Our Novelettes. PROUD LITTLE POLLY.

Western Star, Issue 895, 8 November 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes. PROUD LITTLE POLLY.

By the Author of ‘My Sweet SeXiF,” “ Eeteibution,” &c.

( Continued .) ‘As we walk down the moonlight-flooded path the conversation is confined to generalities ; suddenly Tom exclaims—- ‘ Oh, Mr Dynevor, 1 have forgotten that Todhunter’s Euclid of yours ; I’ll fetch it in a minute,’ and off he runs, leaving me standing with Eustace Dynevor under the budding chestnuts. There is an awkward little pause, and at length I remark originally—being a woman, I am the first to recover the use of my tongue — ‘What a beautiful night!’ * Yery,’ is the laconic and equally original response. * Tom will miss you very much, Mr Dynevor.’ 1 1 have recommended him to try Mr Barton ; he is a good mathematical scholar.’ A shiver runs through me; it cannot be from cold, lor my cheeks are burning, and my hands are dry and hot, I give a little start, for my companion’s hand is on my arm, and to my amazement he is saying—- ‘ I may not see you again. Miss Wyvern; so will you now accept my best wishes for future happiness ?’ ‘ I am sure I am very much obliged to you,’ I reply, wondering what he means, and at the same time drawing my arm- away; ‘it is very kind of you. I wish you the same.’ ‘ Thank you,’ he says shortly. * I was not sure before whether or not it was true.’ * What ?’ I ask, feeling more than ever bewildered.

4 Hal’ he ejaculates, with a queer little laugh. 4 You are like all young ladies. You think it interesting to plead ignorance and innocence. I had fancied that you were different.’

My cheeks became hotter and hotter, and I feel my spirit rising. How dared he speak so to me ! My pride and the fancied wound to my self-respect overcame even my woman’s curiosity to know what on earth he is talking about. Drawing my improvised shawl closer around my small person, I raise my head erect, and reply, haughtily and mendaciously— - 41 assure you I plead neither ignorance nor innocence—l am perfectly aware of what I am talking about, Mr Dynevor.’ He is unfastening the gate, and says, with his head bent over the latch —

4 1 am rather hurried to-night. May I ask you to tell 3fom not to mind about the book f Good-bye—good-bye, Polly.’ He looks at me as he concludes. 44 He turned, and I saw his face all wet in the sweet moonshine.”

4 Yes, as sure as I am a living woman, there are tears on Eustace I'ynevor’s face, as, hastily pressing my hand, lie leaves me standing at the gale, and walks quickly down the road. His strange words and manner puzzle me not a little as I saunter back to the house, all the while wondering why Tom does not come. I walk back again to the gate, and look down the road, but all is silent. 1 cannot bear to go in just yet, for my brain is in a whirl. Strange, half-pleasurable, half-painful feelings are curiously striving for the mastery in my breast. Still Tom does not appear. Suddenly, in the distance, I hear a whistle and a shout. My blood runs cold with terror. I have a presentiment that something terrible has happened, and for a moment I eannot stir. The whistle and shout are repeated. I hasten quickly up the path, rush through the open door into the drawing-room, and there, to my horror, I see that the longimpending sword has fallen, and that my poor father’s long-threatened attack of paralysis has overtaken him!

‘ Oh, the weary days and nights that follow ! None but those who have watched with sensibilities sharpened by agonised love can realise the misery of watching the hourly deeay of the faculties of a loved one. Day after day passes, and morning and evening the doctor’s words are—

‘He may linger on for an indefinite period, but 1 can give you no hope of his ever ultimately recovering.' ‘ Will he ever properly recover the use of bis senses ?’ I ask one morning, in anguish. ‘Probably not,’ replies the doctor, with professional reserve. I sink into an arm-chair, and cover my face with my hands. ‘My darling, darling father!’ I cry—and my long pent-up feelings break from my control, and I sob passionately— * what shall Ido without you ?’ * 1 should like to have further advice,’ says Dr Holden, who is a youngish man, thick-set, and red-whiskered. He is a declared admirer of mine j but his impertinently familiar manner are simply unbearable to me. ‘Yery well,’ I say, raising my tear-stained face, and seeing the doctor standing opposite to mo, with his hands behind his back. ‘ Will you kindly arrange about it yourself ? Do anything that will effect some good. Oh, papa—my darling, darling father!’ And I burst out sobbing again. ‘Come, come, now, Miss Polly,’ he exclaims, putting his arm around me familiarly, ‘ I wish you would try to keep up your spirits —do, my dear, for my sake.’ As he speaks he bends down, and his head is on a level with mine. How I hate him, loathe him for his impertinence! My tears have all ceased, and outraged dignity is my predominant feeling. (Starting up, I say, coidly—- ‘ Doctor Holden, I am not aware that I ever by my manner gave you reason to think you could presume as you have now just done. L consider you owe me an apology.’ There is a tap at the uoor j the servant enters and says my father is awake, and I am required. I leave the room without speaking, and an hour later say to Tom—- ‘ Tom, Doctor Holden says he must have further advice about papa.’ To my surprise he does not answer, but quietly eats his cold mutton. * 1 wish you would see about it after dinner, Tom ; perhaps you ought to call on Doctor Holden/

