THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY
THE month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly again in London; not this
time for the enjoyment of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after
many months of gradual failure, had passed away in an acute attack of
bronchitis; and Mrs. Bryce immediately offered a home to the two girls,
until at least it might be possible to know the wishes of Colonel Baron
and his wife. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual, only had to assent to his
"better half's" proposition, he did so with a heartiness not shown
towards every wish of hers.
So the Bath house, with its quaint furniture, was let; and in the end
of March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two
girls found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce's hospitable
roof.
A double bedroom, opening into a small sitting-room or boudoir, was
given to them; and here they loved to pass much of their time. Mrs.
Bryce was now in a full swing of engagements; and she would greatly
have liked to take Polly with her wherever she went, despite the recent
death of Polly's grandmother, but for Polly's resistance.
"Well, well, well, my dear; all in good time," Mrs. Bryce said, after
some discussion. "To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close related,
and there's no doubt your feelings does you credit. But I can assure
you, 'tis time you was settled in life, with a husband of your own,
and a ménage, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And as for
Captain Ivor—I protest I've no sort of Patience with the man. Why, 'tis
eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us of Captain
Ivor and his doings. And by this time there's no sort of question that
he's forgot all about you, and has found himself a wife, and belike
he's been married this year past and more. So 'tis good time you too
should forget all about him."
Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the
drawing-room fire, robed in white muslin, with black sash and ribbons.
In the first decade of the nineteenth century, muslin was counted to be
the correct dress for a girl, morning and noon and evening, summer and
winter, no matter what the weather might be. Polly looked rather blue
and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders, the latter covered but
lightly with a thin black crape scarf.
She was as pretty as ever; but her colouring was less brilliant than of
old, while the sweet eyes held a touch of melancholy. Molly, dressed to
match, though with white ribbons instead of black, was busily reading
to herself on the other side of the fireplace.
It was a cold April afternoon, five o'clock dinner being over. Mr. and
Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr. Bryce,
poor man, would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at home with the
girls to the most brilliant gathering; but his relentless wife dragged
him in her wake, an unwilling and helpless victim, to dinner-parties,
balls, crushes, routs, innumerable.
"Molly, the Admiral is at home again. 'Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs.
Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day; and she is vexed, for it makes him
roar like a wild beast. And though 'tis doubtless true, as the faculty
say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no
means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled
about Will; for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago,
never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!"
Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of
Polly's speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped
across, kissed Polly's brow tenderly, and went back to her seat.
"What is it you are reading, Molly?"
"The 'Edinburgh Review' for this month. An article on 'Marmion.' And
Polly—would you think it?—the Editor has no appreciation for our great
poet's genius! No; none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott
were but a common man, like any other sort of scribbler—and not the
mighty world-wide genius that he is."
"Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two
are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what
may he see to find fault with?"
"What indeed?" echoed eager Molly. "Do but hear? He says it is 'a
good deal longer' than the last poem—'more ambitious,' with 'greater
faults' and 'greater beauties,' 'less sweetness,' 'more vehemence,'
'redundancy,' and a 'general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked
by timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of
taste or elegance of fancy.' Oh!" cried indignant Molly, "to think
that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice! There have been poets,
'tis true, before this; but none, sure, to compare with the author of
'Marmion!' Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays by
Mr. William Shakespeare, which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with
the poetical writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to read the
'Edinburgh Review' again." Molly flung it to the ground.
"A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron." The butler's solemn
voice came as a surprise.
"His name, Drake?" asked Polly.
"The young man refuses to give his name, Miss."
"Then what does he want?"
"He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact he declines to be
refused, Miss. But if it is your wish that he be sent away—"
"You must make him say what he wants, Drake."
"Is he a gentleman?" asked Molly.
"He—" and a pause—"is extremely shabby, Miss."
"What are we to do, Polly?"
"If Miss Keene desires that he should—"
Drake advanced no further. Somebody from behind put him on one side,
with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.
Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been.
A certain vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been
an instinctive knowledge of the truth, withheld him from any show
of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls
sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a
rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting. His boots were
cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled
colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—
"You ask to know what I want," he said, in a half-laughing voice. A
pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. "I want—Molly!"
Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out
in astonishment; not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a
second. As she met Roy's glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him
in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly
still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held
him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps nearer,
understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told
him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.
"I'm not fit to be touched," Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice.
"Don't, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I've been on the tramp."
She half loosened him, then returned to the charge with another
passionate clasp; and Polly's tears now were running down her cheeks.
Roy broke into an odd hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he
tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top
of Molly's head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat.
Polly pulled one of Molly's hands, trying to wrench asunder that
frantic hold.
"Dear Molly, you must not. Roy is tired and hungry. Try to think of
him. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet." Polly
dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. "How did you get away from
Verdun, Roy?"
"Not Verdun. Didn't you know I'd been sent to Bitche last spring?"
"No. Were you really? Bitche! Isn't that where prisoners are said to be
so badly treated? O we hear so little!" and a sigh came from Polly's
heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by his side,
gazing with eyes of rapt delight into his face.
"Rather! yes. I got away from there. I'll tell you all about it
presently. It's all right, now I'm back in old England. Do you know,
when first I got on shore, I just went down on my knees, and kissed
the ground. Bitche is an awful place,—couldn't well be worse. Drake,
you didn't know me. For shame! But I was sure Miss Molly would. I knew
she'd never be taken in. Eh, Molly?"
"I don't know as I didn't, sir, for all you're so growed and altered.
