SIR JOSEPH'S INTENTIONS
In time Sir Joseph Branwin gradually recovered his usual rude health,
although there was no doubt that the unexpected and tragic death of
his wife had shaken his system severely. But his feeling for her
decease was not one of regret. Doubtless he had once loved her in an
animal way, which might have had its beginning in a purer affection,
when the rustic lovers wandered as boy and girl through the Bleakleigh
Woods in Somersetshire. But since the big man had become a prominent
personage in the political, social and stockbroking worlds, the
uncomely looks of the poor woman had rapidly become offensive to his
more cultivated taste. He was annoyed by her unwieldy appearance, by
her simple manners; and it irritated him that she was not sufficiently
educated to shine in the circles to which his wealth procured him
admission. The rich setting of success suited to a diamond was thrown
away on a common stone. And Lady Branwin--as Sir Joseph wrathfully
told himself on many occasions--was merely an ordinary pebble on the
beach.
In his daughter Audrey the millionaire could have found the hostess he
required for the gorgeous mansion on Camden Hill. She had been born in
the purple of wealth; she had been admirably educated; and, besides
being an exceptionally pretty girl, her manners were attractive. But
Sir Joseph had never loved this daughter of the wife he disliked, even
though he was her father. Audrey was far too frank and honest for him,
and did not seem to appreciate her advantages as the only child and
heiress of a wealthy man. Her preference was for the simple life, and
she found the frivolous doings and trifling chatter of society
excessively boring. Also she had set her affections on a young man
who, as yet, occupied no position in the world. Branwin did not mind
if Audrey married a pauper, so long as that pauper possessed a title;
but that she should wish to become the wife of a commoner who had yet
to make his way in the world was a heinous sin in the successful
parvenu's eyes. Finally, Sir Joseph had always resented the sex of
Audrey. He had ardently desired an heir, and it was one of his
grievances against the unhappy Lady Branwin that she had not presented
him with a son. Now that the stumbling-block of an objectionable wife
had been removed Sir Joseph saw a chance of realising his ambition.
Before he rose from his sick-bed he determined to marry again as
speedily as possible, in the hope that a male child would be born to
inherit his wealth and title. Then Audrey could marry her barrister,
and he would wash his hands of her once and for all. Branwin would not
have admitted his feelings to the world, but in his heart he was
thankful that his wife was dead.
Advised by the doctor, the millionaire prepared forthwith to remove to
Brighton for a few weeks' fresh air; but when Audrey offered dutifully
to accompany him, he refused brusquely. The father and daughter were
at breakfast when she made the offer which was so rudely declined, and
Sir Joseph, who prided himself on never letting the grass grow under
his feet--so he put it--hinted to the girl that some day he would
provide her with a stepmother. This point in the conversation he
reached by easy stages, and began by advising her to cultivate Mrs.
Mellop during his absence.
"Now your poor mother is out of the way," growled Sir Joseph, using
the adjective as a grudging concession to the dead, "you can go about
with Mrs. Mellop. She's a fool, but amusing and clever in her own way.
As she's a widow with a limited income, you can offer her money if you
like. She'll jump at the chance of doing the season for nothing. Then
you can go to the theatres, garden-parties, and all the rest of the
frivolities you like."
"I don't like such things," replied the girl, wearily. "I have been to
so many, and they are nearly always the same--just like a stale
circus. Besides, how can I go out when poor mother is scarcely cold in
her grave?"
"I wish you wouldn't harp on that, Audrey," snapped Branwin,
irritably, and rose from his chair. "You're always talking about your
mother."
"Isn't it natural, papa? I loved her."
"Oh, it goes without speaking that you loved her; but she had a great
many faults, my dear."
"Bury them with her, then," said Audrey, turning white with anger.
Sir Joseph, who still retained many habits of his youth, lighted his
pipe in the breakfast-room, and turned with a bullying air. "I intend
to," said he, harshly, "along with all memory of her. I shall make a
funeral of the whole thing. She never understood her position or my
position, and was--"
Audrey rose quickly, with a look of pain. "Papa," she said slowly, "I
know that you did not love my mother. But she is dead, and died in a
very painful way. My memory of her is concerned wholly with her kind
heart and her many kind actions. Surely your recollections must be
similar. You must have loved her, since you went back to Bleakleigh to
marry her, after you had made your money."
"I was a romantic young fool, my girl, and, seeing that I had already
got the start in life, I should have left Bleakleigh and your mother
alone. But I said I'd come back and marry her, and I did, more fool I.
Ah!"--Sir Joseph drew a deep breath--"if I did want to make a fool of
myself I should have married Flora instead of Dora."
