She deserved this at his hands,
for she assisted him there where his heart was fixed; she aided his
hobby; did more for it than any other creature in England could.
To return to Huntercombe Hall: the loving couple that owned it were no
longer happy. The hope of offspring was now deserting them, and the
disappointment was cruel. They suffered deeply, with this
difference--that Lady Bassett pined and Sir Charles Bassett fretted.
The woman's grief was more pure and profound than the man's. If there
had been no Richard Bassett in the world, still her bosom would have
yearned and pined, and the great cry of Nature, "Give me children or I
die," would have been in her heart, though it would never have risen to
her lips.
Sir Charles had, of course, less of this profound instinct than his
wife, but he had it too; only in him the feeling was adulterated and at
the same time imbittered by one less simple and noble. An enemy sat at
his gate. That enemy, whose enduring malice had at last begotten equal
hostility in the childless baronet, was now married, and would probably
have heirs; and, if so, that hateful brood--the spawn of an anonymous
letter-writer--would surely inherit Bassett and Huntercombe, succeeding
to Sir Charles Bassett, deceased without issue.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180