me of some rare tropical shell with its delicate pink and white tints. I took it in my own, saying, bashfully:
“Charlie is my name, and you,—you are my new sister. Am I right?”
“No,—all my brothers and sisters are dead, and you are to be my cousin Charlie, and I am your cousin Mary, or Polly, as papa used to call me. You may call me which name you like.”
“Cousin Polly, then—I am very glad to see you at Haughton Tower, and I hope you will be happy, but I fear you will find it dull.”
“Don’t be afraid about me, I am never dull when people are kind, and among these beautiful woods, and in this garden with its lovely flowers, how could any one be dull, cousin? I am so fond of blue flowers,—what is the name of this one, with its long clusters of blue helmets? Are they not just like helmets?”
“We sometimes call it Juno’s chariot. See! when I pull away this petal, it is exactly like a fairy chariot drawn by two swans.”
“Oh, how pretty! What a pity it is that it has no scent.”
“Very few poisonous plants have any agreeable perfume, Cousin Polly, and that flower has another name,—Monkshood, and it contains a deadly poison.”
“How dreadful; but this other pretty blue blossom, with the golden heart, I am sure that is harmless—is it not?”
“Wrong again, Polly, that one is more hurtful than the other, and is known by scarcely any other name than the Deadly Nightshade.”
She trembled from head to foot, and threw away the little bunch, saying:
“Surely, cousin, your English flowers are not all poisonous?”
“Oh dear no, Cousin Polly; come with me, and I will soon gather you some that won’t shock you.”
We seemed to be on friendly terms at once, and wandered about for a considerable time among the gardens and shrubberies, which were very extensive. She was rather difficult to please, but some wild hare-bells and forget-me-nots, together with a moss-rose, pleased her extremely. We were still strolling about when we heard the dinner-bell sound from the house.
“Oh dear me, Cousin Charlie, what have I been thinking about! Uncle told me to come out and try to find you, and to bring you back immediately. What will he say?—will he be angry?”
“It’s quite plain, Polly, that you don’t know Uncle Mark. He will only be too glad to see us. I am the most to blame, for I am sure he is anxious to see me, and in the search for your flowers I quite forgot all about him. Let us go back to the house at once.”
I remember that, at that time, I thought the trembling fit which came over her, when I pointed out the baneful nature of Monkshood and Nightshade, showed an amount of nervous susceptibility belied by her self-possession. But when I learned afterwards that her poor father, Major Maurice, had put an end to himself by poison, it seemed perfectly to explain her emotion.
My uncle was delighted to see me, and especially to find that Mary and I were such good friends. He seemed never tired of gazing at the black-eyed little girl. I fancy that he saw in her features some traces of her whom he had loved,—long ago.
She was not more than twelve or thirteen years of age, but knowing that she was the only “lady” in the establishment, she soon began to assume quite a matronly air. It was amusing to see the dignified air with which she took the head of the table at breakfast and tea-time, besides superintending the housekeeping, in her little way. Uncle Mark always treated her as if she were grown up,—listened to her with deference, and resigned his bunch of keys to her with an air at once of courtesy and pleasure.
Her presence produced a delightful pleasure for both of us, especially for me, who had never mingled in any female society. It was pleasant to listen to her musical voice while detailing her reminiscences of Calcutta and the East,—of strange tropical trees and flowers, and of the dusky Bengalese. Then, again, she would tell us of her passage to England, and of the ideas she had formed of her new home, of Uncle Mark, and myself.
We got at last into a regular routine, and it seemed as if Cousin Polly had always been with us, and that we could not do without her.
Some months elapsed before Uncle Mark explained why he had been detained so long in London. He had been making arrangements for Mary Maurice’s education. A governess had been engaged, who would soon arrive, and there was an excellent school at the neighbouring town of Hetherington, where she could go for other masters. My Uncle had also taken into account that since I had been so long at home, it was time that I went out and saw a little of the world. Full of these thoughts he had fortunately met with an old college acquaintance who was desirous of going on the continent for a year or two, and anxious to get a pupil to accompany him. The two friends soon came to terms, and I now learned that, in a fortnight’s time, I was expected at the house of my uncle’s acquaintance—the Rev. Mr. Ellis—in London.
I was delighted with the news, and hardly knew how to control my excitement. Cousin Polly could not make it out at all. She could not see anything, she said, to be so pleased about. Surely I was happy where I was. And then she opened her large dark eyes and looked with a strange wistful gaze at me.
In due time I left Haughton Tower, and joined Mr. Ellis in London. I was amazed and positively enchanted with the town, never having seen any large town before, and, after a month’s pleasant sojourn, we started for Paris, and from thence we went, by way of Brussels, up the Rhine, and from there into Italy.
We remained on the continent for two years, during which time I contrived to learn that England was not the whole world, and the hard angles of my character were knocked off. I heard regularly from my uncle, and sometimes I got a short note from Cousin Polly.
