Chapter XXIII: In View of Captain Peirce

"IN this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade into insignificance."

So spoke Captain Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene, and he felt that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these, and such speeches did not necessarily mean much. Ninety years later, the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce would merely drag his moustache and mutter, "Awfully pretty girl!" But the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and imply much the same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache. It was not the fashion, and he had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the moment when Jack's glance followed Molly's.

Polly did not seem to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing. One flowery speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been for the pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant anything seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with a fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her fair round arms.

"Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may be, sweet Polly?"

This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in consequence.

It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly, almost amounting to a shiver. She was instantaneously carried back, as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long slow years.

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?" Captain Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor's was deep and quiet, with clear enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face, too, came up before Polly's mind—a face generally of still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when they did there was no mistake about it, and a smile as quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make, and his features as well as his tone underwent much more rapid changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a certain fascination of manner too when he chose to exert it. Polly was not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him. But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle connection between her mind and Molly's?—brought with it a totally different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face. Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression was due to his own words.

"Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair who—"

This was going too far. Polly woke up from her dream. She withdrew one step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.

"Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware."

"Ah! adored one—so hard-hearted to your humble slave!"

"My word, Albert!" and the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell with a smart slap upon the Captain's shoulder. "So, you do not fail to make hay while the sun shines! But there's such a thing as poaching in another's preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?"

Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this interruption. He dared not openly resent it; not only because young men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but because, also, had he aroused the Admiral's ire, he would have drawn upon them the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was known to be hasty in temper, and not slow to speak his mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.

"Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them, and it is but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds. Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose."

"Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He'll not help forward the post. Well, well, every lane has its turning; and Boney will come to his turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already—at the glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?"

"And on land too, sir,—in time our brave soldiers will have the best of it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour," suggested Polly.

Captain Peirce's opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral acted accidentally or on purpose, and was Polly glad or sorry? Neither question received an answer.

In the small hours of morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce drove home with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was considered to be a suitable "equipage" for one in her position. Mr. Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few words passed between them before they crept into bed.

Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep when it aroused her. She listened carefully.

"Polly!" No answer. "Polly, are you awake?"

A pause, and then—"You must go to sleep, Molly."

"You are not crying, Polly?"

Polly's hand gently pressed hers, but Polly's face was turned away, and another short break took place before she replied, in a tone of strained cheerfulness—

"'Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream. No,—not one little word more."

Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long listening. Was Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain Peirce?

* * * * * * *

This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of existence do not cease, though the whole world may be at loggerheads.

The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Britain was supreme on the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible upon land. Of all the nations England alone withstood him; and at this date she fearlessly faced Europe in arms. For the Continent had crouched beneath the arm of the tyrant, and was tamely ranged on his side.

In the year 1807 Great Britain had not a single ally. Sweden, the last remaining, had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon's was king of Holland; another was king of Westphalia; a third was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.

Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas. She had, indeed, as yet been less successful on land than at sea. Many a battle had been gained, many a deed of splendid valour had been done. But while one expedition after another had been despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to give any serious check to his advances. England had an Army inadequate to her needs, both in numbers and in military equipment; and the expeditions sent were invariably too small for the work they had to do.

All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed; yet the spirit of the people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of liberty would prevail.

Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers. There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their patriotism; and some others who will sentimentally put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart from questions of character. But the mass of the people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last drop of blood in its body.

One more tragic story had yet to be told. One more apparent failure, which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the very moment of a success which at the time could scarcely be read otherwise than as a defeat. Then the turn of the tide would have begun.