“My fault,—my doing? What do you mean, dearest, what can I have done to deserve this?”
“You know very well what you have done. You knew all the time how it would turn out.”
Polly protested firmly that she could not imagine what was attributed to her, and only after a considerable time obtained the explanation of the charge. Indeed it was not at first easy to comprehend it, given, as it was, in the midst of tears, and broken at every word by sobs. The substance was this: that Fifine, in an attempted imitation of Polly's manner,—an effort to copy the coquetting which she fancied to be so captivating,—had ventured to trifle so far with young Conyers, that, after submitting to every alternative of hope and fear for weeks long, he at last gave way, and determined to leave the house, quit the country, and never meet her more. “It was to be like you I did it,” cried she, sobbing bitterly, “and see what it has led me to.”
“Well, dearest, be really like me for half an hour; that is, be very patient and very quiet. Sit down here, and don't leave this till I come back to you.”
Polly kissed her hot cheek as she spoke; and the other sat down where she was bade, with the half-obedient sulkiness of a naughty child.
“Tell young Mr. Conyers to come and speak to me. I shall be in the garden,” said she to his servant; and before she had gone many paces he was beside her.
“Oh, Polly dearest! have you any hope for me?” cried he, in agony. “If you knew the misery I am enduring.”
“Come and take a walk with me,” said she, passing her arm within his. “I think you will like to hear what I have to tell you.”
The revelation was not a very long one; and as they passed beneath the room where Josephine sat, Polly called out, “Come down here, Fifine, we are making a bouquet; try if you can find 'heart's-ease.'”
What a happy party met that day at dinner! All were in their best spirits, each contented with the other. “Have you read my aunt's note?” whispered Hunter to Polly, as they passed into the drawing-room.