Still no reply. ‘Tom, why don’t you answer? Will you see about it ?’ He lays down bis knife and fork, wipes his mouth, tidgets a bib, but yet never looks at me or says a word, ‘ o£ course I fancied that you were just as anxious about papa as 1 am,’ I remark, a little indignantly. ‘ I wish you would take this matter of the doctor’s oil' my hands.’ Tom rests his elbow on the table, and, covering his eyes with his hand, says, in a half-choking voice—- ‘ Tolly, we have no money.’ My heart sinks. I had never thought of that, and 1 cry, despairingly—- ‘ Tom, Tom, what shall we do ?’ There is a very miserable look on the poor lad's face as ho raises his head and looks at .me. ‘ I have only six pounds left, and by right that is not ours.’ ’ What do you mean, Tom ?’ * If every one had their own, it ought tp bo

in Dynevor’s pocket. ‘ Polly,’ he continue 8 ’ his eyes sparkling, ‘ I lovethat fellow—do yo u know what he did to-day ? ‘ What ?’ A * He is going away to-morrow, so I went to pay him that five pounds I owed, and instead of taking it, he said, * No, Tom, my boy, I couldn’t take it conscientiously. You are all under great expenses; pay me when earning for yourself.’ ’ ‘And you actually took it!’ I exclaim. ‘ You have been actually mean enough to do so !’

‘ There was no meanness about it,’ asserts Tom, stoutly ; ‘we want the money desperately. Dynevor is the kindest, truest gentleman I have ever met; had I not thought him so, I could not have accepted the favour.. I feel proud that he has trusted me.’ I feel alternately hot and cold al, over. I do not know whether to be grateful to Mr Dynevor and feel glad that it is to him that we are under the compliment, or to resent it as an impertinence. In my heart of hearts I am convinced that it is kindness alone which has actuated him, but my evil spirit of pride rises within me and I say steadily—_ ‘Tom, that money must be paid to Mr Dynevor.’ ‘ Then how are we to pay the doctor for papa?’ inquires Tom, calmly. I had forgotten that. Suddenly a thought strikes me ; I am on the point of revealing it to Tom, but it at once flashes through my mind that of course he cannot understand why I do not care to feel indebted to Mr Dynevor. Indeed I am quite sure myself, except that I have felt latterly rather conscious when in his presence, or on hearing any one talk about him. As I am thus ruminating Tom continues — ‘ I declare I am sorry I told you, Polly. Dynevor wanted me promise that I would not, but I said that I always told you everything.’ That decides me j evidently Mr Dynevor wants me for some reason or other to be under an obligation to him. ‘ Tom, I want to go to Blandminster this afternoon 5 will you stay with papa until I come back ?’

He opens his eyes widely. 4 To Blandminster, Polly!’ Why, I suppose you’ll walk the three miles there and back I Let me go —you’ll be too tired.” * No, I wish to go myself; I have particular business to attend to.’ 4 Oh, all right; I’ll stay with papa, I did intend going to say good-bye to Dynevor, but he said he had an engagement. After dinner I retire to my own room, and, packing up my gold watch and chain, and a massive gold bracelet—the only valuable piece of jewellery I possess, and which had belonged to my mother —I pub on my hat and jacket, and set off for Blandminster. It is a large, old-fashioned cathedral town, with the air of sleepiness and respectability about it seemingly inseparable from an ecclesiastical city. The beauteous old Gothic cathedral stands at the entrance to the town, and, as I near it, I see a few people straggling in. Looking up at the clock tower, I notice that it wants but a few minutes to three o’clock. I am passionately fond of cathedral musio, and seldom can resist the fascination of staying for service whenever I come to Blandminster. To-day I half hesitate. I feel so miserable that I think the music will do me good; yet at the same time conscience' tells me that I ought not to stay away from home longer than I can possibly avoid. Half regretfully I make up my mind not to yield to temptation, when two figures emerge from the cloisters and enter the cathdral. They have not seen me, but I have seen them, and recognise one of them to be Eustace Dynevor ; the other, a young girl, is leaning on his arm. A sharp pang shoots through me, and in that moment the true state of my heart is all revealed to me. I feel jealous, madly jealous of Eustace Dynevor’s companion, and, stealthily following them into the cathedral, seat myself behind one of the carved oaken screens, whence I can see them without being seen in return.