"Who is Flora?" asked Audrey. "I know that my mother's name was Dora,
and--"
"Flora is, or was, your mother's sister, for I don't know if she's
alive or dead. She was the clever one, and nearly as pretty as your
mother, who was always a fool. But I was caught by the prettier face,
and so married Dora--to my cost. Well"--Sir Joseph waved his arm, as
though dismissing the subject--"she is dead and gone, so let us talk
no more about her."
"I think it will be as well, papa, since you find nothing but bad to
say about her," remarked Audrey, wincing at her father's brusque
speech.
"I don't say anything bad," retorted Branwin, sharply. "Your mother
was a good woman, and kind-hearted, and all that sort of thing. But
she was a fool, and I should never have married her."
"Perhaps if you had married my Aunt Flora it would have been better!"
said Audrey, sarcastically.
"It would. You are right there, my girl. Flora had brains and a will
of her own, and would have been a help to a man, instead of a
hindrance."
"You never mentioned my aunt to me before."
"There was no need. I wished to forget all that lot and all that time
of poverty and struggle. But your mother must have--"
"She never did," interrupted the girl, quickly. "Until you mentioned
the name just now, I never knew that I had an aunt. If you think so
much of her, why not seek her out and marry her? The Deceased Wife's
Sister Bill is law now, and you can make her the second Lady Branwin."
Sir Joseph winced at the scorn in the young voice. "No!" said he. "I
have had enough of the Arkwright family. I married one sister; I don't
intend to marry the other, let alone the fact that I don't know where
she is. She may be married--she may be dead. I don't care. For me,
Flora is as dead as Dora, and when I marry again--" He hesitated.
Audrey clasped her hands together tightly, and her face was whiter
than pearls. "I spoke in joke," she said, in a low voice. "Surely,
papa, you will not marry again?"
"Why should I not?" cried Branwin, irritably. "I am not so very old. I
want someone to sit at the head of my table and to receive my guests."
"I can do that, papa."
"You!" said the millionaire, contemptuously. "Oh, yes, so long as it
suits your own purpose. But when you feel inclined you will marry that
young fool."
"Ralph is not a fool, papa." Audrey drew herself up. "Everyone says
that he is extremely clever, and has a great future before him."
"Well, it couldn't very well be behind him," said Sir Joseph,
sneeringly. "It's all rubbish, Audrey; you must marry a title."
"I shall marry Ralph, and no one else," said Audrey, fiercely.
"We'll see about that," roared the millionaire, indignant at being
thus defied. "Don't you know that I can turn you out of this house
without a single penny? And I will, too, if you dare to disobey me."
Audrey clenched her hands to keep herself from speaking, and turned
away to look out of the window. What her father said was perfectly
true. She was an absolute pauper, dependent on his whim and fancy.
Never having been taught how to earn her own living, she could see
nothing but starvation ahead if Sir Joseph chose to carry out his
threat. And that he would do so she felt very certain, as she knew
from experience how brutal was his nature when aroused to action by
opposition. In the meantime, and until she had consulted with Ralph,
it was wiser not to fan the flame of his wrath to fiercer heat.
Silence on this occasion was veritably golden.
"Listen to me," said Branwin, somewhat mollified by his daughter's
silence, which he mistook for victory. "For a few months at least we
must mourn in the conventional way for your mother. During that time
you shall be the mistress of my house, with Mrs. Mellop to help you,
since you are more or less inexperienced."
"I don't want Mrs. Mellop in the house," cried Audrey, glowing with
anger.
"It is not what you want, but what I wish," said her father, tartly.
"Mrs. Mellop must come here on a visit to look after you, and see that
you act properly as mistress. Meanwhile I shall look out for a husband
for you amongst some of these pauper noblemen, who will be glad enough
to sell a title for your dowry. Not a word," he cried, raising his
voice, when he saw that she was about to speak. "And I may tell you
straightly, Audrey, that I wish you to marry at the end of our
necessary period of mourning, as I do not think you will get on with
your stepmother."
"My--my--my stepmother!" stammered the girl, aghast.
"Yes," said the man, curtly; and the two stared at one another until
Sir Joseph, unable to bear the reproach in his daughter's eyes, broke
into a furious rage. He felt that he could only meet that look and
defend his position by giving way to an outburst of temper. "Why do
you stand there without a word, and look as though I had told you I
was about to commit a crime? Why shouldn't I marry and be happy? I was
never happy with your mother, and you are ready enough to leave me for
that barrister sweep. Yes, I'm going to give you a stepmother--in name
only, that is, for you will be out of this house, and married to the
man I choose for you, before my wife enters."
