CHAPTER XVIII.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, atleast. 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.