“A little—a little——” She was about to say ‘love,’ but, with an effort, faltered the word “affection.”
“What rot!” he exclaimed, and looking her over from head to foot, with a derisive laugh, he went out of the room.
CHAPTER XVII
THE expected heir, for whom conspicuous preparations had been made—bonfires laid ready for the torch, name and sponsors solemnly selected—turned out to be a girl. This was a severe and unconcealed disappointment to Blagdon, and he allowed his wife to feel the full brunt of his indignation, and displeasure. The estate and all the property was strictly entailed, and, after Hugo, it passed to a distant cousin (naturally detested), a man who farmed a small sheep ranch in New Zealand, and was reported to be barely able to write his name.
Old Mrs. Blagdon who had come to Sharsley for the auspicious event, dissembled her dissatisfaction with well-bred dignity, and took a certain amount of notice of the unwelcome infant (her namesake), a fair little waxen creature, adored by her mother from the moment she was laid in her arms.
The great bonfires remained unlit, the charitable doles were withheld, the grand dinner to the tenantry was cancelled; and Blagdon, like a sulky schoolboy, left home to be consoled by his usual associates.
Three years had slipped by since the sensational and still-talked-of wedding at Thornby, and although a good deal of water had flowed under the bridge, it had brought no pleasant flotsam to the feet of Letty Blagdon. Her husband deserted her for months at a time; he had taken to racing, owned a stable and rented rooms at Newmarket, as well as a hunting-box in the shires, declaring that Sharsley, as a hunting centre, was obsolete. He frequently went abroad en garçon, assuring inquisitive friends, that “his wife loathed the Continent, and that nothing would induce her to leave the child.”
During the first months of Letty’s married life the Court had opened its long-closed doors, and maintained something of its ancient state; there had been dinners, shoots, and visitors; more than once Aunt Dorothy had adventured over from Thornby, put up her horses, and accorded to her miserable niece, a critical and inquisitive ‘day’; but a twenty-mile drive is a serious undertaking, and Mrs. Fenchurch contented herself with boasting to her friends of Mrs. Blagdon’s enviable happiness, and the beauties, and luxuries, of her home.