“There shall be no investigation,” she said, in a choked, angry voice, “I am Mark Wentworth’s promised wife, and I shall marry him whatever his cousin may say against him. I have known of your mischief-making propensities, and I have been warned against you,” she said passionately, looking directly into the man’s eyes. “It is well understood by now how jealous you are of Mark’s position, and how you hate him—how you have always hated him. It was a clever trick to come here and try to work harm with me, but you have failed, Mr. Ambleton, you have failed absolutely. My parents have no power to urge or control me. I am twenty-four years of age, and permit no one to interfere in my life. My word is pledged to Mark Wentworth, and I shall be his wife.”
Valentine Ambleton heard these bitter words to the end. Polly, obeying her mother, had crept toward the door, but Chrissie had spoken so quickly, all was said before the girl could pass out.
She paused with fast beating heart to look back at the little scene, at her mother’s anguished face and Chrissie’s hard, stony one, and as her sister ceased speaking, she saw a wave of pity mingle with the contempt expressed on Valentine Ambleton’s face, and his earnestly spoken, low-voiced response caught her ears.
“Then may God help you!” he said, and Polly paused no more, but shut the door after her, and ran hurriedly up the stairs to her own room.
She caught the sound of the big hall door close with a sharp bang as she reached the corner that was her only place of retreat.
She realized, as she sat down in a chair, that her heart was beating painfully, and that her limbs seemed suddenly feeble and useless.
Christina’s voice, Christina’s words, and her mother’s white, hopeless misery kept a tragedy alive in her heart.
She felt as if some cruel thing had come suddenly upon her, cutting her apart forever from the old sunny life of her childhood. For Polly had looked on a truth, she had seen into her dearly loved sister’s heart, and she had recoiled in her young innocence from the story she saw written there. How often, oh! how often only this very morning she had stood her ground manfully, and fought Winifred’s cold, quiet attacks on Chrissie’s nature.
“You think her an angel,” Winifred had said, barely two hours before. “Well, think it if you like, but I cannot be expected to be so silly. Chrissie is just as selfish as she is pretty. Do you know that she had fifty pounds this morning from Grandmother Pennington, and do you suppose she will offer to share one of those fifty pounds with us?” Winifred had laughed quietly. “She will put it away in a box or spend it on her own back. Oh! Chrissie is no angel, I can tell you!”
“She is my darling sister, and I love her,” had been Polly’s only argument. “I don’t know anything about any fifty pounds, but I do know that if Chrissie ever dreams we want anything she will give it to us at once.”