England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction
Mildred raised her eyes in surprise, and again the sensitive colour rose
to her face. Dr. Heriot was given to moralising, she knew, but it was a
little forced this evening. In spite of his coolness a suppressed
excitement bordered the edge of his words; he looked like a man on the
brink of a resolution.
'The damsel Discretion would suit me better,' she said at last, with
assumed lightness.
'Yes, Discretion is your handmaid, but my name fits you more truly,' he
returned, with a kind look which somehow made her heart beat faster.
'Your sympathy offers such a soft pillow for sore hearts, and aches and
troubles--have you a ward for incurables, as well as for the sick and
maimed waifs and strays of humanity, I wonder?'
'Dr. Heriot, what possesses you this evening?' returned Mildred, with
troubled looks. How strangely he was talking!--was he in fun or earnest?
Ought she to stay there and listen to him, or should she gently hint to
him the expediency of returning home? A dim instinct warned her that
this hour might be fraught with perilous pleasure; a movement would
break its spell. She rose hastily.
'You are not going?' he exclaimed, raising himself in some surprise; 'it
is still early. This is an ungrateful return for the compliment I have
just paid you. I am certain it is Discretion now, and not Charity, that
speaks.'
'They will be expecting me,' she returned. Dr. Heriot had risen to his
feet, and now stretched out his hand to detain her.
'They do not want you,' he said, with a persuasive smile; 'they can
exist an hour without Aunt Milly. Sit down again, Charity, I entreat
you, for I have followed you here to ask your advice. I really need it,'
he continued, seriously, as Mildred still hesitated; but a glance at the
grave, kind face decided her. 'Perhaps, after all, he had some trouble,
and she might help him. It could be no harm; it was only too pleasant to
be sitting there monopolising his looks and words, usually shared with
others. The opportunity might never occur again. She would stop and hear
all that he had to say. Was he not her brother's friend, and hers also?'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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