English fiction -- 19th century; Tailors -- Fiction
Susan was too well accustomed to Polly's usage to complain. She murmured
a gentle 'Good night, sir,' and retired. Whereupon Polly exclaimed:
'Bless her poor dear soft heart! It 's us hard ones that get on best in
the world. I'm treated better than her, Mr. Harrington, and I know I
ain't worth half of her. It goes nigh to make one religious, only to see
how exactly like Scripture is the way Beckley treats her, whose only sin
is her being so soft as to believe in a man! Oh, dear! Mr. Harrington!
I wish I had good news for you.'
In spite of all his self-control, Evan breathed quickly and looked
eagerly.
'Speak it out, Polly.'
'Oh, dear! I must, I suppose,' Polly answered. 'Mr. Laxley's become a
lord now, Mr. Harrington.'
Evan tasted in his soul the sweets of contrast. 'Well?'
'And my Miss Rose--she--'
'What?'
Moved by the keen hunger of his eyes, Polly hesitated. Her face betrayed
a sudden change of mind.
'Wants to see you, sir,' she said, resolutely.
'To see me?'
Evan stood up, so pale that Polly was frightened.
'Where is she? Where can I meet her?'
'Please don't take it so, Mr. Harrington.'
Evan commanded her to tell him what her mistress had said.
Now up to this point Polly had spoken truth. She was positive her
mistress did want to see him. Polly, also, with a maiden's tender guile,
desired to bring them together for once, though it were for the last
time, and for no good on earth. She had been about to confide to him
her young mistress's position toward Lord Laxley, when his sharp
interrogation stopped her. Shrinking from absolute invention, she
remarked that of course she could not exactly remember Miss Rose's words;
which seemed indeed too much to expect of her.
'She will see me to-night?' said Evan.
'I don't know about to-night,' Polly replied.
'Go to her instantly. Tell her I am ready. I will be at the West park-
gates. This is why you wrote, Polly? Why did you lose time? Don't
delay, my good girl! Come!'
Evan had opened the door. He would not allow Polly an instant for
expostulation; but drew her out, saying, 'You will attend to the gates
yourself. Or come and tell me the day, if she appoints another.'
Polly made a final effort to escape from the pit she was being pushed
into.
'Mr. Harrington! it wasn't to tell you this I wrote.
Miss Rose is engaged, sir.'
'I understand,' said Evan, hoarsely, scarcely feeling it, as is the case
with men who are shot through the heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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