Chapter XXIV: At the Moment of Victory

“It is very strange Polly should go away when I am here.”

Christina made this remark at least a dozen times in the day following Polly’s departure.

It was a wet day, as we know, and Christina was exceedingly bored in her old home.

She sat expecting Valentine all the afternoon, and as dinner drew near and he had not come, she got cross as well as bored, and she fell back upon Polly as a vent for her ill temper.

Poor Mrs. Pennington, who had felt the void in her life the very hour of Polly’s leaving her, said all that was in her heart for her youngest girl; but the mother’s tender recognition of Polly’s love did not impress Christina.

“After all, there is nothing to make a fuss about,” she said to herself. “Polly has to look after mother, whether she likes it or not. It is her duty.”

It was obviously Christina’s duty also, but she made no haste to fulfill it. She lived her own way entirely; her mother was quietly uncomfortable, and she herself was most uncomfortable.

“I shall have to go to a hotel,” she said, irritably, to herself, as a second day dragged its weary length to a close. She did not understand why Valentine did not come. He had gone to Dynechester, she knew that; but he had said he should only be in Dynechester a day, and still he did not come or write.

There was absolutely nothing to amuse Lady Wentworth.

She might have gone to see her sister, Mrs. Kestridge; but Chrissie and Winnie had never been friends, and Chrissie felt that under existing circumstances, she would find little satisfaction in meeting Hubert Kestridge’s wife.

Winnie carefully refrained from visiting her mother’s house, now that her husband had left her for his tour abroad. She was not much moved by what her mother might or might not say; but she had no desire to meet Polly just then, for Winifred’s jealousy of Polly had become a mania, and the very fact of Hubert’s departure, of all the nasty things she had said, made this jealousy deeper.

Later on the afternoon of this second day Lady Wentworth drove to call upon Miss Ambleton. She was relieved to hear that Grace was out, and she asked for Mr. Ambleton, and Sacha came down.

Sacha had an air of latent mischief about him.

“Is it Valentine you want, or myself?” he asked.

“I want to speak to your brother,” Christina said, a little coldly. She was beginning to dislike Sacha.

“Ah!” said Sacha. “How unfortunate, you have just missed him; but, I believe, if you drive back to your mother’s house you may find him. I know he was going there. Shall I tell the man to take you straight home again?”

“If you please,” said Christina, stiffly. “I shall not encourage many visits from Sacha,” she said to herself, as her cab rolled homeward again.

She was, of course, thinking of the future, of those days when she would be queen again at Sunstead—queen this time, with a real king.

There never came even the shadow of a doubt across her mind as to the fulfillment of this dream.

Valentine’s changed attitude with her since her widowhood was too marked to permit of a doubt, and Christina chafed inwardly at the long months of regulation mourning which must, of course, ensue before Valentine would speak to her, and tell her of his love.

She found that Sacha had been rightly informed, and that Valentine was with her mother when she arrived.

She went to join them with her sweetest, most pathetic look.

Mrs. Pennington and Valentine were sitting hand in hand as she entered, nor did they change their position at her coming.

Christina stood in the doorway, and paused a moment. There was a wild beating at her heart; though she had built on a triumph, she had not tasted the sweetness of this triumph till now. Here, in this very room, where he had flung scorn and hard words at her, he would kneel at her feet, her slave and her lover, for Christina, looking at him, and reading the new and radiant expression on his face, never hesitated to set down this change in him to the fact that he had unburdened his heart to her mother, and they had been talking over his happiness together when she should be his wife.

Mrs. Pennington saw Christina first.

“Chrissie, dear, you have come at a good moment. Mr. Ambleton—Val, has brought me very sweet news. It is the happiest news I have had for many a day.”

Valentine rose and was looking at Christina, and as their eyes met the woman’s brows contracted faintly.

“Do I share in this good news?” she asked, and her mother answered warmly:

“We all share, for are we not all one? Valentine, will you not tell Chrissie your news yourself?”

“I believe,” Valentine said, simply and rather shyly—“I believe Lady Wentworth must know it already. I fancy all the world must have seen how dear your little girl has grown to me.” He paused, and Christina’s heart beat on furiously, but this time there was no melody in the beat, nothing but hot, miserable anger. Then Valentine went on, hurriedly. “I love your sister, Polly, Lady Wentworth, and I am happy to tell you she consents to be my wife.”

Christina’s lips were very thin. For an instant she could not speak, then she turned and left the room.

“I congratulate you both,” she said, as she went, but her tone was so cold, so strangely hard, that her mother looked pained.

“Poor Chrissie,” she said, wistfully, “she does not mean to be cold; but her sorrow is so new—too new, perhaps, to let her find happiness anywhere.”

Valentine stooped and kissed the speaker.

She was Polly’s precious mother, and as such she was precious to him; but, in truth, he had long ago given a large share of his respect and love to gentle, patient and sad Mrs. Pennington.

* * * * *

“I was sure you loved Christina,” Polly had said, when she had answered his one big question with one small affirmative word.

“And I have been torturing myself because I was equally sure you loved Kestridge.”

Polly had colored in the darkness.

“Shall I confess to you that I was very, very nearly doing this?”

“Did you not do it altogether?” Valentine queried, jealously.

Polly shook her head.

“No; not altogether, dear,” she answered him, and he was satisfied. When he went down after his interview with Mrs. Pennington he found Grace ensconced beside Polly, who, much against her will, was stretched out on a couch.

“Oh! Valentine, thank you! thank you!” Grace said, as she kissed him. “I have always longed for a sister, and Polly is just the sister I should have chosen.”

Valentine knelt down beside his little sweetheart’s couch.

“And I have to thank you for a mother. Polly, all is done as you desired it, and your mother’s home is with us henceforward at Sunstead. We will choose her the largest and brightest room, and Grace shall share with us in her happiness.”

“I like you,” Polly said, suddenly, as Grace had discreetly retired. She buried her face on his rough coat. “I like you very much!”

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.