'I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS'
'Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.
'Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.'
Tennyson's _Princess_.
Richard had promised to pay them another visit shortly, and one Saturday
evening while Polly and Sue were racing each other among the gravel-pits
and the furze-bushes of the people's great common, and the lights
twinkled merrily in the Vale of Health, and the shifting mist shut out
the blue distances of Harrow and Pinner, Mildred was charmed as well as
startled by the sound of his voice in the hall.
'Well, Rex, you are getting on famously, I hear; thanks to Aunt Milly's
nursing,' was his cheerful greeting.
Roy shook his head despondingly.
'I should do better if I could see something different from these four
walls,' he returned, with a discontented glance round the room that
Mildred had made so bright and pretty; 'it is absurd keeping me moped up
here, but Aunt Milly is inexorable.'
Mildred smiled over her boy's peevishness.
'He does not know what is good for him,' she returned, gently; 'he
always gets restless towards evening. Dr. Blenkinsop has been most
strict in bidding me keep him from excitement and not to let him talk
with any one. This is the first day he has withdrawn his prohibition,
and Roy has been in his tantrums ever since.'
'He said I might go downstairs if only I were spared the trouble of
walking,' grumbled Roy, who sometimes tyrannised over Aunt Milly--and
dearly she loved such tyranny.
'He is more like a spoiled child than ever,' she said, laughing.
'If that be all, the difficulty is soon obviated. I can carry him
easily,' returned Richard, looking down a little sadly at the long gaunt
figure before him, looking strangely shrunken in the brilliant
dressing-gown that was Roy's special glory; 'but I must be careful, you
look thin and brittle enough to break.'
'May he, Aunt Milly? Oh, I do so long to see the old studio again, and
the couch is so much more comfortable than this,' his eyes beginning to
shine with excitement and his colour varying dangerously.
'Is it quite prudent, Richard?' she asked, hesitatingly. 'Had we not
better wait till to-morrow?' but Roy's eagerness overbore her scruples.
Polly little knew what surprise was in store for her. Her race over, she
walked along soberly, wondering how she should occupy herself that
evening. She, too, knew that Dr. Blenkinsop's prohibition had been
removed, and had chafed a little restlessly when Mildred had asked her
to be patient till the next day. 'Aunt Milly is too careful; she does
not think how I long to see him,' she said, as she walked slowly home. A
light streamed across the dark garden when she reached The Hollies; a
radiance of firelight and lamplight. 'I wonder if Richard has come,'
thought Polly, as she stole into the little passage and gently opened
the door.
Yes, Richard was there; his square, thick-set figure blocking up the
fireplace as he leant in his favourite attitude against the mantelpiece;
and there was Aunt Milly, smiling as though something pleased her. And
yes, surely that was Roy's wraith wrapped in the gorgeous dressing-gown
and supported by pillows.
The blood rushed to the girl's face as she stood for a moment as though
spell-bound, but at the sound of her half-suppressed exclamation he
turned his head feebly and looked at her.
'Polly' was all he said, but at his voice she had sprung across the
room, and as he stretched out his thin hand to her with an attempt at
his old smile, a low sob had risen to her lips, and, utterly overcome by
the spectacle of his weakness, she buried her face in his pillows.
Roy's eyes grew moist with sympathy.
'Don't cry, Polly--don't; I cannot bear it,' he whispered, faintly.
'Don't, Polly; try to control yourself; this agitation is very bad for
him;' and Richard raised her gently, for a deadly pallor had overspread
Roy's features.
'I could not help it,' she returned, drying her eyes, 'to see him lying
there looking so ill. Oh, Rex! it breaks my heart,' and the two young
creatures almost clung together in their agitation; and, indeed, Roy's
hollow blue eyes and thin, bloodless face had a spectral beauty that was
absolutely startling.
'I never thought you would mind so much, Polly,' he said, tremulously;
and the poor lad looked at her with an eagerness that he could not
disguise. 'I hardly dared to expect that you could waste so much time
and thought on me.'
