Chapter XX: 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.