So little was my mother acquainted with the details of her altered condition in life, that she still believed a small but secure income remained to her; and it was only by a few lines addressed to her, and inclosed in a letter to Polly, that she was at length brought to see that she was actually without means of support for a single day, and that hitherto she had been a dependent on Fagan's kindness for a home.
I believe that this communication was not made with any harshness or want of feeling; on the contrary, that it was conveyed with whatever delicacy the writer could summon to so ungracious a task. It is more than probable, besides, that Fagan would not have made it at all, or at least not for a considerable time, had he not at that moment been involved in an angry correspondence with Polly, who had flatly refused to quit my mother and return home. Irritated at this, and driven to extremities, he had determined in this last course to accomplish his object.
My mother was so much overwhelmed by the tidings that she thought she could not have understood them aright, and hastened to Polly's room, with the letter in her hand.
“Tell me,” cried she, “what this means. Is it possible—can it be true—that I am actually a beggar?”
Polly read the lines with a flashing eye and heightened color, but never uttered a word.
“Speak, Polly, dearest, and relieve me of this terrible fear, if you can,” cried my mother, passionately.
“I understand what this means,” said Polly, crushing the note in her hand; “this is a question that requires explanation. You must leave it to me. I'll go up to town this evening, and before the end of the week I 'll be back with you. My father is mistaken,—that's all; and you have misunderstood him!”
And thus planning, and excusing and contradicting herself, she at last succeeded in allaying my mother's fears and assuring her that it was a mere misapprehension, and that a few days would suffice to rectify it.
My mother insisted that Polly should not travel alone, and that Gabriac should be her companion,—an arrangement to which she acceded with comparative ease and willingness. Had Polly Fagan and Gabriac merely met as people meet in society, with no other opportunities of knowing each other than are presented by the ordinary intercourse with the world, the great likelihood is that they should have conceived for each other a rooted dislike. There was scarcely one single subject on which they thought in common. They differed in ideas of country and people. Their tastes, their prejudices, their ambitions, all took opposite directions; and yet such is the effect of intimacy, such the consequence of daily, hourly communion, that each not only learned to tolerate, but even to imbibe, some of the notions of the other; and an imperceptible compromise was at length entered into, by Which individuality became tempered down, and even the broad traits of nationality almost effaced. The Count came to perceive that what he had at first regarded as coarse and inelegant was in reality the evidence of only a bold and vigorous spirit, exulting in its own energy, and confident of its power; and Polly began to recognize that remarkable truth, that a coxcomb need not necessarily be a coward, and that the most excessive puppyism can consort with even a chivalrous courage and daring. Of these qualities—the very first in Polly's estimation—he had given several proofs in their adventures by sea and land, and under circumstances, too, where the very novelty of the peril to be surmounted might have suggested some fear.
There is a generous impulse usually to exalt in our esteem those whom we had once held cheaply, when on nearer intimacy we discover that we had wronged them. We feel as if there was a debt of reparation due to them, and that we are unjust till we have acquitted it. It may chance that now and then this honorable sentiment may carry us beyond reasonable bounds, and that we are disposed to accord even more than is due to them.