CHRISTINA’S TRICKS.
Polly Pennington was standing looking out on the falling rain.
The girl’s face wore its habitual expression of sorrow and anxiety, but
there was some deeper emotion than usual written in her eyes.
Behind her, in a large easy-chair, sat her mother, and Mrs.
Pennington’s worn face had a flush on it, a flush and a look that was
akin to anger.
“I confess I do not understand you, Polly,” she was saying, and her
tone was fretful in the extreme. “No one has been more severe than
you have been on the faults of others. When you have been so pleased,
you have accused your sisters of great lack of consideration, of
selfishness and many other disagreeable things; and now, when it is
your turn to act differently, you take an attitude which I am sure
neither Christina nor Winifred would have adopted. I am both surprised
and hurt with you!”
Tears came creeping up to Polly’s large eyes, blotting out the scene
from the window.
She said nothing, and after an imperceptible pause, her mother went on
speaking.
“It is quite the best and most natural thing in the world that your
widowed sister should desire to come to her old home in this her hour
of trouble. There can be no argument to urge against this.”
Polly frowned.
Of all things in the world she hated hypocrisy and crooked dealing, and
with the full knowledge of Christina’s character now given her, she
could not but feel that some ulterior reason lay behind her sister’s
desire to share her mother’s home for a time.
Polly did not want to think cruel thoughts of anyone, but she was not
quite impressed with Christina’s attitude of woe for her lost husband.
It was true she had never met poor Mark Wentworth, never seen Christina
and he together; she was forced to judge her sister by what her
instinct warned her was false.
There was a superficial ring altogether about Christina’s sorrow; her
widow’s weeds were too smart, everything about her was too pretty.
There could not be real lamentation, the girl told herself not
scornfully but regretfully, when the question of dress and appearance
was so paramount. Besides, in some of her quiet moments with Grace,
Polly had introduced the subject of Christina’s married life, and had
quickly grasped from what Grace left unsaid the sort of union it had
been.
All this, however, had belonged to Christina, and Polly told herself
quite frankly that if her sister chose to wear pretty garments and pose
as a beautiful object of pity, that was her sister’s business and not
her own; but when Christina suddenly, and for some reason unspoken,
proposed to quit her luxurious rooms in a fashionable hotel to take up
her place in her mother’s house, Polly may be forgiven if she felt both
annoyed and doubtful.
What was there in the shabby old house and the straightened
circumstances to draw Christina back to what had once been her home?
Polly was not vain enough to imagine that she could be an attraction,
while for her mother, Lady Wentworth had never shown even ordinary
consideration or courtesy since her marriage, and Polly felt
sorrowfully it was not love for this troubled mother that urged her to
return now.
There was something in the matter that Polly could not understand, and
yet that jarred her.
Her mother had welcomed the suggestion with delight. It was an
unexpected gleam of happiness to her, this thought that her eldest born
should, after all, have evinced a desire to be with her, and for the
first time since they had been alone together she found occasion to be
very sharp, even angry with Polly.
To her mother’s heart, Christina’s wish was most natural, and Polly’s
plainly spoken objection to Christina’s coming upset her altogether.
Polly bore patiently with her mother’s anger; it was a little hurtful
to her to find once again how easily this mother turned to other
influences for pleasure and solace, but Polly forgave the hurt because
she knew the worth of her simple, true-hearted mother’s love, not
merely for herself, but for all belonging to her.
When she saw that her annoyance was giving her mother cause for
uneasiness, she tried to put it on one side.
“I am a nasty, remembering sort of individual, you know, love,” she
said, falling into her old way, so as to carry things off more lightly,
“and you are a sweet, forgiving one; there is all the difference
between us! Since it is your pleasure that Christina should come here
as she suggests, let her come. The house is big enough to hold even her
boxes, and she can have her old room. I will write to her, if you wish,
to-night.”
Mrs. Pennington’s face lost its irritation and grew placid and gentle
again.
“Thank you, Polly, dear,” she said. “You always do what I want. It
makes me so happy to have my poor Christina here just now. You must
see, dear, that I could not refuse to do what she asks. I am her
mother, remember.”
“Yes, darling, you are her mother,” Polly answered; to herself she
added bitterly; “The mother she has neglected and forgotten for this
long year.” But never for an instant, she now determined, should any
harsh or bitter word cross her lips.
It was a whole fortnight since Christina had journeyed from Dynechester
to London to learn she was a widow. It had been by no means an
unpleasant fortnight to her.
She had left herself entirely in Valentine’s hands, and he had taken
full care of her.
He had installed her in a hotel, and summoned her maid. He saw her
every day, and was more moved than he could have told her by her quiet,
pathetic attitude.
He told Grace how sorry he was for her.
“With my usual pigheadedness I have stuck to my first opinion that she
was a worldly, hard woman; now I see how wrong I was. You cannot think
how she grieves, Grace.”
“Yes, she grieves, certainly,” Grace said.
She had much more she would have liked to say, but she did not say it.
She did not, for instance, tell Valentine that the night he had called
agitatedly for her to come and minister to Lady Wentworth as she lay
prone and, to him, senseless in his arms, she had at once seen that
neither the fainting fit nor the sorrow were real.
