Roy murmured one impatient “Bother! Plague take it!” and then his face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.
He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it in possession. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more clear. If Polly only wrote to say that she was growing tired of waiting and could not promise to wait indefinitely, still even that would be better than not hearing at all—even to know the worst at once would be better than absolute uncertainty. And meanwhile it was her own handwriting.
There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly’s letter came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.
The early part of Polly’s effusion, which bore a date many weeks old, was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a little peep into Polly’s heart was permitted. She had apparently just received one of Ivor’s many epistles, the greater number of which never reached their destination.
“Bath. November 7, 1803.
“My dear Captain Ivor,—So you consider that I have been too slow in writing to you, and you make complaint that I leave you too long without Letters. But how know you that I have not sent at least one for every single one of yours to me? In truth, I cannot boast of any vast correspondence on your side, my dear Sir, since the letter which is now arriv’d is but the second in——O in quite an interminable length of time. And were it not that I have an exceeding Aversion to the writing of Letters, as indeed you ought to be aware, since I am sure I have told you as much, I might feel Regrets at hearing so seldom—but that it means the less toil on my part, you understand. If it were not that in your last you give a delicate hint that Silence on my part might be construed to mean something of the Nature of Indifference, why even now I should be greatly disposed to indulge my Dislike to driving the Quill, and wait till another day.
“But since doubtless you will expect to hear, and since we never may know which letters have gone astray, I will so far overcome my inclinations—or my disinclinations—as to sit down and endeavour to entertain you with the best of Bath News.
“My letter which was writ from Sandgate you have, I trust, already received, and thus you know all about the scare which took place, when the French fleet was descried by somebody of not very good sight—or so I suppose!—and when signals went wrong, and the Soldiers and Sea-fencibles and Volunteers were all called out, and when General Moore galloped the whole distance from Dungeness Point to be in time, and when Mrs. Bryce’s heart failed her. But not Polly’s, Captain Ivor—of that you may be sure! For Polly is to be one day the wife of a soldier! And also Polly knew that, if she were to be taken prisoner, as Mrs. Bryce dolefully foretold, why—why—that might mean that she could hope to be sent to where Somebody is, whom she would not be greatly sorry to see once again.
“Mrs. Bryce insisted on coming hither in hot haste, lest Napoleon should please to land at Sandgate, where General Moore waited to receive him; and now she is in doubt what to do next, since some think London is the safer place to be in. But General Moore does not now think that Napoleon will make any effort till spring, since any day winter storms in the Channel may begin; and Jack scorns the notion that, when he does come, he will ever advance beyond the sea-beach. ’Tis said that, if Mr. Pitt comes into power again, he will speedily start some new ideas for our Preservation; and my Grandmamma says, therefore, that we may not start any new expenses till we know to what length Taxation will allow us to run. But for which I wanted much a new frock.
“Last week I was in Bristol for three days, with our Grandmother’s old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. I was asked to a dance with them, and I went, but without the smallest idea of dancing, having been assured that beaux were scarce, and strangers seldom asked. So I determined to enjoy seeing others more fortunate, and to pass a quiet stupid evening, meditating on an absent Somebody—can you by any possibility guess Whom, my dear Sir?