simple truth. I failed miserably. And I didn’t even know it till after he went away to school. When he was a mere child, he loved me. Then as he got older, he came to realize he was the important one to his papa, the one who was to be the new baronet, Sir Norman, and it went to his head a trifle. It began at Harrow, and worsened as he grew older, till in the end I was only tolerated. Your husband treated me with great condescension, my lady, so don’t bother hinting I was solely to blame.” She said it in a frank, jolly way, but she was serious, and I knew it.
“He lacked a sense of security, I think. He was given to boasting and bragging when I first met him too, but with marriage, he changed for the better. He didn’t even use his title. He was just plain Mr. Blythe.”
“That surprises me. I am happy to hear of the change. It is a pity his new sense of peace did not spill over to his relatives here at Wyngate.”
“It would have done, in time. Unfortunately, he was given very little time.”
“Pity,” she said softly, then sought to change the subject. I enquired for her comfort. She told me what new novel was entertaining her. And at the end of the visit, the subject of Bulow arose.
“Is that his first name, or his last?” I asked her.
“Neither. It is his middle name. Jason Bulow Blythe, but here we all call him Cousin Bulow. There was another Jason around when he was young, I believe, so his middle name was used. The name stuck, as youngsters’ names will often do. Eglantine, for instance, is still called Missie by her oldest friends.”
“The relationship is to the Blythes, then.”
“He was the nephew to Roger—my husband. That would make him first cousin, of course, to Homer and Norman. Actually he was always closer to Norman. They are the same age, and went to Harrow together. Later, Bulow went to London, and trained as a lawyer for a few years.”
“Does he run his estate himself?”
“Yes, he came home when his father died, and has remained there since. The Barrows is not so large a place as Wyngate, but larger than Farnley Mote. Eglantine has excellent prospects. Having no brothers, and being the older sister, she will inherit her papa’s place. I shouldn’t be surprised to see them spend half the year in London after their marriage.”
“Is the marriage settled?”
“Oh no. If theymarry, I should have said. Cousin Bulow is capricious. There is no saying she will get him to the altar. He has had a few flings with other ladies since first taking up with her, but he always goes back, so we are coming to think of the matter as half settled.”
We both glanced at her clock simultaneously. “Yes, it is about time you joined them downstairs,” she said.
I knew Homer spent some time with his mother before she retired for the night, so I said I would see her in the morning and left.
From the head of the stairs I saw a golden-haired young man below, with a glass of wine in his hand, from which he sipped indolently. He turned to give a close scrutiny to some painting in a large gilt frame, cocking his head to the right and left for better viewing of some detail. It struck me as exactly the right occupation for him: His citified barbering and tailoring lent him the air of a dandy, while his gracefully lithe body and movements suggested the dilettante. He would be at home in the great salons of London or Paris, discussing not politics or farming but the latest marvel in drama or literature, music or painting. In my fancy, his companion would inevitably be a young lady. Cousin Bulow’s fashionable appearance suggested he was a lady’s man. These thoughts flitted through my mind while I descended the staircase.
Before I had got quite halfway down he discerned the movement of my skirts and turned slowly to gaze at me. His honey-colored hair was worn slick. The black jacket and white shirtfront were unwrinkled, sitting like a second skin over his broad shoulders and tapering torso.
But
“He lacked a sense of security, I think. He was given to boasting and bragging when I first met him too, but with marriage, he changed for the better. He didn’t even use his title. He was just plain Mr. Blythe.”
“That surprises me. I am happy to hear of the change. It is a pity his new sense of peace did not spill over to his relatives here at Wyngate.”
“It would have done, in time. Unfortunately, he was given very little time.”
“Pity,” she said softly, then sought to change the subject. I enquired for her comfort. She told me what new novel was entertaining her. And at the end of the visit, the subject of Bulow arose.
“Is that his first name, or his last?” I asked her.
“Neither. It is his middle name. Jason Bulow Blythe, but here we all call him Cousin Bulow. There was another Jason around when he was young, I believe, so his middle name was used. The name stuck, as youngsters’ names will often do. Eglantine, for instance, is still called Missie by her oldest friends.”
“The relationship is to the Blythes, then.”
“He was the nephew to Roger—my husband. That would make him first cousin, of course, to Homer and Norman. Actually he was always closer to Norman. They are the same age, and went to Harrow together. Later, Bulow went to London, and trained as a lawyer for a few years.”
“Does he run his estate himself?”
“Yes, he came home when his father died, and has remained there since. The Barrows is not so large a place as Wyngate, but larger than Farnley Mote. Eglantine has excellent prospects. Having no brothers, and being the older sister, she will inherit her papa’s place. I shouldn’t be surprised to see them spend half the year in London after their marriage.”
“Is the marriage settled?”
“Oh no. If theymarry, I should have said. Cousin Bulow is capricious. There is no saying she will get him to the altar. He has had a few flings with other ladies since first taking up with her, but he always goes back, so we are coming to think of the matter as half settled.”
We both glanced at her clock simultaneously. “Yes, it is about time you joined them downstairs,” she said.
I knew Homer spent some time with his mother before she retired for the night, so I said I would see her in the morning and left.
From the head of the stairs I saw a golden-haired young man below, with a glass of wine in his hand, from which he sipped indolently. He turned to give a close scrutiny to some painting in a large gilt frame, cocking his head to the right and left for better viewing of some detail. It struck me as exactly the right occupation for him: His citified barbering and tailoring lent him the air of a dandy, while his gracefully lithe body and movements suggested the dilettante. He would be at home in the great salons of London or Paris, discussing not politics or farming but the latest marvel in drama or literature, music or painting. In my fancy, his companion would inevitably be a young lady. Cousin Bulow’s fashionable appearance suggested he was a lady’s man. These thoughts flitted through my mind while I descended the staircase.
Before I had got quite halfway down he discerned the movement of my skirts and turned slowly to gaze at me. His honey-colored hair was worn slick. The black jacket and white shirtfront were unwrinkled, sitting like a second skin over his broad shoulders and tapering torso.
But
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