“Take me away,” was her perpetual cry. “Oh! Hubert, take me away. I am so unhappy here. Why must we wait for anything? Oh! I don’t want a grand marriage. I only want peace and happiness and you!”
And so one fine morning Polly, coming up from the kitchen, where she had been preparing a dainty little luncheon to tempt her mother’s appetite, found that mother sitting in the dining room with an open letter in her hand.
The woman’s eyes were dry, but they held a strange expression in them, and Polly knew instantly that something fresh had happened.
“Darling, what is it?” she had whispered, running up to that silent, pathetic, little creature.
Mrs. Pennington’s own pain was instantly lost in the pain she knew she was about to deal this other dear heart, for Polly’s secret had been no secret to her mother.
“Polly, you are all that is left to me,” she said, and she forced a smile to her pale lips. “Can you guess what this letter has told me?”
Polly looked down and saw Winifred’s neat writing.
Her face went as white as the apron she wore, and for one instant she felt cold from head to foot. Then she conquered herself.
“Why, it is the easiest thing to guess in the world, my lovee, dear! This letter is from Winnie, and it is to tell you that she—she and Hubert are married.”
Mrs. Pennington took the girl’s hand in hers, and kissed it tenderly. She felt that hand so chill and trembling, that she was well-nigh breaking down; but for Polly’s sake she controlled herself. The girl’s mind must be diverted, if possible, from the full weight of this blow, and Mrs. Pennington played her rôle accordingly.