“POLLY.”
WHEN Jervis opened the door, he found a woman standing there—a
stranger, he supposed.
She wore a neat, though shabby, bonnet and cloak, and her thin,
careworn face was turned full towards the light. It was a face which
had been pretty once, though all traces of beauty had vanished now. The
features were sharpened as if by prolonged illness, and the gray eyes
were set in deep hollows; but a certain strong content shone through
the eyes and hovered round the mouth. She stood very still, looking
straight before her, with both hands clasped over the handle of a
travelling bag.
“Do you want something or somebody?” asked Jervis, after waiting two or
three seconds for speech.
“Yes,” she said, and gazed at him questioningly. “Can you tell me,
please—”
“Jervis, shut that door—you’ll catch your death of cold,” called Hannah.
“Are you Jervis? Do you have asthma still?” asked the new-comer; and
she stepped inside, closing the door herself. “Jervis! I shouldn’t have
known you.”
He stood in perplexity, not understanding, and she placed her bag on
the ground.
“May I put that down?—it’s heavy. You are Jervis, aren’t you?—little
Jervis! He used to be so fond of me.”
“Polly!” Jervis said with an accent of utter amazement.
“Yes, I am Polly. I have come back at last. Is father alive still? Will
he be pleased or angry?”
“Polly!” he said again. “Why, we have just been speaking of you, and
the wish I had to see your face again. I never could think you weren’t
living still—though you didn’t write a word.”
“I couldn’t write, Jervis. I didn’t seem able. I have lived with
William, and father would have been vexed at that. It was my husband’s
wish first that I should keep away from you all—he has been dead now
many, many years; but I always felt ashamed to write. Only just of late
I’ve learnt to feel differently about many things, and I began to see
it was wrong. And William is going on worse and worse. I couldn’t stand
it any longer, and I did long for a sight of home again. Jervis, it
really is you?—so altered!”
He kissed her kindly, gravely, in answer, accepting at once the
returned wanderer.
“You are altered too, Polly; but I couldn’t be mistaken,” he said. “We
must tell father.”
“What’s it all about?” called Hannah, sharply. “Who have you there?”
“One moment,” Jervis said. He was breathing hard, with a touch of
his old enemy, asthma, brought on by the shock of Marian’s sudden
appearance, and the reply failed to reach Hannah.
“Who have you got out there?” was called again, impatiently.
“You haven’t grown strong yet, Jervis,” said Marian.
“Stronger than I was—only for this. Polly, you’d better come straight
in. Come to father.” He walked before her, slowly and with audible
panting, leading the way into the little parlor. Old Cairns was alone
there still, smoking as before. Jervis sat down, with so violent a fit
of coughing that he could not speak. Marian stood still in one doorway,
upright and composed, with her hands drooping before her; Hannah
appeared in the other, frowning and disturbed.
“Now that just comes of going and standing in a draught. You might as
well have had the sense to shut the door at once. A nice bother it’ll
be to-night. There, don’t speak, or you’ll bring it on worse. Who’s
this?”
Marian came a few steps forward, moving quietly, and wearing the same
look of settled calm upon her thin, worn features. She did not seem
agitated by this return to her childhood’s home. John Cairns was gazing
hard.
“Why, it’s—it’s—our—Polly—I do believe!” he said.
“Yes, I’m Polly. I have come home again, father,” she said.
“It’s Polly herself; I do believe,” repeated the old man. He seemed,
very much surprised—more surprised than either gratified or displeased.
“Polly, her very own self—after all these years—and grown into a
middle-aged woman. Lost all her good looks, too. But it’s really Polly.”
“I’m so glad you know me, father,” she said.
“It’s easy to know you. It isn’t so easy to know what you’ve come back
for now,” Hannah’s harsh voice said.
“I’m come because I thought it was right for me to do so,” Marian
answered, with slow utterance. “I’ve been taught that I was wrong to go
away and wrong to stay away. That brought me home.”
Hannah was so astonished that she could only stare.
“Where have you been, Polly?” asked old Cairns, after a pause.
“I’ve been abroad for years, father—living with William,” said Marian.
Jervis’ paroxysm of breathlessness was severe, and she came close,
standing by his side, and giving him support with her hands. The old
farmer paid no attention to her mention of William.
