Chapter XXI: A Glimpse of Lovely Polly

"Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. Somebody will be there whom you little think to see."

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up sharply.

"Yes, indeed, and you may guess; but I vow you'll not divine the truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune. Had it come to me in my young days, 'twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you may conjecture, you may conjecture!"

Polly, seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looked as usual exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown velvet, took a far-away expression; and the delicate tinting of her cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely—

"If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma'am, I would say—Captain Ivor."

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and sandalled foot.

"Tut!—Pish!—Pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you may rest satisfied that you have uttered that which propriety demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts—likely so to remain for many a long year to come—we'll e'en dismiss the thoughts of him, and Molly shall say whom she would most desire to meet at the dance to-night."

Molly sat upon a second straight-backed chair, busily netting. She was more altered from the child of eleven or twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, but she had gained rounder outlines. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in lieu of good looks. Though Molly Baron would never be a "belle," she might become a woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply, no less prompt than Polly's, consisted of a single syllable—

"Roy!"

"But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so also. Who next?"

"Jack!"

"Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves—a genteel young fellow enough, but better than Jack awaits you this evening."

"Bob!" with equal rapidity.

"Bob Monke is well enough in his way too; but you must go further afield, child. Eh, Polly—what if it be Captain Peirce?"

"Captain Peirce better than Jack or than Bob? Nay!" Molly said indignantly.

Polly's colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight provocation, delicately and prettily. She also tossed her head, and arranged the light scarf which covered her shoulders.

"Captain Peirce is welcome, if he so choose, ma'am," she replied carelessly.

"I do not like Captain Peirce," murmured Molly.

"Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. 'Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce's affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite with everybody—especially, I can assure you, with all the young women of mode. And he has eyes for none of 'em except Polly."

Polly looked studiously on the floor, and Molly frowned.

"If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never, sure, come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is promised to another, and he out of reach."

"Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I'm positively shamed of you. Why, you're scarce out of the nursery, child. And here's Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married! No, nor like to be, while old Nap lives, if she wait for Captain Ivor; and depend on 't, old Nap'll not die yet for many a long year. Is Polly to delay till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man of ton will deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?"

Molly gazed at Polly's downcast face. "But Polly knows Denham better," she said.

"Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be," demanded the vivacious lady, "since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven? Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable."

"Polly is yet a good way off from growing old," persisted Molly.

"Well, well, that's as may be. But you've not divined my secret yet. Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorne's to-night; and 'tis not Jack of whom I speak. Bob Monke is like to be there, for aught I know, and 'tis not Bob. Captain Peirce will be there, and 'tis not Captain Peirce. Somebody else will be there,—and 'tis he."

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. "Who was it that read last week the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' and that said she would give half she was possessed of, to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?"

"Mr. Walter Scott!" The rapture on Molly's face repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.

"Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and he will be at my Lady Hawthorne's assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing? You may count yourself a fortunate young woman! At your early age, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, and of Mr. Southey's friend, Mr. William Wordsworth,—and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself. I give you joy of such good fortune."

"And I love the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' infinitely more than I love 'Thalada,'" remarked Molly. "Sure, ma'am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known."

"If the public voice be true, 'tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott's poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I'm informed that Mr. Constable this year is paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place named 'Rokeby.' But now 'tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best."

Polly was in nowise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self, as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest, and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly's abundant mane needed attention, though crowned by a fantastic hat with lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist close under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ballroom equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was a perfect sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded room without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was content to have it so, not expecting admiration.

The one thing upon which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott. His real work in life, the writing of the Waverley Novels, had not then been even begun; but he was well known as the author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm.

Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and Rowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. She sat upon her chair, quiet, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious sight which was soon to dawn upon her vision. Mrs. Bryce's finger-tips roused her from a dream.

"Wake up, Molly. Are you asleep? Here he comes."

Molly looked around in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, rather robust in make, certainly not "elegant," with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a genial expression,—no, that was no embodiment of Molly's ideal. His eyes were light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet's should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet.

He said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad always to know that she had spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.