“We are leaving Dynechester for a few months,” Grace wrote. “My dear Val has got it into his head that a change of scene will do me good, and I am not sure he is not right. Grannie’s death has been a great grief to me; it came at the last so suddenly, and in a sense so unexpectedly, that it gave us all a shock. For this, then, and for one or two other reasons, I shall be glad to be in London for a time, though it always costs me a pang to leave dear old Dynechester. I am anxious to have Sacha with us a little more, and to enter into his artistic life as much as is possible to me, and this will be feasible now, since we shall all three be together. And, then, there will be the pleasure of seeing your mother and yourself, I hope, very often; and this, I assure you, will be a very real pleasure. Valentine will not be able to desert Dynechester altogether, but he will make his headquarters with us in London. We shall be up now in a few days, and I shall call on you immediately.”
There could be nothing but pleasure to Polly in the thought that Val’s sister was coming nearer to them.
Those few, sad days in Grace’s home had served to draw the two girls together far more closely than ordinary circumstances could have done. Polly found her heart going out to Grace in a boundless rush of gratitude. The thought and anxiety and tenderness Grace had bestowed on both her mother and herself seemed to have been made greater and sweeter, because of Christina’s and Winnie’s curious lack of right feeling.
“Do they really belong to us?” Polly found herself doubting at times, when she thought of her sisters.
She was still young enough in her sentiments to cling to certain illusions, and she still could grieve over the loss of that beautiful faith and admiration she had lavished on Christina. For Winifred, Polly had never held such deep feelings.
She and Winnie had lived too closely together to admit of much illusion; nevertheless, love of kin was strong in Polly’s nature, and though Winnie had irritated her almost at every turn, she had never forgotten that they were sisters, and as such, bound to care for one another.
When Winnie had married Hubert Kestridge, however, not even the knowledge of this bond could prevent the younger girl from feeling bitter and contemptuous toward her sister.
The rôle Winnie had played was to Polly a despicable one. Had she ever shown the smallest trace of cherishing an affection for Hubert Kestridge things might have been different. But Polly, better than most people, knew just how much good opinion Winnie had entertained for the young man up to the time that circumstances had caused her to change her mind.
Long, long ago, when Winnie had been hardly more than a little girl, she had expressed strong views as to her ambition in the future.
“I mean to marry a title,” she had confided more than once to Polly, and Polly had laughed.