THE FUTURE LADY DAMER--POLLY HAS A SECRET--UNDER THE MULBERRY-TREE
Polly came into the house, as she always did, like a sunbeam. Mrs.
Bundle, who was getting old, and apt to be depressed in spirits from
time to time, always revived when "Miss Mary" paid us a visit. A
general look of welcome greeted her appearance in church on Sunday. My
father made no secret of his pleasure in her society. I think she was
in the secret of her sister's engagement, and Maria looked comforted
by her coming.
Our meals were now quite merry. We had plenty of family gossip, and
news of the neighbourhood to chat over.
"So Lady Damer that is to be is coming to the Towers," Maria announced
at breakfast, on the authority of a letter she was reading. "Leo is
coming here to shoot, isn't he, Regie?"
"We expect him every day," said I; "but I never knew he was engaged.
Who is it?"
"Well, it's not an announced engagement," said Maria, "but everybody
says it is to be. She is an heiress, and her father was an old friend
of his guardian's. And, by-the-bye, Regie, her sister is coming too,
and will do beautifully for you. She is co-heiress, you know. They're
really very rich, and your one is lovely."
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said I, "and we are to dine
at the Towers next week, so I shall see the heiresses. But suppose I
take a fancy to the wrong one?"
"You can't have her," said Maria, laughing.
"I tell you she is for Leo, and she is very clever and strong-minded,
which is just what he wants--a wife who can take care of him."
"Oh, deliver me from a strong-minded lady!" I cried. "Damer is quite
welcome to her."
"Your one isn't a bit strong-minded," said Maria. "She is very pretty,
but has no will of her own at all. She leans completely on Frances; I
don't know what she'll do when she marries, for they have been orphans
since they were quite children, and have never lived apart for a
week."
At this point Polly broke in with even more warmth and directness of
speech than usual,
"Frances Chislett is the most superior girl I ever knew. Men always
laugh at strong-minded women; but I'm sure I don't know why. I can't
think how any human being with duties and responsibilities can be
either more useful or more agreeable for being weak-minded."
And this was all that Polly contributed to our nonsensical
conversation about the heiresses.
After she came I forsook the society of Maria. I knew now that she
only wanted to talk to me about the Rector and the parish. Besides,
though Maria was strongly interested in Dacrefield for Clerke's sake,
she knew much less of it than Polly, with whom I revisited numberless
haunts of our childhood, the barns and stables, the fernery, the
"Pulpit" and the "Pew."
I did not tell her of my romance with Maria. I was not proud of it.
But as we sat together in the old apple-room above the stables, I
confided to her my "unfortunate attachment," which I had now
sufficiently recovered from not to be offended by her opinion, that it
was all for the best that it had ended as it had.
I do not remember exactly how it was that I came to know that
Polly--even Polly--had her own private heart-ache. I think I took an
unfair advantage of her strict truthfulness, when I once suspected
that she had a secret, and insisted upon her confiding in me as I had
done in her. Nurse Bundle gave me the first hint. Mrs. Bundle,
however, believed that "Miss Mary" was only waiting for me to ask her
to be mistress of Dacrefield Hall. And though she had "never seen the
young lady that was good enough for her boy," she graciously allowed
that I might "do worse than marry Miss Mary."
"My time's pretty near come, my dear," said Mrs. Bundle, "but many's
the time I pray the Lord to let me live to put in if it is but a pin,
when your lady dresses for her wedding."
But I was not to be fooled a second time by the affectionate belief my
friends had in my attractions.
"My dear old Nursey," said I, squatting down with Sweep by her easy
chair, "I know what a dear girl Polly is, and if she wanted to be Mrs.
Dacre she soon should be. But you're quite mistaken there; she is my
dear sister, and always will be so, and never anything else."
"Well, well," said Nurse Bundle, "young folks know their own affairs
better than the old ones, and the Lord above knows what's good for us
all, but I'm a great age, and the Squire's not young, and taking the
liberty to name us together, my deary, in all reason it would be a
blessing to him and me to see you happy with a lady as fit to take
your dear mother's place as Miss Mary is. For let alone everything
else, my dear, servants is not what they used to be, and when I'm dead
you'll be cheated out of house and home, without any one as knows what
goes to the keeping of a family, and what don't."
"Well, Nursey," said I, "I'll try and find a lady to please you and
the governor. But it won't be Polly, I know, and I wish it may be any
one as good."
I bullied poor Polly sadly about having a secret, and not confiding it
to me. She was far from expert at dissembling, and never told an
untruth, so I soon drove her into a corner.
