A CHANGED HOUSE.
Valentine took upon himself to question Polly closely about her future
in the days that followed on poor Harold’s funeral.
“It is surely unwise to remain on in this big house all by yourselves,
is it not?” he observed one day, when Polly had told him her plans.
It was his last day in town. Though it would cost him a great deal he
was obliged to return to Dynechester.
“We must. We have nowhere else to go,” was Polly’s reply.
Val curbed the rush of words that would willingly have escaped his lips.
“Why not try to let or sell the house? It is so well situated you would
be sure to get rid of it, Miss Polly.”
Polly was obstinate, of course.
“I don’t mean to try, Mr. Ambleton. Mother loves this old house, and
she has so little left to her.”
“It seems so sad, so desolate,” Valentine said, gently. “I only thought
a brighter place might be better for you both.”
The house did, indeed, seem chilly and gloomy after his own bright
home. There was so much that was old and shabby in it. It seemed to him
a grave of hopes and joys, the last spot in the world to restore this
girl’s happy youth, and keep the courage in her brave heart.
“It is changed—oh! so changed!” Polly said, and there were tears in
her eyes and in her voice. “Only a year ago we were all together,
and things were bright enough then, even though poor daddy was just
beginning to speak of trouble coming. Now he is dead, and poor Harold
has gone, and Christina and Winnie are more lost to us than if they
were dead, too. Yet we don’t want to leave the old home, Mr. Ambleton;
indeed, we don’t.”
“But what will you do here? What life will you lead?” asked Valentine,
reluctant to cede his point.
“I want to be busy, and that is my difficulty,” Polly confessed.
“Sometimes I think I will start a school, and sometimes I wonder if
we could make money with a boarding house. Oh!” the girl said, with a
flash of her old self—“oh! I can see disapproval and doubt written in
every line of your face. Your sister would be much more sympathetic. I
wish you were more like your sister!”
“Do you find me unsympathetic?” Valentine asked, simply enough.
He was not conscious himself of the hurt tone in his voice.
Polly did not look at him as she said quite curtly:
“Very!” Then by way of mending things, she added: “You can’t help
yourself, you know. It’s your nature. You are so big, and big people
are never sympathetic.”
Val smiled faintly.
“According to you, Miss Polly, it’s rather a bad matter to be a big
person. I remember once you informed me that big people were always
conceited.”
Polly amended this.
“I did not say all big people,” she remarked.
“I appreciate your discrimination,” Valentine said, and with that he
rose to take his departure. “I feel I have no right to have touched on
these intimate questions,” he added. “Please forgive me. No doubt your
ideas about the house are far better than any I could suggest.”
“I think they are,” Polly answered him, evenly. “You see, I have gone
over the matter so thoroughly, and I am, on the whole, a practical
person.”
“A tantalizing one!” Val might have said in place of this, but though
he was conscious of being pricked by her little, indifferent ways, and
though he longed to stand beside her and just quietly annex all her
troubles, he determined to accept the fact that this was something that
could never be, that he was nothing to Polly beyond a pleasant and
kind acquaintance, and with as much philosophy as was possible, he,
therefore, abstained wholly from leading the conversation to the point
dearest to his wishes.
To introduce the subject of his feelings toward her, to speak of what
was buried in his heart, was out of the question, when she showed him
so plainly that she loved to guard her independence, and had, as a
matter of fact, not too flattering an opinion about him.
It was evident to Valentine that although Polly had seemingly become
his friend and the friend of Grace, and although she was most truly
grateful to him for all he had done during the recent sad time, the
girl had never completely forgiven him for the part he had played that
bygone day, and that however kind she might seem to be, in reality she
had hardened her heart against him now and in the future.
Valentine was very human, and the thought of this definite barrier to
this chance of happiness, hurt him sharply.
Nevertheless, he allowed Polly’s autocratic little will to set him
aside as though he had been a pigmy, and he started on the task of
burying his hopes before they had crept beyond the confines of a dream.
He went back to Dynechester in a subdued mood.
He thought incessantly of that big, gloomy house, and of Polly’s thin
face and form, and her wonderful eyes. He did not doubt her spirit,
but her physique was very fragile. How would she bear with the brunt
of life’s warfare? Would the future dim the beauty of her heart as it
stole the color from her lips and eyes? Or would some other win the
right to stand as far as earthly power could go between her and all ill?
Such a question was one that formed itself naturally in the man’s mind,
for it did not seem to him possible that so fair and sweet a creature
as Polly, could be destined to wear out her life in loneliness and the
grind and care of poverty.
One thing seemed fairly certain, however, and that was that he was not
destined to find his own happiness in her, or lead her to hers through
himself.
