He went slowly. He felt truly that the sight of her mother so prostrate with grief would be the last drop in the girl’s cup of sorrow, and once again he felt his whole being go out in one despairing, eager desire to stand between Polly and all grief.
As he mounted the stairs slowly he heard a slight noise ahead of him, and looking upward he saw her standing at the top of the stairs.
Valentine could not have told how it was that he divined what news she had to give. He knew nothing definitely but that he stood beside her, holding her two small, cold hands in his.
Polly’s eyes were dry, but her voice was as hoarse as though she had shed innumerable tears.
“It came so softly—the end,” she said, speaking slowly and with difficulty. “There seemed to be no pain—only just one long, deep sigh, and then another—and then—silence. I waited half an hour, thinking it might be sleep, then I bent over him, and saw that he was indeed asleep, and that he will never waken here again.”
Valentine pressed the trembling fingers in his. It was the first time in his life that tears had shut out his sight. He conquered his feelings with difficulty as he led her down the stairs.
“Your mother is here; she has need of you,” he said. It was the only thing he could say.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE PORTRAIT PAINTER.
Sacha found his quarters up at Sunstead exceedingly pleasant. For some reason or other Christina deigned to be most gracious to the young man.
Sacha, of course, had his own theory in connection with this graciousness. Few women had aught but smiles for him, and Christina, though beautiful, was, after all, only an ordinary woman. It was the most natural thing in the world, he opined, that Lady Wentworth should find pleasure in his society. Mark could scarcely be called an amusing companion, whereas he, in his turn, apart from being attractive, had more than a fair share of brains.