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.