She would have been amused by Christina’s tricks had her heart not
ached for her dead cousin and his marred and wasted life.
Only one sharp remark did Grace make in connection with Christina, and
that was when Valentine told her of Lady Wentworth’s eager desire to go
and live with her mother for a time.
“It is as well,” was what Grace said, “is it not, that Lady Wentworth
did not move her mother and sister into our old house, as she intended
doing?”
But Valentine did not catch the irony.
“It would have made no difference,” he had answered, quite simply, “for
I should never have moved them, and Lady Wentworth could have gone
to them just the same. In fact, I think I should like you, Grace, to
propose this arrangement to Mrs. Pennington.”
But Grace drew back.
“Polly would never consent to this.”
And Valentine frowned suddenly.
Polly’s strong will seemed to come up against his at every turn. Plan
as he might for her, his plans were always upset by her in some way or
other.
“I believe Miss Pennington cares enough about her mother to submit her
own feelings to those of this mother,” he said, stiffly.
“Speaking extravagantly in a sense, and yet with truth, I believe Mary
Pennington would die for her mother. Her love is no thing of threads
and patches,” Grace said to this.
She spoke with a warmth that was akin to affection, and Valentine felt
his heart thrill at her voice and words. Almost he had put his secret
into Grace’s hands, but at this very moment Sacha interrupted them by
entering the room.
“Lady Wentworth has sent for you, Valentine,” he said, carelessly; then
he laughed. “She keeps you busy, old chap, doesn’t she?”
But Valentine was hastening from the room, and as he went, Sacha looked
at his sister.
“Grace, you must be prepared for a result to all of this.”
“All of this what, Sacha?”
“This close contact with a clever woman, an arch coquette, a woman with
strong ambition.”
Grace looked at her younger brother in a troubled fashion.
“I don’t understand,” she said, slowly. “Surely Valentine is only doing
his simple duty by looking after poor Mark’s widow.”
“A widow who will not remain a widow long, if I am any judge of things.”
“What do you mean, Sacha?” Grace asked, this time in sharp vexation.
Sacha answered by another question.
“Do you really mean to tell me you cannot see what is likely to happen?”
Grace colored hotly now.
“I don’t pretend anything, Sacha. Yes, I do understand you, but you are
quite, quite wrong. She cannot forget Mark. And you do Val a definite
wrong.”
Sacha broke into a laugh.
“My dear girl,” he said, in his wisest way, “I accuse Valentine of
nothing. Val is as honest as he is big, but despite his bigness he will
be but a cipher in miladi’s pretty hands, for he is certainly not a man
of the world, whatever else he may be. As to forgetting Mark—well, by
this time we all know the truth about this marriage. Mark cared as much
for his wife as his wife cares to remember his memory. I was in the
house with them a good deal, and I am not inventing. It was a miserable
marriage, and Lady Wentworth is quite right to try and console herself
as quickly as possible. The fact that she might remain mistress of
Sunstead is a most important factor in the working of her schemes, I
assure you.”
There was an element of spitefulness in Sacha’s speech.
He had been by no means averse to a flirtation with Christina, and his
vanity rebelled now against her determined admiration for Valentine.
He had done his best to make her uncomfortable in this matter by
insinuating little things about Valentine’s growing attachment to
Polly, but he had evidently not upset her very much.
As to Sacha himself, he had the double dissatisfaction of knowing
that while Christina’s ambition drew her toward his brother, leaving
him in the cold, Polly, whom he really admired, treated him with an
indifference passing almost beyond the limits of courtesy.
With Grace alone was Polly her own sweet, lovable self, and Grace had
fast grown to care for the girl as though she were a sister.
It was Grace who came to Polly’s rescue when Christina, having carried
the day, had been duly installed in her old home. It was impossible for
Grace to shut her eyes to the fact that Polly was not merely looking
tired and ill, but was tired, and ill also in mind and in body.
After Christina’s arrival there seemed to be no more peace or pleasure
for Polly in her home.
It had been necessary, of course, to engage another servant to wait as
much on Lady Wentworth’s smart maid as upon anybody, and despite this
extra help, Christina made large demands on everybody in the house.
Mrs. Pennington found herself trotting to and fro constantly, but this
rousing did Mrs. Pennington no harm; the harm was being done to Polly.
Grace continued her daily visits to the house just the same after
Christina’s appearance there, but both she and Mark’s widow avoided
each other as by mutual consent, and her visit was paid to Polly alone.
She always found the girl deep in household duties. The quiet life
Polly and her mother had lived together this past twelve months had
come to a complete end. Mrs. Pennington was always now with Christina,
and Polly could not grudge her this, since Christina was able to give
her mother so much that she needed.
The wonderful part of it all to Polly was the fact that Christina
should all at once evince such a desire for her mother’s companionship.
Polly was not to know what an important part her poor, simple,
unconscious and loving mother was being made to play in Christina’s
scheme of winning Valentine.
Valentine continued to pay many visits to Lady Wentworth.
There was so much in his hands to arrange for her in the winding up of
Sir Mark’s estate, and his visits were always visits of business. But
Polly did not even guess this.