I couldn't turn you away, and that's a fact, though it seemed like as
if I'd ought. And I did feel queer-like, and no mistake, when I see you
a-looking at me, sir; only begging your pardon, sir, you did speak so
short—"
"I'm sorry; but I didn't mean to be found out by anybody first, except
by Miss Molly. Dear little Molly!" as she stooped to kiss the back of
his brown hand. "No, no, you mustn't do that. I say, Drake, I wonder
if you can find anything respectable for me to wear. These things were
given me at a farmhouse in France, and they were old to begin with. And
I've had to get to London on the tramp, because I'd no money, though
people have given me many a lift, and shelter as well. But couldn't you
make me look decent, before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come home?"
Drake made no difficulty about the matter, and he and Roy, after a few
more explanations, went off together. Roy had seen in an old newspaper,
since landing on the east coast, the mention of Mrs. Fairbank's death;
and he had at once decided to find his way straight to the house of Mr.
Bryce, secure of learning what might have become of Polly and Molly. He
had hardly felt surprise, on arrival, to learn that both the girls were
there. Another sadder duty would lie before him soon—to see Admiral and
Mrs. Peirce, and to tell them the story of little Will. But his first
aim had been to reach Molly.
As the two disappeared, Molly flung herself on the rug, with her face
on Polly's knees.
"To think that I have my own Roy again!" she whispered.
"Dear Molly, 'tis something indeed to be thankful for!" A tear splashed
on Molly's cheek. She looked up with startled eyes.
"Ah, I forgot! If Denham could but have come with Roy! Then we should
both be happy, we should want nothing. Except—for my papa and my mamma
to return."
Another tear fell.
"But we will ask Roy, and he will tell us about Denham. Perhaps he will
have brought you a message from him."
"No," answered Polly. "Roy comes from Bitche, not from Verdun. 'Tis a
great while since he saw them. And, Molly, you must not ask."
"Not ask!"
"Not for me. Nothing for me. How can I tell now,—so long as it is since
any letter came? And no message, none at all, in the last that did
come. Do you not see?"
"You mean—But Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you?
He cannot have done so."
"I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure,
without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy
tells—but you must not ask for me."
"Not even how Denham is?"
"Yes; that for yourself. But nothing for me."
A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a castoff suit of Mr.
Bryce's, which, though it was by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was
markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn
before. Roy had grown very brown during his prolonged wanderings; and
the dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as
he remained on French soil, was still en evidence. But the face and the
grey eyes were unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly from
the moment she saw him.
An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him
soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a "wolfish" appetite.
Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would
wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present, and Drake took
care to be present throughout the meal. He would not lose a single word
of Roy's narration of the escape from Bitche, and the journey through
France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came
as a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake
arrived at a solemn conclusion, while he listened, that some among
those Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even
though they lacked the advantages of an English "eddication."
But when dinner was over, when Roy's wants were satisfied, and when the
three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair,
with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly—
"And now Roy will tell us all about them at Verdun."
"Haven't seen 'em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest
news I can give you is near a year old. No, not quite the latest,
but—Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring.
Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for,
eighteen months. You must have heard that."
"One letter from your mother, which had been long on the road, spoke of
his having been there. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps
gone thither for a few weeks."
"Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same
fashion. He got to Verdun the very day before I broke that bust, and
was arrested. You know—I told you."
"Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?" Molly asked
this.
"Pretty near two years and a half, except that one day."
"And they were all well?" Polly said.
Roy looked intently at her. Polly flushed faintly.
"Yes, I know—of course you want to hear of anything that he said. I'm
trying to remember. Such a lot happened then, and I've gone through so
much since. But I don't think he said much of any sort. You see he had
walked the whole way from Valenciennes, giving up his horse to a man
worse than himself. And he was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than
just answer questions."
Polly had turned her face away. Roy whispered, "I say, Molly, one
minute,—I want a word with her."
Molly obediently fled, and Roy crossed the rug. As he expected, there
were tears upon Polly's cheek.
"Polly, I want you to understand."
A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face
towards him. "I think I do."
"Den is not the man to change."
"Many men do—"
"Not Den. He's not that sort."
She smiled a little. "My dear Roy, you have not seen him, except for
one day, since—how long ago?"
"Yes, I know. But boys have eyes as well as girls. And I tell
you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half before he went to
Valenciennes he and I were always together. And I got to know him
as—well, as nobody else does. Not even you."
She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.
"Go on," she whispered.
"I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not
altered, and that he won't alter. It isn't in him. It doesn't make a
grain of difference whether he talked or didn't talk of you that day.
He was too ill; and Den doesn't talk, you know, of the things he cares
most about. You ought to understand what he feels about Sir John Moore,
for instance, and yet how few would guess it! Does he ever say a great
deal about Sir John to people in general? And has he ever changed in
that direction? No, nor ever will."
"He has a warm advocate in you."
"Because I know what he is. He didn't talk much of you, Polly, that
year and a half that we were together. And I was only a boy, but all
the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, didn't I see
his look? Just as I always saw the look in his face if anybody spoke of
Sir John."
Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.
"Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long.
How did I know? I can't tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if
'Polly' was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him
so, only for hours he seemed to be away from us all, and 'twas little
good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say."
Roy's coat-sleeve received a little squeeze. "But—so long ago!"
"What does that matter? You ought to feel sure of him. I'm not making
up. Den is one of the best and truest fellows that ever lived, and when
he comes home you'll see. You'll see for yourself."
She bent her head.
"Thank you, Roy. At the least I can promise to do one thing. I can wait
to see."