Would that make any difference? Was it “good
enough”? So her thoughts phrased the anxious
question.
Regarding Christopher one thing was certain—he
would be her very humble slave. She imagined
herself his wife, she pictured him inclining to revolt,
she saw the results of that feeble insubordination,
and laughed aloud. Christopher was respectable;
he would undoubtedly continue to rise at Swettenham’s,
he would take a pride in the magnificence of her costume.
When her temper called for natural relief she could
quarrel with him by the hour without the least apprehension,
and in the end would graciously forgive him.
Yes, there was much to be said for Christopher.
A little before one o’clock she was at Liverpool
Street, sheltered from a drizzle that brought down
all the smoke of myriad chimneys. A slim figure
in overcoat and shining hat rushed through the puddles
towards her, waving an umbrella to the peril of other
people speeding only less frantically.
“Polly! I’ve got it!”
He could gasp no more; he seized her arm as if for
support.
“How much is it?” she asked calmly.
“Five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!”
“What—five hundred and fifty a year?”
Christopher stared at her.
“You don’t understand. The missing
word. I’ve got it this week. Cheque
for five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!”
“Reely!”
“Look here—here’s the cheque!
Hyjene!”
Polly fingered the paper, studied the inscription.
All the time she was thinking that this sum of money
would furnish a house in a style vastly superior to
that of Mrs. Nibby’s. Mrs. Nibby would go
black in the face with envy, hatred, and malice.
As she reflected Christopher talked, drawing her to
the least-frequented part of the huge roaring railway
station.
“Will you, Polly? Why don’t you speak?
Do, Polly, do!”
She all but spoke, would have done but for an ear-rending
whistle from an engine.
“I shall have a rise, too, Polly. I’m
feeling my feet at Swettenham’s. Who knows
what I may get to? Polly, I might—I
might some day have a big business of my own, and
build a house at Eastbourne. It’s all on
the cards, Polly. Others have done it before
me. Swettenham began as a clerk—he
did. Think Polly, five hundred and fifty pounds!—Hyjene!”
She met his eye; she nodded.
“You will?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Hooray! Hyjene forever! Hooray-ay-ay!”
THE TRAVELLER AT REST
Two or three days after this Gammon heard unexpectedly
from Mrs. Clover, who enclosed for his perusal a letter
she had just received from Polly Sparkes. What,
she asked, could be the meaning of Polly’s reference
to her deceased uncle? Was there never to be an
end of mysteries and miseries in relation to that
unhappy man?
