Gulliver of Mars, Edwin Lester Linden Arnold [read full novel txt] 📗

“Oh no, Mrs. Brown,” said one, which I recognised at once as my Polly’s, “he is dead for certain, and my heart is breaking. He would never, never have left me so long without writing if he had been alive,” and then came a great sound of sobbing.

“Bless your kind heart, miss,” said the voice of my landlady in reply, “but you don’t know as much about young gentlemen as I do. It is not likely, if he has gone off on the razzle-dazzle, as I am sure he has, he is going to write every post and tell you about it. Now you go off to your ma at the hotel like a dear, and forget all about him till he comes back—that’s MY advice.”

“I cannot, I cannot, Mrs. Brown. I cannot rest by day or sleep by night for thinking of him; for wondering why he went away so suddenly, and for hungering for news of him. Oh, I am miserable. Gully! Gully! Come to me,” and then there were sounds of troubled footsteps pacing to and fro and of a woman’s grief.

That was more than I could stand. I flung the door open, and, dirty, dishevelled, with unsteady steps, advanced into the room.

“Ahem!” coughed Mrs. Brown, “just as I expected!”

But I had no eyes for her. “Polly! Polly!” I cried, and that dear girl, after a startled scream and a glance to make sure it was indeed the recovered prodigal, rushed over and threw all her weight of dear, warm, comfortable womanhood into my arms, and the moment after burst into a passion of happy tears down my collar.

“Humph!” quoth the landlady, “that is not what BROWN gets when he forgets his self. No, not by any means.”

But she was a good old soul at heart, and, seeing how matters stood, with a parting glance of scorn in my direction and a toss of her head, went out of the room, and closed the door behind her.

Need I tell in detail what followed? Polly behaved like an angel, and when in answer to her gentle reproaches I told her the outlines of my marvellous story she almost believed me! Over there on the writing-desk lay a whole row of the unopened letters she had showered upon me during my absence, and amongst them an official one. We went and opened it together, and it was an intimation of my promotion, a much better “step” than I had ever dared to hope for.

Holding that missive in my hand a thought suddenly occurred to me.

“Polly dear, this letter makes me able to maintain you as you ought to be maintained, and there is still a fortnight of vacation for me. Polly, will you marry me tomorrow?”

“No, certainly not, sir.”

“Then will you marry me on Monday?”

“Do you truly, truly want me to?”

“Truly, truly.”

“Then, yes,” and the dear girl again came blushing into my arms.

While we were thus the door opened, and in came her parents who were staying at a neighbouring hotel while inquiries were made as to my mysterious absence. Not unnaturally my appearance went a long way to confirm suspicions such as Mrs. Brown had confessed to, and, after they had given me cold salutations, Polly’s mother, fixing gold glasses on the bridge of her nose and eyeing me haughtily therefrom, observed,

“And now that you ARE safely at home again, Lieutenant Gulliver Jones, I think I will take my daughter away with me. Tomorrow her father will ascertain the true state of her feelings after this unpleasant experience, and subsequently he will no doubt communicate with you on the subject.” This very icily.

But I was too happy to be lightly put down.

“My dear madam,” I replied, “I am happy to be able to save her father that trouble. I have already communicated with this young lady as to the state of her feelings, and as an outcome I am delighted to be able to tell you we are to be married on Monday.”

“Oh yes, Mother, it is true, and if you do not want to make me the most miserable of girls again you will not be unkind to us.”

In brief, that sweet champion spoke so prettily and smoothed things so cleverly that I was “forgiven,” and later on in the evening allowed to escort Polly back to her hotel.

“And oh!” she said, in her charmingly enthusiastic way when we were saying goodnight, “you shall write a book about that extraordinary story you told me just now. Only you must promise me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“To leave out all about Heru—I don’t like that part at all.” This with the prettiest little pout.

“But, Polly dear, see how important she was to the narrative. I cannot quite do that.”

“Then you will say as little as you can about her?”

“No more than the story compels me to.”

“And you are quite sure you like me much the best, and will not go after her again?”

“Quite sure.”

The compact was sealed in the most approved fashion; and here, indulgent reader, is the artless narrative that resulted—an incident so incredible in this prosaic latter-day world that I dare not ask you to believe, and must humbly content myself with hoping that if I fail to convince yet I may at least claim the consolation of having amused you.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Gulliver of Mars by Edwin L. Arnold