THE CAUSE OF STRIFE.
The death of old Lady Wentworth had been a relief to Christina.
She had never pretended any regret or sympathy for her husband’s
grandmother, therefore she did not pose as a mourner when the end came,
and she had a sneer for Sir Mark when he expressed a sorrow that, if
incomprehensible to her, was real enough.
“He only does this because he thinks it will please that odious Grace.
Of course she will be plunged into grief, and everybody will believe it
is real. Perhaps, when she realizes how much her grandmother cared for
her, she may cease shedding tears.”
For the old lady had died leaving all she possessed to her grandson,
Mark. Even her jewels were bequeathed to Sir Mark for his wife’s use,
and herein lay the cause of great strife between Christina and her
husband.
The will that gave so much to Wentworth was of an old date, and the
young man felt convinced that his grandmother had intended to have made
another, and had been prevented in some way or other.
The love the old lady had bestowed on him as a lad had waned
considerably of late years, and had passed almost wholly to Grace; a
comprehensible fact, remembering the girl’s untiring devotion to her
mother’s mother.
Sir Mark committed the folly of telling Christina what he thought,
and when the lawyers handed over to his wife the various cases and
boxes containing old Lady Wentworth’s diamonds, he informed her in his
roughest way what he considered ought to be done with them.
“They belong to my Cousin Grace. They are hers by every moral right. I
mean to pass them over to her.”
“Since they are not yours to handle in any sort of way,” said
Christina, sharply, “you are aware, of course, you are talking
nonsense. I wonder you don’t suggest passing them over to that dancing
girl I heard you discussing with Sacha Ambleton the other day!”
Sir Mark’s face took a nasty expression, and a dark flush stole over
his brow.
He used some of his choicest language to Christina.
“If ever a man has been a d——d fool, I am that man!” he said,
roughly. “And to think I quarreled with the best friend I ever had
because of you.”
Christina trembled with rage, but forebore to say anything, contenting
herself with picking up the jewels in question and carrying them
upstairs.
The matter, however, was not brought to an end here, for having
conceived an idea, in his stubborn way, Mark Wentworth would not
renounce it easily. He went the length of forbidding Christina to wear
the jewels.
“As you cared not a brass farthing what became of her, poor old lady, I
won’t have you flaunting about in her finery now she is dead. Besides,
the things are left to me really, and I mean to take possession of
them. Tell your maid to bring them to my room to-day.”
But Christina was more cunning than he.
She sent the jewels to her bankers.
“They were left to your wife for her use, and as I am, unfortunately,
your wife, I intend to use them,” she said, with a good show of
indifference and courage, two feelings that were by no means well
founded, for Christina was an arrant coward, and she had good reason to
know that her husband could resort to violence if he chose.
Her quiet determination, however, carried the day for a time.
Mark Wentworth suddenly ended the discussion by taking himself off to
London. Christina knew perfectly well the sort of life he would lead
there, but she made no effort to prevent him.
“The sooner he drinks himself into his grave, the better for
everybody,” she said, recklessly.
She remained on herself at Sunstead, for the simple reason, to start
with, that she did not know where to go, or what to do with herself.
She made the old lady’s death an excuse to postpone the visit of Winnie
and her husband. Christina knew perfectly well that Mrs. Kestridge
would make it her business to know all that went on at Sunstead, and
there was a good deal that would not bear being inspected.
“Winnie is so sly she will smile at you, and kick or pinch you at the
same time,” she said to herself.
Mrs. Kestridge wrote a bitter-sweet letter, but Christina did not
trouble to bestow much thought on her sister. She was occupied in
trying to work a new element into her life.
Valentine was still in Dynechester. Go where he would, Valentine always
seemed to be meeting her. But he never stopped to speak, and the longer
he withheld, the stronger grew the longing in the woman’s heart to
conquer him.
She remained on in the dullness of Sunstead wholly for this purpose,
but her spirit began to grow disheartened as the days went by.
Sacha, who ran down one day for an hour or so to put the finishing
touches to her portrait, found her fretful beyond description. He felt
it a pleasure and a duty to warn her that matters were going seriously
wrong with her husband.
“You must get him away from town for a while, at least. He looks
positively awful, and is doing all sorts of foolish things.”
“My dear Sacha! do you think I have any influence? You should ask your
sister to interfere.”
Sacha paid back this sneer in its own coin.
“Ah! yes. Grace always had great influence with Mark. She ought, of
course, to have married him.”
Christina bit her lip at this, but bit it deeper still when Sacha went
on to speak of Polly.
“Why did you not tell me you had such a lovely sister, Lady Wentworth?
Why, she is simply a marvel of beauty. We are all mad about her. As for
Val, dear old chap, he can’t sleep or eat for love of her. The first
time he has been in love, and he has taken the disease very badly. I am
painting her. I expect to make a sensation with her portrait.”
All of which stirred up Christina’s cold, selfish nature into something
like a tumult.