"Well, no; we have not," quietly replied Lord Acorn.
"Not!"
"Not at all. Grubb is made the heir. He has Court Netherleigh—and is to take the name."
Lady Acorn's face, in its petrified astonishment, its righteous indignation, would have made a model for a painter. Not for a couple of minutes did she speak, voice and words alike failed her.
"The deceitful wretch!" broke from her at length. "To play the sneak with Margery in that way!"
"Don't waste your words, Betsy. Grubb knew nothing about it: is more surprised than you are. Court Netherleigh was willed to him when Margery first came into it; when he was a young lad. She only carried out the directions of Sir Francis Netherleigh."
Lady Acorn was beginning to breathe again. But she was not the less angry.
"I don't care. It is no better than a swindle. How deceitful Margery must have been!"
"She kept counsel—if you mean that. As to being deceitful—no, I don't see it. She never did, or would, admit that the estate would come to us: discouraged the idea, in fact."
"All the same, it is a frightful blow. We were reckoning on it. Was no one in her confidence?"