Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down upon her
with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began to tremble.
“We had no expectation of seeing you, sir,” she remarked with great
decorum.
She cast one little glance up.
“Have you travelled hard? You are sorely fatigued.”
“Polly, is all between us as it once was?” he asked.
Polly dropped her eyes.
“It is long since we parted,” she said, “and very long since any
letter has reached me, sir. I cannot tell how matters may be now. But
six years work changes. And I”—then another glance as if she could not
help herself—“I do not like to see you so pale. You were not so in past
days.”
“There are a few matters to be explained,” Denham remarked quietly.
“But first may I beg you to read this short note from Jack? I do not
know what he may have said. He exacted from me a promise that I would
not fail to give it to you within one half-hour of my first arrival.
Jack is now at Verdun with Colonel and Mrs. Baron, as you may have
heard.”
“I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been
a sad grief to me.”
“Will you have his letter now?” asked Denham in his most courteous tone.
“If you choose, sir.”
She moved two or three steps nearer to a candle to read it. Jack’s
left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was
what she made out:
“DEAR POLLY,—Denham is going home to you, and he has heard a false
tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to
you for so great a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged
Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the
right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But
he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of
our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty
airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs
your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married the better
pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. I’m by no means sure
but that his has been a harder fight by far than any of us have had
to go through in Active Warfare; and now that my turn has come, I
hope that I may be patient and endure bravely as he has done. Be
good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,
“Your affectionate Brother,
“JACK KEENE.”
Polly came across to where Denham stood.
“Jack tells me of the mistake,” she whispered. “And now I understand.
He tells me too that I am to comfort you.”
She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.
“Sweet Polly,” he said, in a voice which shook a little despite his
best efforts, “you wrote to me once a letter which was signed, ‘Yours
faithfully, and till Death.’ That letter I have never parted with since
the day it reached me—not even when I feared that I had indeed cause
for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?”
Polly lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.
“I am yours, Captain Ivor, always and ever, as long as life shall
last,” she uttered very clearly.
* * * * *
Twelve months later Denham stood in the passage of the little London
house, which for more than eleven months had been his home and Polly’s.
He had wasted no time in making her his wife. He had but a year, he
urged, and surely the waiting had lasted long enough.
So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forego her hopes of a grand and
fashionable wedding, to which all the quality should be invited for the
display of resplendent costumes. Denham was neither in health nor in
spirits for such a function, and Polly’s one wish was to do what would
give him pleasure.
They had been married quietly less than three weeks after his return,
and Polly had done her best to comfort him, and to win him back once
more to strength.
All that year he had not left her. But now he was free, and duty called
him to the Peninsula, where the long struggle was being carried on
between the Army of Wellington and the Army of Napoleon. The Spaniards
with Wellington, as with Moore, did little at any time beyond throwing
hindrances in the way of the British. Roy Baron had gone out many
months before.
It was hard work for Denham to say good-bye, not only to Polly, with
her sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy, with Polly’s own eyes of
brown velvet, who had come but a very short time before to gladden
their home. Denham bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned again to
Polly.
“It will not be for long,” she whispered. “I may think that, may I not?
Peace must surely come some day.”
“Not yet, dear heart,” he answered; and she knew well that, acutely
though he felt leaving her, he yet longed to share the fight with those
who strove for England and for Freedom—that fight from which he had
been so many years debarred.
“Molly will be always here. And she and I will think and talk of you
and Roy every day and every hour. And, oh, Denham, if women’s prayers
may bring victory to men’s arms, victory will surely be yours.”
“We shall conquer in the end, please God, and in that way you may truly
help us, sweet one,” he replied.
Then he took her in his arms, and held her very closely. And in another
minute he too was gone to the wars, as so many thousands had to go in
those stirring days.
It was well that neither he nor she could guess how long a separation
might again lie before them. For this was only 1810, and the day which
should see Wellington at the head of his victorious Army entering
France lay four years ahead.
Four years more also had Colonel and Mrs. Baron to possess themselves
in patience, before they could again set eyes on their boy, before they
might once more clasp in their arms the little Molly, whom in 1803 they
had quitted for one fortnight’s absence.
Jack remained still at Verdun, and before him too stretched four years
of unbroken captivity. But Jack, though often disposed to chafe, yet
found something wherewith to pass his time. This became gradually clear
to Polly and Molly, through letters received at long intervals. At
length came one in which Jack gave particulars as to Colonel and Mrs.
Baron, and as to the greatly improved condition of prisoners at Verdun,
under the new French Commandant. After which he said—
“If ever this gets to England, it is to inform you that I am proposing
shortly to become a married man. Lucille has promised to be my wife.”
Molly sat smiling over the notion for a long while.
“Jack was sure to marry,” she remarked in a philosophic tone. “He is of
the sort not to be content without. And you and Denham are exceeding
happy married, dear Polly. But, as for me, I have no desire that way.
Never shall I care for any man in the whole world as I care for Roy.”
Then, in words once spoken before, and perhaps often repeated in her
own mind since, she added, “And so that matter is for ever settled.”
Whether the matter were finally settled or not, there can be no
question that Molly honestly meant what she said.
[THE END.]
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.