She hesitated a minute, for her quick wit told her that the question involved a great deal; but she answered firmly, though shyly, "No; I do not."
Distrustful as he had been of his power to please her, this was enough for the time to make him almost beside himself with delight.
He said "God bless you!" heartily; and was silent awhile because he could not command his voice. He resumed, "As to your 'ought to do,' don't say anything to any one till I've spoken to my mother. We'll go and look for her now." He talked a great deal of nonsense on the way, and Polly said very little then, or during the drive. She was ashamed to look at Mrs. Wickham, and was glad that her attention was drawn from her to Robert. He "touched up" the young horses so wildly, that she declared he should never drive her again, if he did not behave better. Directly they got home, he told her that he wanted to speak to her that moment alone; and he poured out his story. Such an old, old story! So like what her own dead and buried George had told her long, long ago. She stand in the way of an innocent love, and between two of the creatures dearest to her on earth! She would be very glad [{407}] to have Polly as a daughter—she loved her as one. As to pride and such nonsense, people who had loved and lost, as she had, knew all its profound folly. Polly's beauty and goodness might make any husband proud, any home happy. As to William, there was no injustice done him. In the first place, she was sure that Polly could never be brought to think of him as a husband. She looked on him as quite an old man—he was getting very bald; and in the next place, if he had had any real love for her, he could not have spoken so coolly and confidently of winning her. Robert said that the last observation was corroborated by his own experience, and that his mother was a remarkably sensible woman. Thereupon she smiled, and kissed and blessed him, and advised him to go directly and tell the simple truth to the vicar.
Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her pretty bedroom—her face buried in her hands, her rich golden hair unbound and falling loosely over her shoulders, dreading to go down to dinner. Not that she was ashamed of dear, dear Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw her arms around her neck and hide her face there, and make her a confidante without any fear of being repulsed; but how could she look at Robert, much less speak to him? and of course the servant would see and understand all about it. She wished she might stay in her room. If she had but a headache! but she was really perfectly well; and false excuses she never dreamed of making. Robert would be talking to her again as he had talked in the fields. Really, really she did not know what to say to him. Indeed she had never thought of getting married. She had looked forward to living between the Grey House and her father's, beloved and welcome in both; adding to his and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more and more as they grew older and wanted greater care. Why could not this go on, with only the difference that Robert should never be displeased with her? That had made her unhappy. She did like him very much; better than any one, next to her father and Mrs. Wickham; better than good old Aunt Lizzy. He was very handsome, and sang well, and so attentive to his mother; and ever since his father's death he had been quite fond of home. How could he ever have supposed that she preferred any one else? But as to being his wife—he was a Protestant. How she should feel his never going to mass with her, his thinking confession useless, his not believing in the dear Lord in the Blessed Sacrament! She had often felt it hard that conversation about these things must be avoided in the dear Grey House, and that her friends there, fond as they were of her, wished her religion different. If she married Robert, it would be worse, for she should love him better than any one on earth then; her anxiety about his salvation would be so great as to make her quite wretched, and he might not like her to talk to him about it. From her earliest childhood, she prayed for the conversion of the Wickhams. She began by saying one Hail Mary daily for the intention; and since she had been older, she had said many novenas, and offered many communions for it. She really did not think her father would give his consent; and Father Armand would at any rate look grave and sad. She had heard him tell pitiful stories of the unhappiness that had come of mixed marriages among persons whom he knew. She did feel truly unhappy. She walked to her window; she could see thence dear venerable Edward's Hall, and knew exactly where the chapel was. She knelt down, fixing her eyes there, and her heart on her divine Lord in the tabernacle, and asked him that, for the love of his blessed mother, he would help and direct her, and convert her friends.
Robert had not expected to feel it formidable to tell his story to his cousin, and he was equally grieved and surprised by the way in which he received it. He changed countenance so that he looked ten years older; walked rapidly up and down the room; [{408}] threw himself into a great chair, and buried his face in his hands; asked Robert to ring; ordered sherry, and drank several glasses. Robert, utterly mystified, was trying to say something soothing, when he interrupted him.
"My dear fellow, I'm not simply love-sick; but circumstances, which I will explain another time, do make this a terrible shock to me. I have been such a fool! To any one but myself, your falling in love with Polly would have seemed the most natural thing in the world; but I was blinded, stultified, as men who have—never mind now—go away—I'm not fit to talk—I will call or write to you tomorrow. Blame you! Certainly not. Give my love to your mother and Polly. God bless you all!"
Next morning early came a note stating that he was going from home for a few days; and that if he did not return, he would explain himself fully in the following week.
Worthy of a peerage as Polly Deane seemed to Robert, he could not be ignorant that to marry him was great promotion for her; and though delicacy in her regard, and real respect for her father, made him ask his consent with the utmost deference, he felt that this was a mere matter of good manners.
Mr. Deane was visibly gratified; said that he could never have expected a proposal so complimentary to his child, though he might be pardoned for saying that he thought any one might be proud of her. His obligations to the Wickham family were of many years' standing; in fact, he owed everything to Mr. Wickham. He could never, making all due allowance for Polly's beauty and goodness, express how honored he felt himself and her on that occasion; but—and he made a long pause in evident difficulty how to express himself; and Robert was mute with surprise and alarm.
"But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that Mrs. Wickham and you don't see one very great objection?"