The anthem is Blvey’s exquisite adaptation of the first eleven verses of the fifty-sixth Psalm. Another time, and the rare, sweet harmony would have' thrilled me through and through, have set every nerve a-quivering with intense enjoyment, and I should have left the cathedral better and happier than when I had entered. But to-day I can only see that Eustace Dynevor is watching every look of the girl beside him, with a wondrous tenderness in his manner. I cannot help admitting that she is interesting-looking. Bather tall, slight, with an exquisite complexion, and soft, wavy masses of fair silky hair, simply brushed back beneath her small black hat, she forms a pleasing contrast to her dark, intellectuallooking companion. They seem so tender, so absorbed in each other—and I am so miserable ! I (feel a tear stealing down my cheek, and it angers me. Pride comes to the rescue, and I ask why should I care? Why—oh, why ? At all events I can bear the sight no longer, and before the conclusion of the service leave the cathedral unobserved. I succeed in disposing of my watoh and chain for eleven pounds; the bracelet I keep, thinking a time may come when my wants may be greater. I feel so glad to know that we shall not be under pecuniary obligation to any one—it galls me so. Honest bard work, privation even, I feel I could endure rather than be indebted to mortal man. As I walk down through the town, I am in constant dread of meeting Eustace Dynevor and his companion. Of course it must be the girl for whom he is saving his money up to enable him to marry. There is no sign of them as I pass the cathedral —no sign of life there, save a few schoolboys in college caps and lappets playing in the cloisters. The clock chimes the quarter to five, and I hurry on, as 1 have a walk of an hour and a half before me. I soon flud myself upon the silent country-road, and, recollecting a short cut across the fields, strike off into a by-path. I walk along for about half a mile, when I see a figure advancing in the distance. That it is a man is all I can discover, as I am rather shortsighted; but, as he comes nearer, I recognise my tormentor of the morning, Dr Holden. I wish to bow and pais on, but ho stops and says—‘This is very late for you to be out by yourself—let me see you home/ ‘ Thank you, I am not afraid, therefore I need not detain you,’ I reply, coldly. « Oh, nonsense ! I could not think of allowing you to go all that lonely way by yourself,’ and turning, he walks beside me. What can I do ? By my manner I show him pretty plainly that I consider the polite attention would have, been more honoured in the breach than in the observance. He does not seem to take any notice, but chats upon indifferent subjects, and presently asks—- * How is your father this evening ?’ * He was very weak when I left. I had to go to Blandminster on business, or I should not have left him at all. Tom stayed at home.’ 1 Ah, that’s right. You mustn’t lose all your good looks by being, always cooped up in a sick room. Will you take my arm ?’ * Na thank you/ How my hands tingled to box his ears! ‘ Dear me 1 How dignified you are!’ he exclaims, familiarly. ‘ I suppose you are vexed with me still.’ I make no reply, but walk on in silence. ‘Now just think, little Polly, he continues —Syou need not try to conceal from me that

you are not well off as regards this world’s goods —would it not be nicer to be mistress of of my big house P Eh, little Polly ?’ I feel maddened. Yet, because he is attending my darling father, I am afraid to insult him by answering him as his impertinent and ill-bred familiarity deserves. By this time we are come to a gate leading into a small wood about half-a-mile from home. Dr. Holden does not open the gate, but, leaning his arm upon it, says—- « Polly, I have to leave you now, for I must go to a patient. But, remember, I’m not going to be put off by those black looks on your little white face. Of course I know it is acting—a sensible little girl like you would not think of throwing away such an offer;’ and, suddenly stooping down, he consummates his insolence by kissing me on the cheek. Speechless with indignation and horror, I gaze at him as he turns and retraces his steps along the path he has iust come, and to my unutterable dismay, I see Eustace Dynevor coming towards me. I know he must have witnessed the whole scene, and my heart dies within me—shame, anger, mortification, ail welling up in my breast. Doctor Holden nods curtly to him, and then turning a corner is out of sight. Eustace Dynevor soon overtakes me. I think he merely wishes to raise his hat and pass on, but I hold out my hand to him, saying—f Good evening, Mr Dynevor; lam glad to have met you.' Ido not dare to look up, for I know he is steadily looking at me, and my flaming cheeks and quivering tell-tale mouth are, no doubt, to him indications of confusion at being caught in the midst of a love-scene. • I consider myself fortunate to have met you, Miss this is my last evening here.’ ; He speaks so quietly that I feel almost angry with-him. But why should he not? I reflect for a momentr-he did not look loving and beloved —whilst I—I—well, never mind!