“Father, may I stay and nurse Jervis?” she asked, when the coughing
grew less. “I’m a good nurse, and I’ve done a great deal in that way.”
“He doesn’t need nursing. He only needs common-sense about himself,”
said Hannah, sharply. “We’ve done well enough all the years without
you.”
“May I, father?” repeated Marian.
“Stay! Yes, you may stay,” said old Cairns. “I’m not the man to turn
away one of my own children that wants a shelter. It wasn’t by my wish
you ever went, Polly.”
“No; it was my own doing,” said Marian. “I did wrongly in leaving you
all, father, and I’ve had long punishment. My life has been a sad
one, and the worst of all has been the knowing I brought my troubles
on myself. It’s only of late that I’ve begun to hope there might be
forgiveness for me too—and there’s comfort in the thought. But the
consequences of evil-doing do cling like a leech to one through life.”
Her three companions heard in silence; the old farmer seeming a little
bewildered; Hannah wearing a look of grim contempt; Jervis resting
against her still.
“What’s become of him?” asked John Cairns, suddenly.
“Hubert died years and years ago, father.”
“And you never had any children?” asked the old farmer, with interest.
“One I had, and I—lost her.” Marian paused, seeming to consider. “Yes,
it’s true—I lost her. But she didn’t die. I’d best be open with you
all. I gave her away.”
“Gave her away?” Jervis roused himself to utter. “Your own child?”
“Yes—my own child! I don’t know how ever I could,” Marian said
mournfully. “You can’t despise me more than I despise myself; Jervis—so
you may say what you will. I knew it was wrong then, and I know it
better now. But I’d been in bad health, and a quack doctor, who was
said to be clever, told me I was soon to die; and I had nowhere to
leave my child. I couldn’t take her to William, and let him bring
her up. I loved her too well for that—and Hubert had made me promise
faithfully that I’d keep her from my own relations. I had no business
to make the promise, but I did. So I couldn’t bring her here either.”
“Ay, ay, he had plenty of pride, if he had nought else to boast of,”
said John Cairns.
“Yes it was pride, of course. But I suppose we are all proud, one way
and another. I was proud of him, and proud of his grand relations, even
though they wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I thought perhaps
they might some day, and that’s why I was willing to give the promise.”
“And you gave your child away?” Jervis repeated, incredulously.
Marian dropped her head, in utter shamefacedness. “It’s true,” she
said. “I would cut off my right hand, now, to live that time over
again; but the past can’t be undone. I left her in the way of one who
I thought would have pity, and I wrote a letter and took myself off. I
knew I was doing wrongly; but it wasn’t till later that the evil and
meanness of it all came back to me.”
“What I went through after, I couldn’t tell you, nor any one. It wasn’t
as if God had taken my child from me. I had given her up myself; and
when I found I was getting better instead of dying, and knew what I
had done, the thoughts I had pretty near drove me mad. It was ever so
long before I knew what had become of her. She might have been living
or dead, or brought up as a pauper, for all I could learn. And when I
did hear, in a roundabout way, it was only to know that she was more
lost to me than ever I had pictured. It’s been bitter, bitter work,
Jervis—hard, as the way of transgressors is said to be.”
“And you are better in health now, Polly?” her brother asked, half
grave, half pitying in manner. Much as he loved the returned sister, he
could not put aside the recollection of a mother’s forsaken child. It
seemed to him too terrible, almost beyond belief.
“Yes, I’m better.” she answered listlessly. “The doctors say I may live
a good while yet—perhaps as long as most people. I went into a hospital
seven years ago, and was put to a deal of pain, and I’ve been better
ever since. And now I hope I’m willing to live or not to live, as God
chooses. I’m glad I didn’t die then. I’ve learnt a deal lately: and if
my sins look blacker than ever, and my shame and sorrow are greater, I
know there may be pardon for the worst, through the dying of the Son of
God—and hope has come to me at length, though I know I can never undo
the past, and must bear to the end what he appoints.”
Ease of expression had always been a characteristic of Marian, even
in her girlish days; and she could speak without effort about such
feelings as another in her place would have been scarcely able to
allude to. The frankness was not new; but a certain religious element
in her talk took them all by surprise. Perhaps Jervis marvelled the
most, as he listened. He was of a reserved temperament, having its deep
under-flow of thought and faith, but with tardy and limited powers of
utterance.