'Oh, Rex, how can you say such unkind things; not care--and I have been
fretting all this time?'
'That was hardly kind to Heriot, was it?' he said, watching her, and a
strange vivid light shone in his eyes. If she had not known before she
must have felt then how he loved her; a sudden blush rose to her cheek
as he mentioned Dr. Heriot's name; involuntarily she moved a little away
from him, and Roy's head fell back on the pillow with a sigh.
Neither of them seemed much disposed for speech after that. Roy lay back
with closed eyes and knitted brows, and Polly sat on a low chair
watching the great spluttering log and showers of sparks, while Mildred
and Richard talked in undertones.
Now and then Roy opened his eyes and looked at her--at the dainty little
figure and sweet, thoughtful face; the firelight shone on the shielding
hand and half-hoop of diamonds. He recognised the ribbon she wore; he
had bought it for her, as well as the little garnet ring he had
afterwards voted as rubbish. The sight angered him. He would claim it
again, he thought. She should wear no gifts of his; the diamonds had
overpowered his garnets, just as his poor little love had been crushed
by Dr. Heriot's fascination. Adonis, with his sleepy blue eyes and fair
moustache and velvet coat, had failed in the contest with the elder man.
What was he, after all, but a beggarly artist? No wonder she despised
his scraps of ribbon, his paltry gewgaws, and odds and ends of rubbish.
'And yet if I had only had my chance,' he groaned within himself, 'if I
had wooed her, if I had compelled her to understand my meaning.' And
then his anger melted, as she raised her clear, honest eyes, and looked
at him.
'Are you in pain, Rex?--can I move your pillows?' bending over him
rather timidly. Poor children! a veil of reserve had fallen between them
since Dr. Heriot's name had been mentioned, and she no longer spoke to
him with the old fearlessness.
'No, I am not in pain. Come here, Polly; you have not begun to be afraid
of me since--since I have been ill?' rather moodily.
'No, Rex, of course not.' But she faltered a little over her words.
'Sit down beside me for a minute. What was it you called me in your
letter, before I was ill? Something--it looked strangely written by your
hand, Polly.'
'Brother--my dear brother Rex,' almost inaudibly.
'Ah, I remember. It would have made me smile, only I was not in the
humour for smiling. I did not write back to my sister Polly though.
Richard calls you his little sister very often, does he not?'
'Yes, and I love to hear him say it,' very earnestly.
'Should you love it if I called you that too?' he returned, with an
involuntary curl of the lip. 'Pshaw! This is idle talk; but sick people
will have their fancies. I have one at present. I want you not to wear
that rubbish any more,' touching her hand lightly.
'Oh, Rex--the ring you gave me?' the tears starting to her eyes.
'I never threw a flower away the gift of one that cared for me,' he
replied, with a weak laugh. '"I never had a dear gazelle but it was sure
to marry the market-gardener." Do you remember Dick Swiveller, Polly,
and the many laughs we have had over him in the old garden at home? Oh,
those days!' checking himself abruptly, for fear the pent-up bitterness
might find vent.
'Children, you are talking too much,' interposed Mildred's warning
voice, not slow to interpret the rising excitement of Roy's manner.
'One minute more, Aunt Milly,' he returned, hastily; then, dropping his
voice, 'The gift must go back to the giver. I don't want you to wear
that ugly little ring any longer, Polly.'
'But I prize it so,' she remonstrated. 'If I give it back to you, you
will throw it in the fire, or trample on it.'
'On my honour, no; but I can't stand seeing you wear such rubbish. I
will keep it safely--I will indeed, Polly. Do please me in this.' And
Polly, who had never refused him anything, drew off the shabby little
ring from her finger and handed it to him with downcast eyes. Why should
he ask from her such a sacrifice? Every ribbon and every flower he had
given her she had hoarded up as though they were of priceless value, and
now he had taken from her her most cherished treasure. And Polly's lip
quivered so that she could hardly bid him good-night.
