Chapter II: Sweet Polly's Grenadier

"MOLLY, Molly—listen! I've something to tell you."

Roy jerked a story-book out of his twin-sister's hands. It was not a handsome and prettily illustrated volume, like those now in vogue, being bound in dull boards, with woodcuts fantastically hideous. But Molly knew nothing better, and she loved reading, while Roy hated it—unless he found a book about battles. Molly was even smaller and younger-looking for her years than Roy. She had a pale little face, with anxious black eyes, and short dark hair brushed smoothly behind her ears. She wore a frock of thick blue stuff, short-waisted and low-necked, while her thin arms were bare.

The schoolroom served also as a playroom. Its furniture was scanty, including no easy-chairs. Mrs. Baron was a mother unusually given to the expression of tender feeling, in a sterner age than ours. But she never dreamt of giving her children opportunities for lounging. They had to grow up straight-backed, whatever it might cost them.

In this room Roy and Molly had done all their lessons together, till Roy reached the age of nine years; and the day on which he began to attend a large boys' school had witnessed the first deep desolation of little Molly's heart. An ever-present dread was upon her of the coming time—she knew it must come—when he would be sent away to a boarding-school, and she would be left alone.

Roy seated himself astride on a chair, with his face to the back, and poured out his tale. Molly listened in dead silence, staring hard at the opposite wall. If Roy did not mind about leaving her, she was not going to show how much she cared about losing him.

"And I shall write and tell you all I see in France," were his concluding words. "And you'll have Jack and Polly, you know—and Bob Monke too."

Would Roy have thought Jack and Polly and Bob enough if he had been the one to stay at home? That was the question in Molly's heart. But she only said, with a catch of her breath—

"I shouldn't like to be you, to have listened on the sly. It was mean."

The word stung sharply. Roy always pictured his own future in connection with a scarlet coat, a three-cornered cocked hat, a beautiful pigtail, and the stiffest of military stocks to hold up his chin. He knew something of a soldier's sense of honour, and even now, small though he was, he counted himself quite equal to fighting his country's battles. And that he—Roy Baron, son of a Colonel in His Majesty's Guards—should be accused by a girl of "meanness!"

"It was horridly mean," repeated Molly. "Prying on the sly, and then coming and telling me. If I had done such a thing, you'd have been the first to say it was wrong."

Roy stood upright.

"You needn't have told it me like that," he said reproachfully. "But I wouldn't be mean for anything, and I'm going to tell papa."

He did not ask his twin to go with him, and Molly was keenly conscious of the omission. He marched off alone, carrying his head as high as if the military stock already encircled his throat. There was a pause in the conversation, as he entered the drawing-room.

"Run away, Roy," said the Colonel. "We are busy."

"Please, sir, may I say something first?" Roy stood in front of his father, facing him resolutely.

"Well, be quick, my boy."

Roy's honest grey eyes met those of the Colonel. "I was out there," he said, pointing to the verandah, "and I heard something. I didn't know it was a secret, and I listened. I heard about going to Paris, and I went and told Molly. She said it was mean of me, and I—couldn't be mean, sir."

"No, Roy, I'm sure you couldn't." The Colonel spoke gravely, while delighted at his boy's openness.

"I didn't mean any harm, sir; I won't ever listen again."

"Quite right; never listen to anything you are not intended to know," agreed the Colonel. "You should have told us that you were there. And if I had found you out, listening, I should certainly have blamed you. But as you have voluntarily confessed, we will say no more about the matter. Now you may run away."

Roy bounded off, in the best of spirits; and the pretty girl, with tall feathers in her bonnet, glided softly in his wake. She did not follow him far. She saw him vanish towards the garden, and she went towards the schoolroom. For Roy had told Molly about the Paris plan, and Polly guessed what that would be to Molly.

Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and "Jack," were not really cousins to the twins, though treated as such. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had some fourteen years earlier married a second time, rather late in life; and her new husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, wife of Colonel—then Captain—Baron of the Guards. Two or three years later her grandchildren, Jack and Polly, were left orphans, and were adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, his twice-widowed wife took up her abode in Bath, at that date a fashionable place of residence for "the quality." Jack, who was a year or two older than Polly, had just been gazetted to a regiment of the line, quartered in Bath.