“What was your child named? Who was it you gave the child to?” asked
Cairns.
A red spot rose to Marian’s cheek. “I think I’d best answer no
questions about her,” she said. “I don’t seem to feel myself free. I
promised Hubert to keep her away from you all; and in a sort of way
I promised never to come forward and claim her. I mustn’t count that
she is mine still—and that’s the bitter thought of all to me. If she
was unhappy—but she isn’t, and it would be no pleasure to her to know
she had a mother living. I’ll manage to see her some day, for I must—I
can’t stand the craving much longer, if I don’t. But that’ll be my own
concern.”
Marian removed her bonnet and cloak slowly. No one would have guessed
from her looks that she was older than Hannah.
“It’s so natural to be at home again,” she said. “I shall begin to
think I’ve been asleep, and just woke up. Only mother isn’t here. But
mother has forgiven me—I’m sure of that. There’s no unforgiveness or
thinking hard thoughts of people in heaven. Can I have my old bedroom,
Hannah? I should like that best.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” said Hannah coldly. “Nobody’s
sleeping there now, and you may as well have that as any other.”
“Then I will.” She stood looking at her sister. “Hannah, can’t you find
it in your heart to forgive me yet? I think you might. I think you
would, if you knew half I’ve gone through. It’s an awful thought for
a child to have helped to shorten a mother’s life; and it’s an awful
thought for a mother to have given up her own child. Can’t you pity me
yet?”
She did not wait for an answer, but went away to see after her room,
moving with a quiet step, which contrasted with Hannah’s abrupt dashes
to and fro. The old farmer watched her then, and on her return, with a
curious interest. The old half-dead affections for his eldest daughter
seemed to be slowly returning. “Yes, it’s good to have our Polly back,”
he muttered now and then.
Marian appeared to have strangely little to say about her long absence.
Perhaps the fact that she could tell few particulars without bringing
in William’s name was a restraint. One matter after another came up,
and events were mentioned at intervals, but there was no outpouring.
She seemed placidly happy to be at home again, and her eyes continually
strayed in the direction of Jervis. Hannah’s brusqueness glanced
harmlessly off the shield of her calm content.
Supper, usually a meal partaken of in dead silence, was broken thus by
fitful conversation. Marian took her position at once as daughter of
the house—not as eldest daughter. Hannah could not after these years be
dispossessed of her leading place in the household.
When supper was over, Hannah disappeared, and John Cairns gradually
nodded himself off into profound slumber. The little parlor was very
hot, but not too hot for Jervis. He had placed himself on the other
side of the fire, and Marian came near him, taking a seat slightly in
the shade. She did not wish to have the light full upon her face, while
putting one or two questions of which her mind was full.
“How did you get here from the station?” Jervis asked.
“I walked. My box is there, till we send for it.” Jervis was about to
answer, but Marian could endure no farther delay.
“I want to know about the people in the neighborhood,” she said before
he could speak. “The friends we used to have.”
“We have no friends now, Polly. Father and Hannah have sheered off from
everybody.”
“Because of William?”
“Yes; and—since mother’s death.”
“Mr. Rutherford of the Hall was a good friend to father once,” said
Marian.
“We never see him now. Father took to snubbing everybody—and Mr.
Rutherford is busy man. He wasn’t likely to come after people who
didn’t give him a welcome. He did bring his wife once, and I believe
Hannah was downright rude.”
“And he so good to William,” said Marian, sorrowfully.
“That’s just it, Polly. He knew too much of William’s conduct.”
“Who did Mr. Rutherford marry? Has he any children?” asked Marian, her
face turned slightly away.
“I don’t know anything about Mrs. Rutherford. They have two
daughters—at least I have seen two young ladies riding with Mr.
Rutherford. Now I think of it, somebody once told me that the eldest
wasn’t his own—a niece, or a friend’s child, I believe. She’s a
fine-looking, handsome girl.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Dark not a bit like Mr. Rutherford or his family. Why, Polly, you seem
to care a great deal about the Hall people.”
“They have to do with my young days—or at least he had,” Marian made
answer.
[Illustration: Rescued.]