Chapter XXIX: 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."