Her own feelings had been, as we know, wholly chaotic where Hubert was concerned, and this transformation of him into another being—that of a brother—put a definite stop to all the vague dreams and thoughts he had awakened in her mind. Nevertheless, he had always been dear to her, and he would remain dear, even though she might have to stand aloof and never minister to him, or give him a word of sympathy.
They were sad days, those days that had followed on Winnie’s marriage.
The bride and bridegroom had gone abroad.
“You know I am always ill in the winter, so Hubert is going to give me all the sunshine he can,” Winnie had written in her explanatory letter, and Mrs. Pennington had winced here once again at the unblushing selfishness of her child.
To take Hubert out of reach at this particular crisis was worthy of Winnie, or Christina.
Polly felt both glad and sorry. Glad for her own sake, but very, very sorry for her mother.
They were drawn closer together than they had ever been in their lives in that time, and the mother found a deep joy out of all her sorrow in testing and proving the sweetness, the beauty of the youngest girl’s heart.
Then had come that other blow, that unexpected death of the husband and father, and the smaller griefs and regrets were all swallowed up in this great one.
Polly was not quite sure how she had managed to get through those days. She had been the one creature available to do everything, for though there were plenty of relations who might have come forward and aided her, these relations were careful to keep out of the way. They feared being asked for material help.
Poor Robert Pennington’s misfortunes were too widely known among his family to admit of much tangible sympathy being offered. But Polly wanted none of them. She did everything there was to be done, and right well she did it. With the lawyer’s sanction she determined that she and her mother should remain in their old home until they were fortunate enough to let the house.