"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."