“‘Stay, stay with us—rest—thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay.
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.’”
Polly made a break here before her sweet voice took up another strain, more softly uttered:—
“When you’re parted, Polly Oliver,
Parted from your own true love,
Will you be true, Polly Oliver—
True to your own true love?
“Yes; though the waves divide us,
Yes; wheresoever you rove,
I’m ever your own little Polly—
Ever your true true love.”
She had altered it slightly, half by instinct, dropping the surname in the last verse.
“In truth, Polly, you seem mighty indifferent to Napoleon’s doings,” objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she inquired of her husband how they were to escape inland.
“Why, that I do not precisely see,” Mr. Bryce answered, with exasperating satisfaction. “Every man in the place will be wanted, and not a horse can be spared. Doubtless General Moore will arrange matters. I think ’tis needful that we should wait a while, and see what may happen. Depend on’t, Nelson has his eye upon the French fleet, and ’tis a question in my mind whether they ever can get so far as e’en to the coast of England.”
Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to her former assertion that the French might arrive at any moment.
“Hardly that, since ships must take time to go. But ’tis true they’ve signalled from Folkestone that the enemy’s boats had left Calais, and that the transports and ships at Ostend were also out and steering westerly. So, with this wind, they’ll probably be here in a few hours, if Nelson doesn’t cut them out on their way with his fleet. And I promise them, they’ll have a right good reception if they come. Eh, Polly? We’re making ready for ’em.”
“I can’t have you leave us again, not for no sort of consideration,” objected Mrs. Bryce. “Your duty, my dear, is to protect us. If the French come, what may Polly and I do?”