“I guess you’ll pay for them yourself.”
“No, I shan’t. It’s not the way of the world in this part of England. One of you must do it, and I won’t have it done by father—not regular. As I begin so I must go on. Let him tell me what he means to do and then we shall know how we’re to live. I’m not a bit afraid of you and your forty shillings.”
“My girl!” Here was some little attempt at embracing, which, however, Polly checked.
“There’s no good in all that when we’re talking business. I look upon it now that were to be married as soon as I please. Father has given way as to that, and I don’t want to put you off.”
“Why no! You ought not to do that when you think what I have had to endure.”
“If you had known the picture which father drew just now of what we should have to suffer on your forty shillings a week!”
“What did he say, Polly?”
“Never mind what he said. Dry bread would be the best of it. I don’t care about the dry bread;—but if there is to be anything better it must be all fixed. You must have the money for your own.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll do that.”
“Then you must take me without the money. I’m not going to have him giving you a five-pound note at the time and your having to ask for it. Nor yet am I going to ask for it. I don’t mind it now. And to give him his due, I never asked him for a sovereign but what he gave me two. He’s very generous.”
“Is he now?”
“But he likes to have the opportunity. I won’t live in the want of any man’s generosity—only my husband’s. If he chooses to do anything extra that’ll be as he likes it. But what we have to live upon—to pay for meat and coals and suchlike—that must be your own. I’ll put on the dress tonight because I won’t vex him. But before he goes to bed he must be made to understand all that. And you must understand it too, Jack. As we mean to go on so must we begin!” The interview ended, however, in an invitation given to Jack to stay in Plumplington and eat his supper. He knew the road so well that he could drive himself home in the dark.
“I suppose I’d better let them have two hundred a year to begin with,” said Peppercorn to himself, sitting alone in his little parlour. “But I’ll keep it in my own hands. I’m not going to trust that fellow further than I can see him.”
But on this point he had to change his mind before he went to bed. He was gracious enough to Jack as they were eating their supper, and insisted on having a hot glass of brandy and water afterwards—all in honour of Polly’s altered dress. But as soon as Jack was gone Polly explained her views of the case, and spoke such undoubted wisdom as she sat on her father’s knee, that he was forced to yield. “I’ll speak to Mr. Scribble about having it all properly settled.” Now Mr. Scribble was the Plumplington attourney.
“Two hundred a year, father, which is to be Jack’s own—forever. I won’t marry him for less—not to live as you propose.”
“When I say a thing I mean it,” said Peppercorn. Then Polly retired, having given him a final kiss.
About a fortnight after this Mr. Greenmantle came to the Rectory and desired to see Dr. Freeborn. Since Emily had been taken ill there had not been many signs of friendship between the Greenmantle and the Freeborn houses. But now there he was in the Rectory hall, and within five minutes had followed the Rectory footman into Dr. Freeborn’s study. “Well, Greenmantle, I’m delighted to see you. How’s Emily?”
Mr. Greenmantle might have been delighted to see the Doctor but he didn’t look it. “I trust that she is somewhat better. She has risen from her bed today.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said the Doctor.
“Yes; she got up yesterday, and today she seems to be restored to her usual health.”
“That’s good news. You should be careful with her and not let her trust too much to her strength. Miller said that she was very weak, you know.”
“Yes; Miller has said so all through,” said the father; “but I’m not quite sure that Miller has understood the case.”
“He hasn’t known all the ins and outs you mean—about Philip Hughes.” Here the Doctor smiled, but Mr. Greenmantle moved about uneasily as though the poker were at work. “I suppose Philip Hughes had something to do with her malady.”
“The truth is—,” began Mr. Greenmantle.
“What’s the truth?” asked the Doctor. But Mr. Greenmantle looked as though he could not tell his tale without many efforts. “You heard what old Peppercorn has done with his daughter?—Settled £250 a year on her forever, and has come to me asking me whether I can’t marry them on Christmas Day. Why if they were to be married by banns there would not be time.”
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t be married by banns,” said Mr. Greenmantle, who amidst all these difficulties disliked nothing so much as that he should be put into the category with Mr. Peppercorn, or Emily with Polly Peppercorn.
“I say nothing about that. I wish everybody was married by banns. Why shouldn’t they? But that’s not to be. Polly came to me the next day, and said that her father didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“I suppose she expects a special licence like the rest of them,” said Mr. Greenmantle.
“What the girls think mostly of is their clothes, Polly wouldn’t mind the banns the least in the world; but she says she can’t have her things ready. When a young lady talks about her things a man has to give up. Polly
