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?"