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."