Richard, who saw the girl was fretting, tried by every means in his
power to cheer her. He threw on another log, placed her little
basket-work chair in the most inviting corner, showed her the different
periodicals he had brought from Oxford for Roy's amusement, and gave her
lively sketches of undergraduate life. Polly showed her interest very
languidly; she was mourning the loss of her ring, and thinking how much
her long-desired interview with Roy had disappointed her. Would he never
be the same to her again? Would this sad misunderstanding always come
between them?
How was it she was clinging to him with the old fondness till he had
mentioned Dr. Heriot's name, and then their hands had fallen asunder
simultaneously?
'Poor Roy, and poor, poor Polly!' she thought, with a self-pity as new
as it was painful.
'You are not listening to me, Polly. You are tired, my dear,' Richard
said at last, in his kind fraternal way.
'No, I am very rude. But I cannot help thinking of Rex; how ill he is,
and how terribly wasted he looks!'
'I knew it would be a shock to you. I am thankful that my father's gout
prevents him from travelling; he would fret dreadfully over Roy's
altered appearance. But we must be thankful that he is as well as he is.
I could not help thinking all that night--the night before you and Aunt
Milly came--what I should do if we lost him.'
'Don't, Richard. I cannot bear to think of it.'
'It ought to make us so grateful,' he murmured. 'First Olive and then
Roy brought back from the very brink of the grave. It is too much
goodness; it makes one ashamed of one's discontent.' And he sighed
involuntarily.
'But it is so sad to see him so helpless. You said he was as light as a
child when you lifted him, Richard, and if he speaks a word or two he
coughs. I am afraid Dr. Blenkinsop is right in saying he must go to
Hastings for the winter.'
'We shall hear what Dr. John says when he comes up next. You expect him
soon, Polly?' But Richard, as he asked the question, avoided meeting her
eyes. He feared lest this long absence had excited suspicions which he
might find difficult to answer.
But Polly's innocence was proof against any such surmises. 'I cannot
think what keeps him,' she returned, disconsolately. Olive says he is
not very busy, and that his new assistant relieves him of half his
work.'
'And he gives you no reason?' touching the log to elicit another shower
of sparks.
'No, he only says that he cannot come at present, and answers all my
reproaches with jests--you know his way. I don't think he half knows how
I want him. Richard, I do wish you would do something for me. Write to
him to-morrow, and ask him to come; tell him I want him very badly, that
I never wanted him half so much before.'
'Dear Polly, you cannot need him so much as that,' trying to turn off
her earnestness with a laugh.
'You do not know--you none of you know--how much I want him,' with a
strange vehemence in her tone. 'When he is near me I feel safe--almost
happy. Ah!' cried the girl, with a sad wistfulness coming into her eyes,
'when I see him I do not need to remind myself of his goodness and
love--I can feel it then. Oh, Richard dear! tell him he must come--that
I am afraid to be without him any longer.'
Afraid of what? Did she know? Did Richard know?
'She seems very restless without you,' he wrote that Sunday afternoon.
'I fancy Roy's manner frets her. He is fitful in his moods--a little
irritable even to her, and yet unable to bear her out of his sight. He
would be brought down into the studio again to-day, though Aunt Milly
begged him to spare himself. Polly has been trying all the afternoon to
amuse him, but he will not be amused. She has just gone off to the
piano, in the hope of singing him to sleep. Rex tyrannises over us all
dreadfully.'
Dr. Heriot sighed over Richard's letter, but he made no attempt to
facilitate his preparations for going to London; he was reading things
by a clear light now; this failure of his was a sore subject to him; in
spite of the prospect that was dawning slowly before him, he could not
bear to think of the tangled web he had so unthinkingly woven--it would
need careful unravelling, he thought; and so curious is the mingled warp
and woof in the mind of a man like John Heriot, that while his heart
yearned for Mildred with the strong passion of his nature, he felt for
his young betrothed a tenderness for which there was no name, and the
thought of freeing himself and her was painful in the extreme.