"I'm rather disappointed, I must confess, in one way," said I, having
found her unable flatly to deny that she did "care for" somebody. "I
always hoped, somehow, that you and Leo would make it up together."
"You heard what Maria said," said Polly, shortly.
"Oh, I don't believe in the heiress," said I, "unless you've refused
him. He'd never take up with the blue-stocking lady and her money-bags
if his old love would have had him."
"I wish you wouldn't call her names," said Polly, angrily. "I tell you
she's the best girl I ever knew. I don't care much for most girls;
they are so silly. I suppose you'll say that's envy, but I can't help
it, it's true. But Frances Chislett never bores me. She only makes me
ashamed of myself, and long to be like her. When she's with me I feel
rough, and ignorant, and useless, and--"
"What a soothing companion!" I broke in.
"Poor Damer! So you want him to marry her, as one takes nasty
medicine--all for his good."
"Want him to marry her!" repeated Polly, expressively. "No. But I am
satisfied that he should marry _her_. So long as he is really happy,
and his wife is worthy of him--and _she_ is worthy of him--"
A light dawned upon me, and I interrupted her.
"Why, Polly, it _is_ Leo that you care for!"
We were sitting under an old mulberry-tree near the gate, in the
kitchen garden, but when I said this Polly jumped up and tried to run
away. I caught her hand to detain her, and we were standing very much
in the attitude of the couple in a certain sentimental print entitled
"The Last Appeal," when the gate close by us opened, and my father put
his head into the garden, shouting "James! James!" I dropped Polly's
hand, and struck by the same idea, we both blushed ludicrously; for
the girls knew as well as I did the plans made on our behalf by our
respective parents.
"The men are at dinner, sir," said I, going towards my father. "Can I
do anything?"
"Not at all--not at all; don't let me disturb you," said the old
gentleman, with an unmistakably pleased expression of countenance. And
turning to blushing Polly, he added in his most gracious tones,
"You look charming, my dear, standing under that old mulberry-tree, in
your pretty dress. It was planted by my grandfather, your
great-grandfather, my love, and Regie's also. I wish I could have you
painted so. Quite a picture--quite a picture!"
Saying which, and waving off my attempts to follow him, he bowed
himself out and shut the door behind him. When he had gone, Polly and
I looked at each other, and then burst out laughing.
"The plot certainly thickens," said I, sitting down again. "I beg you
to listen to the gratified parent whistling as he retires. What shall
we do, Polly, how could you blush so?"
"How could I help it when I saw you get so red?" said Polly.
"We certainly are a wonderful family at this point," said I; "the
whole lot of us in a mess with our love affairs, and my aunt and the
governor off on completely wrong scents."
"Oh, I think everybody's the same," said Polly, picking off half-ripe
mulberries and flinging them hither and thither; "but that doesn't
make one any better pleased with oneself for being a fool."
"You're not a fool," said I, pulling her down to the seat again; "but
I wish you wouldn't be cross when you're unhappy. Look at me.
Disappointment has made me sympathetic instead of embittering me. But,
seriously, Polly, I'm sure you and Leo will come all right, and in the
general rejoicing your mother must let Clerke and poor Maria be happy.
Even I might have found consolation with the beautiful heiress if I
had been left to find out her merits for myself; but one gets rather
tired of having young ladies suggested to one by attentive friends.
The fact is, matrimony is not in my line. I feel awfully old. The
governor is years younger than I am. Whoever saw _me_ trouble _my_
long legs and back to perform such a bow as he gave you just now? I
wish he'd leave me in peace with Sweep. Since the day I came of age,
when every old farmer in the place wound up his speech with something
about the future Mrs. Reginald Dacre, I've had no quiet of my life for
her. Clerke too! I really did think Clerke was a confirmed old
bachelor, on ecclesiastical grounds. I wish I'd gone fishing to
Norway. I wish a bit of the house would fall down. If the governor
were busy with real brick and mortar, he wouldn't build so many
castles in the air, perhaps."
As I growled, Sweep, beneath my feet, growled also. I believe it was
sympathy, but lest it should be the approach of Aunt Maria (whom Sweep
detested), Polly and I thought well to withdraw from the garden by
another gate. We returned to the house, and I took her to my den to
find a book to divert her thoughts. I was not surprised that a long
search ended in her choosing a finely-bound copy of Young's "Night
Thoughts."
"I often feel ashamed of knowing so little of our standard poets," she
remarked parenthetically.
"Quite so," said I; "but I feel it right to mention that the marks in
it are only mine."