“If you choose, sir.”
She moved two or three steps nearer to a candle to read it. Jack’s left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was what she made out:
“Dear Polly,—Denham is going home to you, and he has heard a false tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to you for so great a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married the better pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. I’m by no means sure but that his has been a harder fight by far than any of us have had to go through in Active Warfare; and now that my turn has come, I hope that I may be patient and endure bravely as he has done. Be good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,
“Your affectionate Brother,
“Jack Keene.“
Polly came across to where Denham stood.
“Jack tells me of the mistake,” she whispered. “And now I understand. He tells me too that I am to comfort you.”
She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.
“Sweet Polly,” he said, in a voice which shook a little despite his best efforts, “you wrote to me once a letter which was signed, ‘Yours faithfully, and till Death.’ That letter I have never parted with since the day it reached me—not even when I feared that I had indeed cause for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?”
Polly lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.
“I am yours, Captain Ivor, always and ever, as long as life shall last,” she uttered very clearly.