He longed to see her again and judge for himself, but he must be patient
for a while, he knew; so though Polly pleaded for his presence almost
passionately, he still put her off on some pretext or other,--nor did he
come till a strong letter of remonstrance from Mildred reached him,
reproaching him for his apparent neglect, and begging him to recall the
girl, as their present position was not good for her or Roy.
Mildred was constrained to take this step, urged by her pity for Polly's
evident unhappiness.
That some struggle was passing in the girl's mind was now evident. Was
she becoming shaken in her loyalty to Dr. Heriot? Mildred grew alarmed;
she saw that while Roy's invalid fancies were obeyed with the old
Polly-like docility and sweetness, that she shrank at times from him as
though she were afraid to trust herself with him; sometimes at a look or
word she would rise from his side and go to the piano and sing softly to
herself some airs that Dr. Heriot loved.
'You never sing my old favourites now, Polly,' Roy said once, rather
fretfully, 'but only these old things over and over again!'
'I like to sing these best,' she said, hastily; and then, as he still
pressed the point, she pushed the music from her, and hurried out of the
room.
But Mildred had another cause for uneasiness which she kept to herself.
There was no denying that Roy was very slow in regaining strength. Dr.
Blenkinsop shook his head, and looked more dissatisfied every day.
'I don't know what to make of him,' he owned to Mildred, one day, as
they stood in the porch together.
It was a mild December afternoon; a red wintry sun hung over the little
garden; a faint crescent moon rose behind the trees; underneath the
window a few chrysanthemums shed a soft blur of violet and dull crimson;
a slight wind stirred the hair from Mildred's temples, showing a streak
of gray; but worn and thin as she looked, Dr. Blenkinsop thought he had
never seen a face that pleased him better.
'What a Sister of Mercy she would make,' he often thought; 'if I know
anything of human nature, this woman has known a great sorrow; she has
been taught patience in a rough school; no matter how that boy tries
her, she has always a cheerful answer ready for him.'
Dr. Blenkinsop was in rather a bad humour this afternoon, a fact that
was often patent enough to his patients, whom he was given to treat on
such occasions with some _brusquerie_; but with all his oddities and
contradictions, they dearly loved him.
'I can't make him out at all,' he repeated, irritably, feeling his
iron-gray whiskers, a trick of his when anything discomposed him; 'there
is no fault to find with his constitution; he has had a sharp bout of
illness, brought on, as far as I can make out, by his own imprudence,
and just as he has turned the corner nicely, and seems doing us all
credit, he declines to make any further progress!'
'But he is really better, Dr. Blenkinsop; he coughs far less, and his
sleep is less broken; he has no appetite, certainly, but----' Mildred
stopped. She thought herself that Roy had been losing ground lately.
Dr. Blenkinsop fairly growled,--he had little sharp white teeth that
showed almost savagely when he was in one of his surly moods.
'These lymphatic natures are the worst to combat, they succumb so
readily to weakness and depression; he certainly seems more languid
to-day, and there are feverish indications. He has got nothing on his
mind, eh?'--turning round so abruptly that Mildred was put out of
countenance.
She hesitated.
'Humph!' was his next observation, 'I thought as much. Of course it is
none of my concern, but when I see my patient losing ground without any
visible cause, one begins to ask questions. That young lady who assists
in the nursing--do you think her presence advisable, eh?'--with another
sharp glance at Mildred.
'She is his adopted sister--she is engaged,' stammered Mildred, not
willing to betray the lad's secret. 'They are very fond of each other.'
'A questionable sort of fondness--rather too feverish on one side, I
should say. Send her back to the north, and get that nice fellow Richard
in her place; that is my advice.'
And acting on this very broad hint, Mildred soon afterwards wrote to Dr.
Heriot to recall Polly.
When Dr. Blenkinsop had left her, she did not at once return to the
studio; through the closed door she could hear Polly striking soft
chords on the piano. Roy had seemed drowsy, and she trusted the girl's
murmuring voice would lull him to sleep.
It was not often that she left them together; but this afternoon her
longing for a little fresh air tempted her to undertake some errands
that were needed for the invalid; and leaving a message with Mrs.
