Heriot's Choice: A Tale

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

'Ah, then we had to battle with the morbidity of hypochondria, the sickness of the body aggravated by the diseased action of the mind, the thickening of shadows that never existed except in one weary brain. My darling never lost her happy smile except when she saw my grief. I think that troubled the still waters of her soul. In thinking of their end, Mildred, one is reminded of Bunyan's glorious allegory—glorious, inspired, I should rather say. That part where the pilgrims make ready for their passage across the river. My darling Betha entered the river with the sweet bravery of Christiana, while, according to your account, my poor mother's sufferings only ceased with her breath.'

'Yet she was praying for the end to come, Arnold.'

'Yes, but the grasshopper was ever a burden to her. Do you remember what stout old Bunyan says? "The last words of Mr. Despondency were: Farewell night! Welcome day! His daughter (Much-afraid) went through the river singing, but no one could understand what she said."'

'As no one could tell the meaning of the sweet solemn smile that crossed our mother's face at the last; she had no fears then, Arnold.'

'Just so. If she could have spoken she would have doubtless told you that such was the case, or used such words as Mr. Despondency leaves as his dying legacy. Do you remember them, Mildred? They are so true of many sick souls,' and he quoted in a low sweet voice, '"My will and my daughter's is (that tender, loving Much-afraid, Milly), that our desponds and slavish fears be by no man ever received from the day of our departure for ever, for I know after my death they will offer themselves to others. For, to be plain with you, they are ghosts which we entertained when we first began to be pilgrims, and could never throw them off after; and they will walk about and seek entertainment of the pilgrims; but, for our sakes, shut the doors upon them."'

'It is a large subject, Arnold, and a very painful one.'

'It is one on which you should talk to Heriot; he has a fine benevolence, and is very tender in his dealings with these self-tormentors. He is always fighting the shadows, as he calls them.'

'I have often wondered why women are so much more morbid than men.'

'Their lives are more to blame than they; want of vigour and action, a much-to-be-deplored habit of incessant introspection and a too nice balancing of conscientious scruples, a lack of large-mindedness, and freedom of principle. All these things lie at the root of the mischief. As John Heriot has it, "The thinking machine is too finely polished."'

'I fancy Olive is slightly bitten with the complaint,' observed Mildred, wishing to turn her brother's thought to more practical matters.