"I shall assuredly be out of the house before the second Lady Branwin
appears," said Audrey, very white but very courageous. "I owe that
much to my mother's memory."
"Leave your mother's name out of it."
"But," went on the girl, just as though she had not been interrupted,
"I go out to marry Ralph, and not a husband of your choosing."
"You'll do what you're told, or starve," said her father, gruffly.
"Let us have no more of this nonsense." He looked at his watch. "The
motor is at the door, and I have to catch the Brighton train. I made
up my mind to have an explanation before I left. That you should
receive my expressed wishes in this way, when I am still weak from
illness, shows how much you really care for me. But you understand."
"I understand that you intend to marry a second time, and that I am to
be the mistress of this house until your wife enters it."
"Quite so; and you understand also that you are to ask Mrs. Mellop to
come and stay here during my absence. Good! That's all. Good-bye," and
without offering to kiss her, the man walked to the door.
"Papa," cried Audrey, before he could reach it, and struck with a
sudden thought, "are you going to marry Mrs. Mellop?"
"No," retorted Sir Joseph, pulling open the door with a swing, "I am
going to marry Miss Rosy Pearl"; and, flinging the name at her with a
snarl, he marched out sullenly. The way in which Audrey had received
his news was displeasing to a man who always had his own way.
The girl sank into a chair, for her limbs now refused to support her,
although pride had hitherto held her up. With a blank, bewildered
stare she looked round the dainty, bright breakfast-room, the white
walls of which were painted gracefully with cupids and wreaths of
flowers bound with knots of airy blue ribbon. Sorrow seemed out of
place in so frivolous an apartment; yet its mere beauty enhanced the
grief felt by the girl. The loss of her mother had been terrible to
her, for although mother and daughter, educationally speaking, were
leagues asunder, yet they had been greatly attached, and Audrey loved
the uncouth, stupid woman at whom so many people laughed. And Audrey
alone had been kind to poor Lady Branwin, who was scorned even by her
own husband. No one regretted the simple creature's death but her
daughter, who was unlike her in every way. As for Sir Joseph, Audrey
saw that he was quite glad to be relieved of his ill-fated wife's
presence.
Now he intended to marry again, and after the first feeling of natural
resentment Audrey could not condemn him. Had her father only broken
the news more kindly; had he only behaved less like a bully and more
like a parent, and had he delayed to announce his determination for a
few months, the girl would have received the intelligence differently.
But the information coming with such indecent haste, coupled with his
fiat that she was not to think of marrying Ralph Shawe, had brought
the worst elements in Audrey's nature to the front. Her affections
were deep and her temper was strong, so she felt anxious to resent the
insult conveyed by the entire interview. But reflection calmed her
early determination to leave the house before her domestic tyrant
could return from Brighton. She had nowhere to go to, and she had no
money, so it was necessary to wait for at least a time before deciding
what to do. But she arose with a shudder, and felt that the luxury
around was repellent to her. In fact, her feeling was that she dwelt
in the house of a stranger, so hostile and self-centred did her father
now appear to be. And yet, even at the best, they had never been
parent and child.
"I shall see Ralph and tell him, and be guided by what he says,"
Audrey murmured to herself. "But--who is Rosy Pearl?"
She had never heard the name, and yet in some way it sounded familiar.
As she walked out of the breakfast-room reflecting on her father's
abrupt announcement, and wondering what the future Lady Branwin was
like, a servant respectfully informed her that Mrs. Mellop had arrived
and was in the drawing-room. Audrey frowned, as she felt that, after
such a trying interview, it would be somewhat difficult to put up with
the widow's frivolous chatter. However, while she remained under her
father's roof, she felt bound to obey his orders, and remembered that
Mrs. Mellop was to be invited to stay during Sir Joseph's absence at
Brighton. She therefore composed her face, and rubbed her cheeks to
bring a little colour into them. When she opened the drawing-room door
Mrs. Mellop rushed at her, cooing like a dove.
"You dear child, you sweet child, my heart aches for you," said the
widow, who was all chiffons and scent, and gush and restlessness.
"This dreadful death, the illness of your poor father"--she put a tiny
lace handkerchief to her eyes--"it's too awful for words."
"Thank you," said Audrey, coldly, and then irrelevantly asked a
question which haunted her mind, and was on the top of her tongue.
"Mrs. Mellop, you usually know everyone. Who is Rosy Pearl?"
Mrs. Mellop stared aghast. "My dear child," she said, in a shocked
tone, "you should know nothing about such a creature."
"A creature! What creature?" asked Audrey, colouring vividly.
"She is a music-hall artist," said Mrs. Mellop, solemnly--"a painted
butterfly."