Mrs. Bryce could seldom be happy for long together in one place. Before
the end of September she had decided to quit Folkestone for Sandgate.
Polly, nothing loath, chimed in with the plan eagerly; and Mr. Bryce,
whatever he thought or wished, made no objection.
“If Buonaparte should come, my dear, what then?” was all that he
ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce snapped her fingers, not at him,
but at the First Consul.
“Let him come, if he will. Pray, my dear, do you consider that we are
bound to shape our course with a view to pleasing old Nap?” demanded
the vivacious lady.
Mr. Bryce disclaimed any such meaning. He wondered privately what his
wife’s feelings would be, if one day a round shot from a French ship
should rush through the room in which she might be seated. But in that
respect Sandgate was no worse than Folkestone; and since he never
expected logic from his wife, he made no effort to convince her that
she might be in the wrong.
To Sandgate therefore they went, on a rainy autumn day, when the sea
wailed dismally, and the wind howled more dismally still, and the
lodgings which Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore an aspect most
dismal of all. Even Mrs. Bryce’s spirits were affected by the state of
the atmosphere.
Books in their possession were few, and had all been read. Jack failed
to appear so soon as they had expected. Mr. Bryce sallied forth,
despite the rain, but the ladies could not think of following his
example. Mrs. Bryce, in despair, turned to one or two old volumes of
the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, lying in a corner, and in so doing, to her
gratification, she fished out two or three recent numbers of the same
serial, including the current number for September, 1803.
“Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall do!” she declared cheerfully. “Now
we may defy the elements, and you shall get on with your purse-netting,
and I will find something to read aloud for your entertainment. I
wonder much that Jack does not come.”
“Jack is busy, or he would be here,” Polly said confidently. Just as
she had her half-netted blue silk purse nicely arranged between foot
and knee, Mr. Bryce walked in, carrying letters, at the sight of which
Polly dropped her work and started up.
“Nay, not from France. Nothing from France,” Mr. Bryce said, with quick
understanding; and Polly returned to her seat languidly. “One from Bath
for you, and one from Norfolk for my wife. Two letters in a day! You
may count yourselves fortunate.”