Madison that she would be back to the early tea, she set off in the
direction of the old town.
It was getting rapidly dusk as the little gate swung behind Mildred.
When Roy roused from his fitful slumber, he could hardly see Polly as
she sat at the shabby, square piano.
The girl was touching the notes with listless fingers, her head drooping
over the keys; but she suddenly started when she saw the tall gaunt
figure beside her in the gorgeous dressing-gown.
'Oh, Rex, this is very wrong,' taking hold of one of his hot hands, and
trying to lead him back to the sofa, 'when you know you cannot stand,
and that the least movement makes you cough. Put your hand on my
shoulder; lean on me. Oh, I wish I were as strong and tall as Aunt
Milly.'
'I like you best as you are,' he replied, but he did not refuse the
support she offered him. 'I could not see you over there, only the
outline of your dress. You never wear your pretty dresses now, Polly?'
reproachfully. 'I suppose because Heriot is not here.'
'Indeed--indeed--you must not stand any longer, Rex. You must lie down
at once, or I shall tell Aunt Milly,' she returned, evasively.
He was always making these sort of speeches to her, and to-night she
felt as though she could not bear them; but Roy was not to be silenced.
Never once had she mentioned Dr. Heriot's name to him, and with an odd
tenacity he wanted to make her say it. What did she call him? had she
learnt to say his Christian name? would she pronounce it with a blush,
faltering over it as girls do? or would she speak it glibly as with long
usage?
'I suppose you keep them all for him,' he continued, with a suspicion of
bitterness in his tone; 'that little nun-like gray dress is good enough
for Aunt Milly and me. Too much colour would be bad for weak eyes, eh,
Polly?'
'I dress for him, of course,' trying to defend herself with dignity; but
the next moment she waxed humble again. 'I--I am sorry you do not like
the dress, Rex,' she faltered. 'I should like to please you both if I
could,' and her eyes filled with tears.
'I think you might sing sometimes to please me when he is not here,' he
returned, obstinately; 'just one song, Polly; my favourite one, with
that sad, sweet refrain.'
'Oh, not that one,' she repeated, beginning to tremble; 'choose
something else, Rex--not that.'
'No, I will have that or none,' he replied, irritably. What had become
of Roy's sweet temper? 'You seem determined not to please me in
anything,' and he moved away.
Polly watched his tottering steps a moment, and then she sprang after
him.
'Oh, Rex, do not be so cross with me; do not refuse my help,' she said,
winding her arm round him, and compelling him to lean on her. 'There,
you have done yourself mischief,' as he paused, overcome by a paroxysm
of coughing. 'How can you--how can you be so unkind to me, Rex?'
He did not answer; perhaps, absorbed in his own trouble, he hardly knew
how he tried her; but as he sank back feebly on the cushions, he
whispered--
'You will sing it, Polly, will you not?'
'Yes, yes; anything, if you will only not be angry with me,' returned
the poor girl, as she hurried away.
The air was a mournful one, just suited to the words:--
'Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.'
'Polly, come here! come to me, Polly!' for, overcome by a sudden
revulsion of feeling, Polly had broken down, and hidden her face in her
hands; and now a stifled sob reached Roy's ear.
'Polly, I dare not move, and I only want to ask you to forgive me,' in a
remorseful voice; and the girl obeyed him reluctantly.
'What makes you so cruel to me?' she panted, looking at him with sad
eyes, that seemed to pierce his selfishness. 'It is not my fault if you
are so unhappy--if you will not get well.'
'Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed.' The plaintive rhythm
still haunted her. Was she, after all, so much to blame? Was she not
suffering too? Why should he lay this terrible burden on her? It was
selfish of him to die and leave her to her misery.
Roy fairly quailed beneath the girl's indignation and passionate sorrow.
'Have I been so hard to you, Polly?' he said, humbly. 'Are men ever hard
to the women they love? There, the murder is out. You must leave me,
Polly; you must go back to Heriot. I am too weak to hide the truth any
longer. You must not stay and listen to me,' pushing her away with weak
force.
