He had pencilled a little line to Polly, which he had begged Richard to bring with his love, and at the same time declared he would never see her again when she was once Dr. Heriot's wife; and, when Richard had remonstrated against the weakness and moral cowardice of adopting such a line of action, had flamed up into his old fierceness; she had made him an exile from his home and all that he loved, he had no heart now for his profession, he knew his very hand had lost its cunning; but not for that could he love her the less or wish her ill. 'She is Polly after all,' he had finished piteously, 'the only girl I ever loved or cared to love, and now she is going near to spoil my whole life!'
'It was useless to argue with him,' Richard said; 'everything like advice seemed to irritate him, and no amount of sympathy could lull the intolerable pain.' He found it answer better to remain silent and let him talk out his trouble, without trying to stem the bitter current. It went to Mildred's heart to hear how the poor lad at the last had broken down utterly at bidding his brother good-bye.
'Don't leave me, Dick; I am not fit to be left,' he had said; and then he had thrown himself down on the miserable couch, and had hidden his face in his arms.
'And the note, Richard?'
'Here it is; he said you might read it, that there was not a word in it that the whole world might not see—she could show it to Heriot if she liked.'
'All the same, I wish he had not written it,' returned Mildred, doubtfully, as she unfolded the slip of paper.
'Dear Polly,' it began, 'I fear you must have thought me very strange and unkind last evening—your reproachful eyes are haunting me now. I cannot bear you to misunderstand me. "No one shall come between us." Ah, I remember you said that; it was so like you, dear—so like my Polly! Now you must try not to think hardly of me—a great trouble has befallen me, as Aunt Milly and Richard know, and I must go away to bear it; no one can help me to bear it; your little fingers cannot lighten it, Polly—your sympathy could not avail me; it is my own burden, and I must bear it alone. You must not fret if we do not meet for some time—it is better so, far better. I have my work; and, dear, I pray that you may be very happy with the man you love (if he be the one you love, Polly).'
'Oh, Richard, he ought not to have said that!'
'She will not understand; go on, Aunt Milly.'
'But there can be no doubt of that, he is a good man, almost worthy of my Polly; but I must not say that any longer, for you are Heriot's Polly now, are you not? but whose ever you are, God bless you, dear.—Roy.'