No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes through all those miles of driving, driving, ever further away from where he craved to be. He might reply readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor—well, just a little!—and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him—well, some day!
Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself, how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be. He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment, before he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.
Would Polly be content to wait for him?
This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come it did not soon depart.
He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought.
They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without warning, that query burst upon him.
Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was very young; hardly more than a child. If he were to be years away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their acquaintance extended further back; and impressions made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part as that she should wait for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.
The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention than usual. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.
"I don't at all know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt before the inn.
"Den—look—what a lot of people outside the maison de ville! And some of them seem so miserable. What are they after?"