It was his turn to be agitated now.
'Leave me!' he repeated, 'it is not loyal to Heriot to listen to a
fool's maundering, which he has not the wit or the strength to hide. I
should only frighten you with my vehemence, and do no good. Aunt Milly
will be here directly. Leave me, I say.'
But she only clung to him, and called him brother. Alas! how could she
leave him!
By and by he grew calmer.
'Forgive me, Polly; I am not myself; I ought not to have made you sing
that song.'
'No, Rex,' in a voice scarcely audible.
'When you go back to Heriot you must tell him all. Ask him not to be
hard on me. I never meant to injure him. The man you love is sacred in
my eyes. It was only for a little while I hated him.'
'I will not tell him that.'
'Listen to me, dear! I ask his pardon, and yours too, for having
betrayed myself. I have acted like a weak fool to-night. You were wiser
than I, Polly.'
'There is nothing to forgive,' she returned, softly. 'Heriot will not be
angry with you; he knows you are ill, and I--I will try to forget it.
But you must get well, Rex; you will promise to get well for my sake.'
'Shall you grieve very much if I do not? Heriot would comfort you, if I
did not, Polly.'
She made an involuntary movement towards him, and then checked herself.
'Cruel! cruel!' she said, in a voice that sounded dead and cold, and her
arms fell to her side.
He melted at that.
'There, I have hurt you again. What a selfish wretch I am. I shall make
a poor thing of life; but I will promise not to die if I can help it.
You shall not call me cruel again, Polly.'
Then she smiled, and stretched out her hand to him.
'I would not requite your goodness so badly as that. You could always do
as you liked with me in the old days, Polly--turn me round your little
finger. If you tell me to get well I suppose I must try; but the best
part of me is gone.'
She could not answer him. Every word went through her tender heart like
a stab. What avail were her love and pity? Never should she be able to
comfort him again; never would her sweet sisterly ministrations suffice
for him. She must not linger by his side; her eyes were open now.
'Good-bye, Roy,' she faltered. She hardly knew what she meant by that
farewell. Was she going to leave him? Was she only saying good-bye to
the past, to girlhood, to all manner of fond foolish dreams? She rose
with dry eyes when she had uttered that little speech, while he lay
watching her.
'Do you mean to leave me?' he asked, sorrowfully, but not disputing her
decision.
'Perhaps--yes--what does it matter?' she answered, moving drearily away.
What did it matter indeed? Her fate and his were sealed. Between them
stretched a gulf, long as life, impassable as death; and even her
innocent love might not span it.
'I shall not go to him, and he will not return to me,' she said,
paraphrasing the words of the royal mourner to harmonise with her
measure of pain. 'Never while I live shall I have my brother Roy again.'
Poor little aching, childish heart, dealing for the first time with
life's mysteries, comprehending now the relative distinction between
love and gratitude, and standing with reluctant feet on the edge of an
unalterable resolve. What sorrow in after years ever equalled this
blank?
When Mildred returned she found a very desolate scene awaiting her; the
fire had burnt low, a waste of dull red embers filled the grate, the
moon shone through the one uncurtained window; a mass of drapery stirred
at her entrance, a yawning figure stretched itself under the oriental
quilt.
'Roy, were you asleep? The fire is nearly out. Where is Polly?
'I do not know. She left the room just now,' he returned, with a sleepy
inflection; but to Mildred's delicate perception it did not ring true.
She said nothing, however, raked the embers together, threw on some
wood, and lighted the lamps.
Had he really slept? There was no need to ask the question; his burning
hand, the feverish light of his eyes, the compressed lips, the baffled
and tortured lines of the brow, told her another story; she leant over
him, pressing them out with soft fingers.
'Rex, my poor boy!'
'Aunt Milly, she has bidden me good-bye,' broke out the lad suddenly;
'she knows, and she is going back to Heriot; and I--I am the most
miserable wretch alive.'