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.