That Unfortunate Marriage Volume Ii Part 21

"So sorry for you all--the widow--the poor children--!" added May, as a bright drop brimmed over, and rolled down her cheek.

Theodore relinquished her hand, and rapidly pa.s.sing his handkerchief across his eyes, gave a dry, husky, little cough in his throat. It was a sound which curiously repelled sympathy.

"You were not in Oldchester when your dear father died," said May. She did not intend any covert reproach. Her words were prompted by a pitying thought of the undying regret which must haunt Theodore on this score.

"No; I was not there. I know I have been blamed for that."

"Oh, indeed I had no such meaning!"

"I well believe it. But I _have_ been blamed--most unjustly. I went away with my father's full consent; indeed, he thought I needed the change.

He wrote to me when he found himself growing worse, to ask me to come back. Of course I meant to comply with that request. You cannot doubt it?"

"I have no right to doubt it," answered May gently.

"No, but pray listen! I wish to justify myself in your eyes. The truth is, I was in the act of packing my valise to return to Oldchester when a telegram reached me, saying that my father's danger was imminent. I was in Yorks.h.i.+re, in a country house, where there was but one postal delivery a day. Letters were often delayed, and, in fact, my father's letter had preceded the telegram only by a few hours."

"Oh, how sad! I am so sorry for you!" cried May, clasping her hands. She felt some generous compunction for having done him injustice.

"Yes; I have lost a good father," said Theodore.

"You have, indeed. And what a loss is Mrs. Bransby's!"

A subtle change came over his face, although he did not seem to move a muscle, and he made no answer.

"How is she?" asked May, leaning forward eagerly.

Theodore's eyebrows took their old supercilious curve, as he replied, "Mrs. Bransby? Oh, she's quite well, I believe."

"Believe! Have you not seen her lately?"

"Oh yes; I have seen her. She appeared perfectly well. I did not at first quite take in the sense of your question; but I see now what you meant. Every one has not such keen sensibilities as you, May."

Even this familiar use of her name she let pa.s.s, although it jarred upon her.

"I am sure Mrs. Bransby is not insensible," she answered. "And she loved your father dearly."

"I am not disputing it. But she was, and is, a doating mother, and her feelings are greatly engrossed by her children. In one way this is happy for her. She does not feel the void, the loneliness, which oppresses me."

It seemed to May that there might be some truth in this. Theodore was not generally beloved. Cold as he seemed, he doubtless missed his father's affection. He would feel isolated and forlorn. This might be in great part his own fault; but May pitied him. She softened towards him still more when he went on to speak of his plans for a.s.sisting his young step-brothers. He had already offered to send Martin to school at his own expense. He was endeavouring to be of use to Mrs. Bransby. She was, unfortunately, very unpractical, and rather impracticable; but he hoped that, when her grief calmed down, she would listen to reason and take advice.

"Is she not well off?" asked May, moved by genuine interest in the widow and her family.

Theodore shook his head. "I may tell _you_," he said, "that she is in very straitened circ.u.mstances. I do not proclaim this generally, because people who know how indefatigably my poor father worked, and what a large income he earned, are apt to blame her, and accuse her of extravagance."

While he was still speaking, a message came from Mrs. Dormer-Smith asking Mr. Bransby to go to her in the drawing-room. She, too, was touched by his mourning garb and pale face, and received him with sympathetic gentleness. May's report of his behaviour in Oldchester had been favourable, in so far that he had not attempted to renew his suit.

But what most of all conciliated Mrs. Dormer-Smith was the thought of Mr. Bragg. Now that her niece was so near making a splendid marriage, it was easier to forgive Theodore's presumption. Doubtless the young man had already seen his error; and really, putting aside that one aberration, he was very nice!

Her good opinion was increased in the course of their private conversation, which turned on matters very interesting to Pauline.

Theodore had seen her uncle lately; he had, moreover, had a good deal of talk with him about matters political. A vacancy was likely to occur shortly in the representation of that division of the county where Lord Castlecombe's landed property was situated. The Castlecombes were anxious to oppose a threatened Radical candidate, and Theodore had offered to stand.

On his elder brother's death, Lucius Cheffington had resigned his post in the Civil Service, and, under normal circ.u.mstances, his father would have desired that he should return to the House of Commons; but his health was at present too feeble to warrant his attempting any exertion.

Then old Lord Castlecombe thought it would be well to put some one into the vacant seat who might be willing to resign it whenever Lucius should be able and willing to come forward again as a candidate. This was not expressed, but understood; and Lord Castlecombe had approved of Theodore's ready comprehension of the state of the case, and his clear view of the advantages such an arrangement would afford to himself.

Election expenses, even in these days of purity and the ballot, retain as mysterious a rapidity of growth as Jack's beanstalk, and the a.s.sistance of Lord Castlecombe would be very solidly valuable. On the other hand, Theodore considered that, ambition apart, it would be useful to him in his career as a barrister to write M.P. after his name, and was willing to a.s.sume some share of the cost of the canva.s.s. The old lord discovered in this sententious young gentleman two merits--the possession of money, and the knowledge how to spend it advantageously.

Lucius acquiesced pa.s.sively in all his father's arrangements; but he could not be induced to thaw half a degree in his personal relations with Theodore.

"The fellow is an intolerable prig," he said to his father; "and his vulgarity is of a particularly objectionable kind--the fine pretentious kind."

"Oh, of course, he's a d--d sn.o.b," answered my lord, with cheerful candour. "But what the deuce does that matter? We are not going to take him to our arms; only to throw him into the arms of the voters! And I can tell you, it will be a vast deal better to have him for our member than Mr. b.u.t.ter, the Radical b.u.t.ton-maker. At any rate, this young Bransby won't go in for abolis.h.i.+ng the Peers, or starting a Separatist crusade in the Scilly Islands."

