Matthew slowly rose from his chair.
"Then I'm denged if I do aught of the sort!" he said. "Ye can fetch Polly and welcome, missis, and naught'll please me better than if her and William Henry does hit it off, though I don't approve of the marriage of cousins as a rule. But I'm not going to get rid of my dairymaid for no Pollies, nor yet no William Henrys, nor for naught, so there!"
Then Mrs. Dennison put on her spectacles again and re-opened her Sunday book, and Mr. Dennison mixed himself a drink at the sideboard and lighted a cigar, and for a long time no sound was heard but the purring of the cat on the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Miss Mary Dennison duly arrived the next evening, under convoy of her aunt, and received a cordial and boisterous welcome at the hands and lips of her uncle and cousin. She was an extremely pretty and vivacious girl of nineteen, golden-haired and violet-eyed, who would have been about as much in place in managing a farmstead as in presiding over a court of law. But Mrs. Dennison decided that she was just the wife for William Henry, and she did all that she could to throw them together. In that, however, no effort was needed. William Henry and his cousin seemed to become fast friends at once. On the day following Polly's arrival he took her out for a long walk in the fields; when they returned, late for tea, there seemed to be a very excellent understanding between them. After that they were almost inseparable—there was little doing on the farm just then, and there was a capable foreman to see after what was being done, so William Henry, much to his mother's delight, began taking Polly for long drives into the surrounding country. They used to go off early in the morning and return late in the afternoon, each in high spirits. And Mrs. Dennison's hopes rose high, and her spirits were as high as theirs.
But there were two things Mrs. Dennison could not understand. The first was that Miss Durrant was as light-hearted as ever, and as arduous in her labours, in spite of the fact that William Henry no longer went walks with her nor took her to church. The second was that when he and Polly were not driving they spent a considerable amount of time in the model dairy of an afternoon with Miss Durrant, and that unmistakable sounds of great hilarity issued therefrom. But she regarded this with indulgence under the circumstances.
"When they're together," she said, "young folks is inclined to make merry. Of course I must have been mistaken about William Henry being smitten with the dairymaid, considering how he's now devoted to his cousin. He was no doubt lonelyish—young men does get like that, though I must say that William Henry never did show himself partial to young ladies."
However partial William Henry may or may not have been to young ladies in the past, it was quite certain that he was making up for it at that stage of his existence. The long drives with Polly continued, and Polly came back from each in higher spirits than ever. Mrs. Dennison expected every day to hear that her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled.
And then came the climax. One evening, following one of the day-long drives, William Henry announced to the family circle that he was going to Clothford next morning, and should require breakfast somewhat earlier than usual. By nine o'clock next day he was gone, and Mrs. Dennison, not without a smirking satisfaction, noticed that Polly was uneasy and thoughtful, and developed a restlessness which got worse and worse. She tried to interest the girl in one way or another, but Polly slipped off to the dairy, and spent the entire day, except for meal-times, with Miss Durrant. When evening and high tea came she could scarcely eat or drink, and her eyes perpetually turned to the grandfather clock.
"If William Henry has missed the five-thirty, my dear," said Mrs. Dennison, "he's certain to catch the six-forty-five. He were never a one for gallivanting about at Clothford of an evening, and——"
And at that moment the parlour door opened and William Henry walked in.