* I wanted to see you,’ I say, becoming redder and redder, and stopping in the middle of the woodland path. • Well,’ he asks, with an air of kindly interest on his face, * what is it ? Can Ibe of any use to you, Miss Wy vern ?’ What a strange anomaly a woman is ! Just now I feel his kindliness harder to bear than coldness would be.

‘Oh dear, no!’ I reply rather discourteously, I am afraid. ‘ But—but there was some misunderstanding between my brother and you about money matters.’ ‘I feel I am bungling over the business, and look at nim—it is some small satisfaction to see that he looks thoroughly uncomfortable. ‘ No,’ he says, quickly—‘ we have arranged all that. Here you are now nearly at your own gate, so I shall say good-bye.’ ‘No—no! Stop!’ I exclaim. ‘I know all about it. We are very much indebted to you I am sure ; nevertheless you must allow me to pay you—l have the money here and I pull my purse out of my pocket, at the same time, in my haste, drawing out the bracelet too, which falls to the ground. He picks it up, and holding it in his hand, says, quietly—- ‘ The matter is entirely between Tom and me. Sou have nothing whatever to say to it. What a pretty bracelet! A present, I presume ?’ But lam determined not to be put off. I ignore his last remark, and exclaim—- ‘ You take your money—l insist upon it.’ ‘I tell you/ he repeats, ‘ it is quire between Tom and me. You have nothing whatever to say to it.’ ‘ That is an evasion I’ I cry, vehemently while 1 feel I am fast losing control over myself. ‘ I could not bear the idea of being indebted to you, so I have procured the money. You must take it.’

A strange expression comes over his face as he looks down at me. For a minute he does not speak; then, handing me the bracelet, he asks —

‘ Have you the money with you ?’ * Yes,’ and I open my purse with nervous, trembling lingers. I count five pounds into his broad palm, and then he says—- * I can quite understand your feeling. One only cares to be indebted 10 those one loves; and no doubt it is a pleasure to you to be indebted to some one else for this rather than to me. Good-bye,’ and, raising his hat, he walks down the road and is out of sight in a few minutes.

I stand there thinking. Great Heavens! the meaning of his words at once flashes upon me—he thinks I have borrowed the money from Dr. Holden I In an agony I turn back to the woodland path, and walk backwards aud forwards trying to quiet my distracted nerves. I know instinctively that I have acted indiscreetly and discourteously in the way in which I have returned the money, but it is all over now and cannot be helped. I know 1 ought to return to the house, but somehow or other I cannot. The coming shadows are falling thick and fast, and, as 1 stand at the head of the garden and look towards my home, there seems to be a darker shadow than any of the others brooding over it. My nerves have been wound up to such a pitch that 1 seem to feel everything with a painful intensity, so much so that, when I meet Tom half way down the garden walk and give one look into his white scared face, 1 throw myself into his arms, crying—- ‘ Tom, Tom, what is it ? I know something has happened.’ H e clasps me closer and closer to him, and says, with a great sob in his voice—- * Oh, Polly—little Polly I’ ‘ What is it—what is it ?’ I almost shriek. ‘ Is papa worse ?’ He still holds me in his arms, and says, brokenly— .

‘ Polly—Polly darling, there are only you and I now.

It is all over. A fortnight has passed since our darling father was laid in the little churchyard. Tom and I, and our kiud friend Jdr Belton, the solicitor, are looking over our business matters. There is not much to settle, for, after everything is paid, we find we have only between three or four hundred pounds m the world. This Tom insists on being settled on mo lor my own and sole use, and declares his intention of at once looking out for a situation. ‘ Tom,' I say, ‘ I wish you would take the money, ana go ou with your examination. 1 know you have set your heart upon going to Woolwich.’ 1 No, Polly, it must be settled upon you. A man can rough itj but it is not right for a woman to ham to face the world, if she has any mankind to look after her.’ * Bravo, Tom 1’ exclaims Mr Belton. But recollect, my boy, a few hundred pounds will soon melt away.' t ‘ I want Poily to come and live with me. I’ll work for her, and be glad to do so.’ 4 1 know you would, Tom,’ 1 say } * but I could not think of being a burden on you. i'll go out as a governess.' 1 shall not!’ he exclaims, decidedly, ‘ You must come and live with me, Polly, if we can by any means manage it.’ I rebel, but to no purpose. If I will not share his home, Tom threatens to emigrate, and never to write to me—says that lie wiil go to the bad. finally he overcomes ail my scruples, and we agree to stand by each other at all risks. Heaven is very good to us. It has taken one home from ua, out it soon puts us iu the way of getting another. (2h he continued)<