In the course of his talk with Mrs. Dormer-Smith, Theodore hinted to her as much of his political outlook as seemed good to him. The account of his relations with Lord Castlecombe greatly impressed her; for she was very sure her uncle would not waste any of his time and attention on an entirely insignificant person. And Theodore's tone in speaking of the political position of the Castlecombe family was such as to win her complete approval and sympathy.

When Pauline talked over his visit with her husband, after narrating that part of it which concerned Lord Castlecombe, she added, "And the young man has a great deal of proper feeling. I really begin to think that mistake he made must have been in some way May's fault:--oh, not intentionally, Frederick; but she is so--so unformed in her ideas!

However, we need not discuss all that; for I am convinced Mr. Bransby is quite _safe_ now. I was going to say that he told me confidentially that he would not advise us to encourage any intimacy between May and his step-mother. She is in London, I believe; letting lodgings, or some dreadful thing of that sort. It is just the kind of thing May would delight in, if I would let her--visiting and championing people who are in impossible positions, and talking all kinds of Quixotic nonsense about them! However, this Mrs. Bransby is not the kind of person who _can_ be encouraged. She is very handsome, I understand, and _tant soit peu, coquette_. There was some not too creditable flirtation with young Rivers before her husband's death; and Mr. Bransby evidently thinks she is the kind of woman always to have some one dangling after her. He spoke really very nicely, and said he hoped she might soon marry again, as she is scarcely fit to be trusted with the responsibility of bringing up a young family. You are so apt to indulge May in her whims, that I thought it necessary to repeat all this with distinctness. You must see, as I do, that it would be quite disastrous for May to keep up any intimacy with such a person as this Mrs. Bransby--a handsome, flirting, needy widow! If she were even in society----!"

CHAPTER XIV.

The sale of Martin Bransby's handsome furniture, books, plate, carriage, and horses realized a considerable sum; but only a small portion of that sum remained when all debts were paid. Theodore made all the arrangements, and Mrs. Bransby pa.s.sively acquiesced in them. She was crushed by grief, and timidly acknowledged herself to be sadly helpless and ignorant of business matters.

It was Theodore who had decided that the family should leave Oldchester.

It was Theodore who had taken a house for them in a northern suburb of London. It was Theodore who suggested that Mrs. Bransby might eke out her income by receiving one or two lodgers. For Martin's schooling he promised to be responsible; and he would also guarantee the rent of the London house for one twelvemonth. But he could promise no further a.s.sistance, giving as a sufficient reason for not doing more the heavy claims on his purse which would result from his forthcoming political candidature.

A tiny annual sum was secured to the widow--a sum smaller than that which she had been in the habit of spending on her dress; and this was all she had to rely on to keep herself and her five children. It was clear that an effort must be made to earn some money.

Some articles of furniture remaining from the Oldchester sale nearly sufficed to furnish the small London dwelling. The house, fortunately, was clean, freshly painted, and in good repair; but the vulgar wall-papers were an affliction to Mrs. Bransby's eyes, and the dimensions of the rooms seemed to her painfully cramped. When she ventured to hint as much to her stepson he gave her a severe lecture, and begged her to understand that the days when her whims could be lavishly indulged were over.

"But it can scarcely be called a whim to want air for my children to breathe!" returned Mrs. Bransby, with a flash of indignation which she repented the next moment. And when Theodore pointed out that the house was a remarkably airy one for the rent; and that he, in his kind consideration, had taken a great deal of trouble to find a dwelling for them in a healthy locality, she meekly apologized for having been betrayed into any expression of impatience, and promised to make the best of her new circ.u.mstances.

They were such as might have depressed a stronger and less sensitive person. When Theodore had gone away, and the children were in bed, and the widow sat alone in the mean little room which, small as it was, was but dimly illuminated by one candle, the sense of her forlorn position weighed her down, and seemed to make the atmosphere thick with misery.

It was not the loss of material luxuries which afflicted her. A month ago she would have felt that keenly; but now her great sorrow had absorbed all minor troubles. Poverty! What was poverty, compared with desolation of spirit? How willingly would she have faced severer bodily hards.h.i.+ps than any which threatened her if her lost husband could be restored to her!

She dropped her head on her folded arms resting on the table. The widow's cap slipped aside, and a veil of bright, brown, waving hair fell over her bowed face. She had been forced to restrain her tears all day.

There were the children to be thought of. There were Theodore's cold, clear questions and suggestions to be answered. But now, in solitude, her tears gushed out. She wept with long, deep-drawn sobs. The words of the Litany seemed to be repeated over and over again, as by a voice whispering in her ear, "The fatherless children, and widows, and all who are desolate and oppressed." She rocked herself from side to side, and moaned out, "Oh, come back to us! Come back, Martin--Martin!"

A hand was gently laid on her shoulder. With a great start she raised her head, and saw her eldest boy standing by her side.

He was a handsome boy, very like his father. But now his naturally ruddy face was pale, and his eyes had a depth of yearning tenderness in them which went to his mother's heart.

"Don't cry so, mother dear!" he said. "Father couldn't bear to see it, if he knew."

She clasped the boy in her arms; and, although she still wept, her sobs were less convulsive, and she gradually grew calmer. Martin stood beside her very quietly, occasionally stroking back the pretty soft hair which strayed over her face, and was damp with tears.

Presently Mrs. Bransby said, "I thought you were in bed, Martin. How silently you came downstairs!"

"I took off my shoes, mother," he answered, showing his feet. "I didn't want to disturb the others. The children are asleep, and Phoebe is snoring away."