Molly was very fond of Polly and of Jack; but no one could be to her like her twin-brother, and Roy's indifference had cut her to the quick. When Polly came in she at once detected a little heap in the corner of the schoolroom, and heard a smothered sob. She drew off her gloves, made her way to the corner, sat down upon the ground, and put a pair of gentle arms round the child.

"Fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all. Crying to have to go home with me. That is wrong and silly. And so unkind, too. I wanted so much to have dear little Molly; and now I know she does not care to come. Molly, you little goose, don't you know people can't be always together? And you and I can't alter the world, to please ourselves. Roy is glad to go to Paris, of course. Fie, fie, Molly! cheer up, and don't be doleful. If you are unhappy, it makes other people unhappy; and that is such a pity. You don't want to make me cry too, do you?"

The elder girl's eyes had a look in them of tears not far distant; as she bent over the child.

"Other people have troubles as well as you, little Moll. We don't all—I mean they don't all—talk about their troubles. It is of no use. Things have to be borne, and crying does no good. So stop your tears, and think how agreeable it will be to see my grandmother and Jack, and the Pump Room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen walking about in their gay clothes."

A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.

"There will be Admiral and Mrs. Peirce to see; for the Admiral is now on shore, and they are in Bath. And little Will Peirce, who soon is to be a middy in His Majesty's Navy. And my cousin, Bob Monke, who is at school there. And Jack shall show himself off to you in his new scarlet coat. I am proud of him, for Jack is everything in the world to me. No, not everything, but a great deal, as Roy is to you. Yet I do not expect to keep Jack always by my side. He will have to go some day, and to fight for Old England. And when that day comes I will bid him good-bye with a smile, for I would not be a drag upon him, And Roy will go too, and you will bear it bravely, little Moll, like a soldier's daughter."

The soft caressing voice, the cool rose-leaf cheek against her own, the lovely dark eyes smiling upon her, all comforted Molly; and she clung to Polly, and cried away half her pain.

"Don't tell Roy," she begged presently. "He doesn't mind, and he must not think I care."

"Why not? That is naughty pride, Moll. It is always the women who care—not the men." Polly held up her head, and a far-away look crept into the sweet eyes. "Dear, you must expect it to be so. Men have so much to do and to think about. But we have time to grieve when they go to fight. And they are always so glad to go."

"Are they?" a deep quiet voice asked, close to her side; and Polly started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became crimson, and then she looked up, smiling.

"How do you do, Captain Ivor?"

Denham Ivor in his uniform—large-skirted military coat, black gaiters, white breeches, pigtail, and gold-laced cocked hat in hand—looked even taller than when out of it; and at all times he was wont to overtop the average man. He had a fine face, well-browned, with regular features and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his head in a stately fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave courtesy which might seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked down upon Polly a subdued glow awoke in those serious eyes.

Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very childlike. The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another spectator, and, quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly stood up gracefully.

"We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested.

"Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant—" and the bronzed face had grown pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, madam, I have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to myself. No—not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can answer—thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men."

A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes.

"If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely.

"But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is! And what if already I have written to your grandmother, and if Mrs. Fairbank has graciously consented to my suit? For indeed it is even so."

Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days. Polly was barely eighteen, but for all that she had a very dainty air of dignity. And if during past weeks she had gone through some troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor, and wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he really cared for her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the individual in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and asked with the most innocent air imaginable—

"Then pray, sir, what may be your will?"

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?"

A solid square stool, well adapted for present purposes, was close at hand; and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could not long stand out against this earnest pleading. So, with a show of coy reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him just a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his wife; that meantime she would manage somehow to keep him in her memory.

"And next week you are away to Paris," she said, perhaps secretly wondering why he did not spend his leave in Bath. "For a whole fortnight."

"I could wish I were not going; but all is arranged, and the Colonel depends upon me. I must not fail him now at the last. If I can see my way to return at the end of a se'nnight, I will assuredly do so. If not—I shall still have a fortnight after we come home. I shall know what to do with that time, sweetheart."