“May I put that down?—it’s heavy. You are Jervis, aren’t you?—little Jervis! He used to be so fond of me.”
“Polly!” Jervis said with an accent of utter amazement.
“Yes, I am Polly. I have come back at last. Is father alive still? Will he be pleased or angry?”
“Polly!” he said again. “Why, we have just been speaking of you, and the wish I had to see your face again. I never could think you weren’t living still—though you didn’t write a word.”
“I couldn’t write, Jervis. I didn’t seem able. I have lived with William, and father would have been vexed at that. It was my husband’s wish first that I should keep away from you all—he has been dead now many, many years; but I always felt ashamed to write. Only just of late I’ve learnt to feel differently about many things, and I began to see it was wrong. And William is going on worse and worse. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I did long for a sight of home again. Jervis, it really is you?—so altered!”
He kissed her kindly, gravely, in answer, accepting at once the returned wanderer.
“You are altered too, Polly; but I couldn’t be mistaken,” he said. “We must tell father.”
“What’s it all about?” called Hannah, sharply. “Who have you there?”
“One moment,” Jervis said. He was breathing hard, with a touch of his old enemy, asthma, brought on by the shock of Marian’s sudden appearance, and the reply failed to reach Hannah.
“Who have you got out there?” was called again, impatiently.