Had life glided on in its old fashion, Polly might never have had occasion to rout out her private feelings in this way, and summon up all her courage to dispose of them; but with the advent of poverty and the knowledge of real trouble, a different sort of character seemed born in Polly, and things that would have come to her naturally enough in the past were looked at very questionably now.
The friendship and affectionate sympathy of Hubert Kestridge was one of these things. Not that she doubted the honesty of the man, far from it; but that she had studied his nature too well for her own comfort now. She had always considered Hubert one of the kindest of human creatures. He had an open heart and purse for all the suffering that came in his way, and that could be alleviated.
From her aunt, alone, Polly would have gathered the depths and drifts of this man’s nature, even if she had not known him so well herself, and all things being put together, Polly had a delicate, nervous apprehension of part of the scheme that was formulating in Kestridge’s mind just now, and that was so unutterably dear to him.
“Hubert can never pass a beggar in the street. He would give the last farthing he had if it were asked of him,” the girl said to herself, with a thrill of honest pride in the man’s goodness that could not be denied, but back came the stinging side of this knowledge. “How much more will he not determine to do all in his power to help us now? Of course, I would rather be helped by Hubert than by anyone else, but I don’t see the necessity of being pitied by anybody. I am strong, and if we must be poor I will slave and slave, and give mother everything she needs by my own exertions. If we all go weeping and whining we shall be a nice, dull lot! I intend to show Hubert, and all the world,” said rebellious, angry, sore-hearted little Polly, “that I am as happy now, and as independent, as I ever was, and he and all the rest can just keep their pity for themselves!”
She was in bed when Winnie came upstairs an hour later. Polly in bed was a delightful sight. She had a trick of gathering her hair into a quaint knot on the top of her head, and when the weather was very cold she swathed herself in a little extra garment of bright red flannel, which lit up the southern coloring of her skin, and was exceedingly picturesque. In bed, too—Winnie had quietly remarked this and resented it—Polly’s very beautiful eyes had a new phase of expression; they were soft and dewy, and had an irresistible fascination in their depths. She was reading, but she put her book away with a yawn as her sister came in.
“Wasn’t Hubert odious to-night?” she queried, as she lay and watched Winnie proceed methodically to make herself ready for bed also.
Polly always enjoyed watching Winnie unplait and let loose her many braids of hair. Winnie seemed to touch this hair with a tenderness and a pride that was not wholly unreasonable.
Now, Winnie was a very clever little person, and she had not sat and watched Hubert Kestridge’s face very closely after Polly had flounced away so angrily without understanding to a great extent the full difficulties and possibilities of her position. To work a complete division between Polly and the young man was her first task, and she had quickly made up her mind how that was to be done.
“I think Hubert meant to be kind, Polly,” she said, softly. “He is so sorry for us.”
Polly’s eyes flashed fire, and she pummeled her pillows viciously.