“The year I was in Valenciennes.”
Jack recalled Roy’s description of Ivor’s return from that absence, and he began to grasp the state of the case.
“When did you hear last from Polly herself?”
“Over two years ago. A letter which had been written before the date when she was said to have become engaged.”
The last remnants of Jack’s anger died out. Two years of silence following upon such a report!
“You have not writ yourself to Polly, this great while.”
“How could I—not speaking of this? And—how speak of it—if it were not true?”
Silence again. Jack observed slowly, as he watched the other’s colourless lips—
“Den, I’m going to be frank. ’Tis no case for half confidences. There was a time, I’ll confess, when I had a doubt in my own mind of Polly’s constancy. She’s a pretty creature, and she has had an uncommon lot of admiration. But I wronged her, for she has been ever faithful to you, and she has cared for none other. And the night before I started for Spain, she and I talked together, and she spoke out plainly. She said that, if you but asked her to come to Verdun she would come—and gladly. She wondered, if indeed you cared for her still, that you had not so done.”
A flush came, and Denham’s hand was held hard against his forehead.