Henceforth for Mildred Lambert there should shine the light of a day that was not 'clear nor dark;' she knew that for her no dazzling sunrise of requited love should flood her woman's kingdom with brightness; happiness must be replaced by duty, by the quiet contentment of a heart 'at leisure from itself.'
'There is no trouble unendurable but sin,' she had said to herself. Oh, that other poor sufferers—sufferers in heart, in this world's good things—would lay this truth to their souls! It would rob sorrow of its sting, it would lift the deadly mists from the charnel-house itself. For to the Mildreds of life religion is no Sunday garb, to be laid aside when the week-day burdens press heaviest; no garbled mixture of sentiment and symbolic rites, of lip-worship and heart freedom, tolerated by 'the civilised heathenism' of the present day, for in their heart they know that to the Christian, suffering is a privilege, not a punishment; that from the days of Calvary 'Take up thy cross and follow Me' is the literal command literally obeyed by the true followers of the great Master of suffering.
Mildred was resolved to tolerate no weakness; she dressed herself quickly, and was down at the usual time. 'How old and faded I look,' she thought, as she caught the reflection of herself in the glass.
Her changed looks would excite comment, she knew, and she braced herself to meet it with tolerable equanimity; a sleepless night could be pleaded as an excuse for heavy eyes and swollen eyelids. Polly indeed seemed disposed to renew her soft manipulations and girlish officiousness, but Mildred contrived to put them aside. 'She was going down to the schools, and after that there were the old women at the workhouse and at Nateby,' she said, with the quiet firmness which always made Aunt Milly's decrees unalterable. 'Her girls must take care of themselves until she returned.'
'Charity begins at home, Aunt Milly. I am sure Olive and I are worth a score of old women,' grumbled Polly, who in season and out of season was given to clatter after Mildred in her little high-heeled shoes.
Dr. Heriot's ward was becoming a decidedly fashionable young lady; the pretty feet were set off by silver buckles, Polly's heels tapped the floor endlessly as she tripped hither and thither; Polly's long skirts, always crisp and rustling, her fresh dainty muslins, her toy aprons and shining ribbons, were the themes of much harmless criticism; the little hands were always faultlessly gloved; London-marked boxes came to her perpetually, with Roy's saucy compliments; wonderful ruby and cream-coloured ribbons were purchased with the young artist's scanty savings. Nor was Dr. Heriot less mindful of the innocent vanity that somehow added to Polly's piquancy. The little watch that ticked at her waist, the gold chain and locket, the girlish ring with its turquoise heart, were all the gifts of the kind guardian and friend.
Dr. Heriot's bounty was unfailing. The newest books found their way to Olive's and Mildred's little work-tables; Chriss was made happy by additions to her menagerie of pets; a gray parrot, a Skye terrier whose shaggy coat swept the ground, even pink-eyed rabbits found their way to the vicarage; the grand silk dresses that Dr. Heriot had sent down on Polly's last birthday for her and Olive were nothing in Chriss's eyes compared to Fritter-my-wig, who could smoke, draw corks, bark like a dog, and reduce Veteran Rag to desperation by a vision of concealed cats on the stable wall. Chriss's oddities were not disappearing with her years—indeed she was still the same captious little person as of old; with her bright eyes and tawny-coloured mane she was decidedly picturesque, though stooping shoulders, and the eye-glass her short-sight required, detracted somewhat from her good looks.
On any sunny afternoon she could be seen sitting on the low step leading to the lawn, her parrot, Fritter-my-wig, on her shoulder, and Tatters and Witch at her feet, and most likely a volume of Euripides on her lap. The quaint little figure, the red-brown touzle of curls, the short striped skirt, and gold eye-glasses, struck Roy on one of his rare visits home; one of his most charming pictures was painted from the recollection. 'There was an Old Woman,' it was called. Chriss objected indignantly to the dolls that were introduced, though Roy gravely assured her that he had adhered to Hugh's beautiful idea of the twelve months.
Polly had some reason for her discontent and grumbling. The weather had changed, and heavy summer rains seemed setting in, and Mildred's plan for her day did not savour of prudence. It suited Mildred's sombre thoughts better than sunshine; she went upstairs almost cheerfully, and took out a gray cloak that was Polly's favourite aversion on the score that it reminded her of a Sister-of-Charity cloak. 'Not that I do not love and honour Sisters,' she had added by way of excuse, 'but I should not like you to be one, Aunt Milly,' and Mildred had hastened to assure her that she had never felt it to be her vocation.
She remembered Polly's speech now as she shook out the creases; the straight, long folds, the unobtrusive colour, somehow suited her. 'I think people who are not young ought always to dress in black or gray,' she said to herself; 'butterfly colours are only fit for girls. I should like nothing better than to be allowed to hide all this hair under a cap and Quaker's bonnet.' And yet, as she said this, Mildred remembered with a sudden pang that Dr. Heriot had once observed in her hearing that she had beautiful hair.