play with Fritter-my-wig: that is just the sort of life I should
like, Aunt Milly.'
'What is to become of your father and me? Perhaps Olive may marry.'
'Olive? not a bit of it. She always says nothing would induce her to
leave papa. You don't want me to stop all my life in this little corner
of the world, where everything is behind the times, and there is not a
creature to whom one cares to speak?'
'Chriss, Chriss, what a Radical you are,' returned Mildred. She was a
little weary of Chriss's childish chatter. They were in the deep lane
skirting Podgill now; just beyond the footbridge Polly and Dr. Heriot
were standing waiting for them.
'Is the tangle all gone?' he asked presently. 'Are you quite happy
again, Heartsease?'
'Yes, very happy,' she assured him, with a bright smile, and he felt a
pressure of the hand that rested on his arm.
'What a darling she is,' he thought to himself somewhat later that
night, as he walked across the market-place, now shining in the
moonlight 'Little witch, how prettily she acted that speech of Perdita,
her eyes imploring forgiveness all the time for her mischief. The child
has deep feelings too. Once or twice she made me feel oddly. But I need
not fear; she will make a sweet wife, I know, my innocent Polly.'
But the little scene haunted his fancy, and he had an odd dream about it
that night. He thought that they were in the grassy knoll again looking
over the Scar, and that some one pushed some withered herbs into his
hands. 'Here's rue for you, and there's some for me; you may wear your
rue with a difference,' said a voice.
'Unkind Polly!' he returned, dropping them, and stretched out his arms
to imprison the culprit; but Polly was not there, only Mildred Lambert
was there, with her elbow on her knee, looking sadly over the Scar.