— Forty —

Stepmother

The rumour of sir Wilton’s marriage was, as rumour seldom is, correct. Before the year was out, lady Ann Hargrove, sister to the Earl of Torpavy—an old family with a drop or two of very bad blood in it—became lady Ann Lestrange. How much love may have been in the affair it is unnecessary to inquire considering the baronet’s history, and the lady understood his character pretty well. She might have preferred a husband different from sir Wilton, but she was twenty-nine, and her brother was poor despite his title. If she waited much longer, she might never marry at all.

When they arrived at Mortgrange the man wore a look of careless all-rightness, tinged with an expression of indifferent triumph. He had what he wanted. What his lady might think of her side of the bargain he neither thought nor cared. The woman, whatever her reflections, would never reveal them to a soul. Her pale, handsome face was never false to herself, never betrayed what she was thinking, never broke the shallow surface of its frozen dignity. No trace, no shadow of disappointment clouded the countenance of lady Ann that sultry summer afternoon as she drove up the treeless avenue. The form of her earthly presence had been trained to fashionable perfection, even though the vague animal in her nature was just visible—in the curve of her thin lips as they prepared to smile, one could discern the veiled snarl and bite. Her eyes were gray, her eyebrows dark, her complexion a clear fair, her nose perfect, except for a sharp pinch at the end of the bone, her nostrils were thin but motionless, her chin was defective, and her throat as slender as her horrible waist.

After his lady had had a cup of tea, Sir Wilton proposed taking her over the house, which was old and worthy of inspection. In their progress they came to a door at the end of a long passage. Sir Wilton did not know what the room was used for or he would have passed it by. But since its windows offered a fine view of the park, he opened the door and lady Ann entered.

Sudden displeasure shortened her step. She found herself bearing down on a woman too occupied with the child on her knee even to look up at their entrance. A moment later she did look up to see the dreaded stepmother looking straight down on her baby. Their eyes encountered. Jane met an icy stare, lady Ann a gaze of defiance. Not a word did the lady utter, but to Jane her eyes and her very breath seemed to say with scorn, “Is that the heir?”

Sir Wilton did not venture a single look. He was ashamed of his son, and already a little afraid of his wife. As she turned toward the window, however, he stole a glance at his offspring. The creature was not quite so ugly as before—not quite so repulsive as he had pictured him. But, good heavens! He was on the lap of that same woman whose fierceness had upset him almost as much as his child’s ugliness! He walked to the window after his wife. She gazed for a moment, turned with indifference, and left the room. Her husband followed. A glance of fear, enmity, and defiance went after them.