Could he but have glanced into Polly’s heart at the same time that he
was telling himself this unpleasant truth, Valentine might have been
pardoned if he had instantly changed his views.
Polly had parted with him calmly enough, but once he had gone, she made
her way to a corner of the drawing room and gave way to tears, not a
violent flood of tears, but a quiet fit of weeping, that wearied rather
than eased the heart.
She felt all at once the loneliness of their position.
Till now Valentine had done everything his heart could suggest, holding
himself in readiness to serve the smallest wish of her mother or
herself. Indeed, Polly confessed to herself that without the help and
comfort of his presence, she would have been unable to deal with the
sad and difficult circumstances through which they had just passed.
But she had been strangely chary of letting him know this, and she had
held herself aloof from him in a manner that could not possibly be
misconstrued.
She had ardently desired that there should be no misconstruction.
Polly had as keen a mental vision as any woman living, and she had not
been able to shut her eyes to the fact that Valentine was drifting out
of mere acquaintanceship with her into the deep and troublous waters
of a strong feeling, and it was to stem this current altogether that
she adopted an attitude of indifference, even coldness, toward him.
And it cost her a great deal to do this, for Polly was the most
grateful little creature in the world, and it was not possible for her
to be aught but truly grateful to Valentine for all his tender thought
and goodness.
She had, however, arranged definite plans in her mind as to her own
future, and the chief of these same plans was one that determined she
would never again allow herself to care for anybody very dearly. Her
mother apart, Polly resolved she would live henceforward independent of
any affection.
She had passed through such sharp suffering in the year that had gone
that this resolution was but the natural sequence of this suffering.
Though she had meted out the strongest share of blame to Winnie, she
could not but feel that the marriage between Winnie and Hubert would
never have been carried through had not the man been exceedingly
weak, and Polly, much as she had learned to care for Hubert, honestly
despised a weak man.
And since Hubert had failed so signally, Polly saw no reason why others
should not fail, too, and as she did not want to court any more sharp
disappointments, she armed herself stoutly against all growth of tender
feeling for other people.
Even with Grace Ambleton she had restrained herself; but with Val she
determined there should be no half measures, and she demonstrated her
success to herself by shedding many bitter tears over him when he was
gone.
“But I won’t let myself care for him! I won’t—I won’t!” she said,
doggedly, as she wiped away her tears. “He will be just like all the
rest. Why should he be any better? They all seemed so nice in the
beginning, and he is very nice now, but as soon as ever I let myself
feel I care for him, I know he will turn round and do something
horrible! Besides, I want to feel I am strong enough to do everything
for mother by myself.”
It was a poor sort of consolation, nevertheless, to rely on this pride
in the days that followed.
Polly’s task was a weighty one, and everything seemed more impossible
and hopeless since poor Harold’s death, for with this death the iron
of despair seemed to have eaten into the bereaved mother’s heart, and
Polly caught some of this despair.
Time wound itself along slowly enough, and when the world was beginning
to deck itself in its summer clothing, Hubert Kestridge and his wife
came back to London.
They took up their abode in a smart hotel, as far removed from Winnie’s
old home as possible.
The man had suggested offering to rent some rooms in that big, empty
house, but Winnie Kestridge was far more selfish and far-seeing even
than Winnie Pennington had been. She vetoed this idea at once, and
Hubert had not pressed it. In truth, it would have been a great ordeal
to him to have lived under the same roof as Polly. He dreaded, yet
longed to see her again.
After some months of close companionship with Winnie, his thoughts of
Polly were something exquisitely sweet and sympathetic, and very, very
sad. He was careful never to mention her name to his wife, for on no
subject was Mrs. Kestridge more bitter, and disagreeable, than on the
subject of her youngest sister.
When, however, they had come to London, Hubert had thought instantly of
how he could best serve the girl whose love and devotion for her mother
set her so far apart from and above her sisters. To offer to aid Mrs.
Pennington, much though she needed it, was something he knew Polly
would never support, but there were other means of being useful, and
his plan of sharing the house had been one of these others.
“Do you want us to die of the doldrums?” Winnie asked, fretfully. “You
don’t know how I hate that dingy old house. I suppose I must go there
to see my mother, otherwise, I assure you, I would not set foot inside
its door again. I hope,” Mrs. Kestridge added, earnestly, “that mother
will not cry or make a scene about Harold. Of course, it was awfully
sad, but, then, everybody knew he was as delicate as he could be, and
live. Mother ought to have been prepared for his death.”
She did not hurry to pay this visit. She had so many clothes to buy,
and furniture to order for her house in Ireland, but eventually she did
so, and her husband let her go alone, a fact which served to irritate
Winnie exceedingly.