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  CHAPTER XXI. POLLY AND SALLY.

  Without a care to trouble her; abroad or at home, findinginexhaustible varieties of amusement; seeing new places, making newacquaintances--what a disheartening contrast did Cecilia's happy lifepresent to the life of her friend! Who, in Emily's position, could haveread that joyously-written letter from Switzerland, and not have lostheart and faith, for the moment at least, as the inevitable result?

  A buoyant temperament is of all moral qualities the most precious, inthis respect; it is the one force in us--when virtuous resolution provesinsufficient--which resists by instinct the stealthy approaches ofdespair. "I shall only cry," Emily thought, "if I stay at home; bettergo out."

  Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, can hardlyhave failed to notice the number of solitary strangers sadly endeavoringto vary their lives by taking a walk. They linger about the flower-beds;they sit for hours on the benches; they look with patient curiosity atother people who have companions; they notice ladies on horseback andchildren at play, with submissive interest; some of the men find companyin a pipe, without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find asubstitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpled scrapsof paper; they are not sociable; they are hardly ever seen to makeacquaintance with each other; perhaps they are shame-faced, or proud, orsullen; perhaps they despair of others, being accustomed to despairof themselves; perhaps they have their reasons for never venturing toencounter curiosity, or their vices which dread detection, or theirvirtues which suffer hardship with the resignation that is sufficientfor itself. The one thing certain is, that these unfortunate peopleresist discovery. We know that they are strangers in London--and we knowno more.

  And Emily was one of them.

  Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks, there appeared latterlya trim little figure in black (with the face protected from noticebehind a crape veil), which was beginning to be familiar, day afterday, to nursemaids and children, and to rouse curiosity among harmlesssolitaries meditating on benches, and idle vagabonds strolling over thegrass. The woman-servant, whom the considerate doctor had provided, wasthe one person in Emily's absence left to take care of the house. Therewas no other creature who could be a companion to the friendless girl.Mrs. Ellmother had never shown herself again since the funeral. Mrs.Mosey could not forget that she had been (no matter how politely)requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say, "Let us go out for awalk?" She had communicated the news of her aunt's death to Miss Ladd,at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. The worthy schoolmistress hadwritten to her with the truest kindness. "Choose your own time, my poorchild, and come and stay with me at Brighton; the sooner the better."Emily shrank--not from accepting the invitation--but from encounteringFrancine. The hard West Indian heiress looked harder than ever witha pen in her hand. Her letter announced that she was "getting onwretchedly with her studies (which she hated); she found the mastersappointed to instruct her ugly and disagreeable (and loathed the sightof them); she had taken a dislike to Miss Ladd (and time only confirmedthat unfavorable impression); Brighton was always the same; the seawas always the same; the drives were always the same. Francine felt apresentiment that she should do something desperate, unless Emily joinedher, and made Brighton endurable behind the horrid schoolmistress'sback." Solitude in London was a privilege and a pleasure, viewed as thealternative to such companionship as this.

  Emily wrote gratefully to Miss Ladd, and asked to be excused.

  Other days had passed drearily since that time; but the one day that hadbrought with it Cecilia's letter set past happiness and present sorrowtogether so vividly and so cruelly that Emily's courage sank. She hadforced back the tears, in her lonely home; she had gone out to seekconsolation and encouragement under the sunny sky--to find comfort forher sore heart in the radiant summer beauty of flowers and grass, inthe sweet breathing of the air, in the happy heavenward soaring of thebirds. No! Mother Nature is stepmother to the sick at heart. Soon,too soon, she could hardly see where she went. Again and again sheresolutely cleared her eyes, under the shelter of her veil, when passingstrangers noticed her; and again and again the tears found their wayback. Oh, if the girls at the school were to see her now--the girlswho used to say in their moments of sadness, "Let us go to Emily and becheered"--would they know her again? She sat down to rest and recoverherself on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied. No passing footstepswere audible on the remote path to which she had strayed. Solitude athome! Solitude in the Park! Where was Cecilia at that moment? InItaly, among the lakes and mountains, happy in the company of herlight-hearted friend.

  The lonely interval passed, and persons came near. Two sisters, girlslike herself, stopped to rest on the bench.

  They were full of their own interests; they hardly looked at thestranger in mourning garments. The younger sister was to be married, andthe elder was to be bridesmaid. They talked of their dresses and theirpresents; they compared the dashing bridegroom of one with the timidlover of the other; they laughed over their own small sallies of wit,over their joyous dreams of the future, over their opinions of theguests invited to the wedding. Too joyfully restless to remain inactiveany longer, they jumped up again from the seat. One of them said,"Polly, I'm too happy!" and danced as she walked away. The othercried, "Sally, for shame!" and laughed, as if she had hit on the mostirresistible joke that ever was made.

  Emily rose and went home.

  By some mysterious influence which she was unable to trace, theboisterous merriment of the two girls had roused in her a sense ofrevolt against the life that she was leading. Change, speedy change, tosome occupation that would force her to exert herself, presented theone promise of brighter days that she could see. To feel this was to beinevitably reminded of Sir Jervis Redwood. Here was a man, who had neverseen her, transformed by the incomprehensible operation of Chance intothe friend of whom she stood in need--the friend who pointed the way toa new world of action, the busy world of readers in the library of theMuseum.

  Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir Jervis's proposal, andhad so interested the bookseller to whom she had been directed to apply,that he took it on himself to modify the arbitrary instructions of hisemployer.

  "The old gentleman has no mercy on himself, and no mercy on others,"he explained, "where his literary labors are concerned. You must spareyourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it's cruel, to expect youto ransack old newspapers for discoveries in Yucatan, from the time whenStephens published his 'Travels in Central America'--nearly forty yearssince! Begin with back numbers published within a few years--say fiveyears from the present date--and let us see what your search over thatinterval will bring forth."

  Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began with the newspaper-volumedating from New Year's Day, 1876.

  The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense of gratitudewith which she remembered the bookseller's kindness. To keep herattention steadily fixed on the one subject that interested heremployer, and to resist the temptation to read those miscellaneous itemsof news which especially interest women, put her patience and resolutionto a merciless test. Happily for herself, her neighbors on either sidewere no idlers. To see them so absorbed over their work that they neveronce looked at her, after the first moment when she took her placebetween them, was to find exactly the example of which she stood most inneed. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary way, down one columnand up another, resigned at least (if not quite reconciled yet) to hertask. Her labors ended, for the day, with such encouragement as shemight derive from the conviction of having, thus far, honestly pursued auseless search.

  News was waiting for her when she reached home, which raised her sinkingspirits.

  On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certain instructions,relating to the modest stranger who had taken charge of hercorrespondence--in case of his paying a second visit, during her absenceat the Museum. The first words spoken by the servant, on opening thedoor, informed her that the unknown gentlema
n had called again. Thistime he had boldly left his card. There was the welcome name that shehad expected to see--Alban Morris.