That Unfortunate Marriage, Vol. 2

by Frances Eleanor Trollope

After this conversation, it somewhat surprised the doctor to learn that Theodore meant to leave home at the beginning of October, although he was not to enter on his practical career as a barrister until the winter. He had accepted one or two invitations to country houses during the pheasant shooting; and gave, as his reason for going at that time, that his health required change of air.

"His health!" growled Dr. Hatch, when Mrs. Bransby gave him this piece of news. "I should have thought he might stay and be of some use to his father in business."

"Oh, we are rather glad he is going," exclaimed Mrs. Bransby impulsively. Then she said apologetically, "Martin does not want him at home. Theodore has never taken any interest in office matters; and Tuckey manages capitally. Tuckey is Martin's right hand."

Mr. Tuckey was the confidential head clerk in the office which still retained the name of the firm, "Cadell and Bransby," although Cadell had departed this life twenty years ago, and the business had been, ever since that time, wholly in the hands of Martin Bransby.

Mrs. Bransby did not hint at one motive for Theodore's departure which her woman's wit had revealed to her; namely, that Miss Cheffington would be leaving Oldchester about the same time. It was true that Theodore had calculated on this; and also on the fact that Owen Rivers would be safely out of the way across the Pyrenees. But there was another motive which lay deeper; and, indeed, formed a part of the very texture of Theodore's temperament:—he shrank from the idea of being present during his father's last illness.

It has already been stated that he was subject to the dread of having inherited his mother's consumptive tendency, and he shunned all suggestions of sickness and death with the sort of instinct which makes an animal select its food. The very mention of death produced the effect of a physical chill on his nervous system. He was not without affection for his father; although it had been much weakened by Mr. Bransby's second marriage. Many persons who knew Theodore's tastes for gentility, assumed that Miss Louisa Lutyer's descent from a good old family would be gratifying to him, and help to make him accept the marriage good-humouredly. But the fact was quite otherwise. Theodore constantly suspected his step-mother of vaunting the superiority of her birth over that of her predecessor. He had never seen either of his maternal grandparents, and did not know all the details which Mrs. Dobbs could have given him about the history of "Old Rabbitt." But he knew enough to be aware that his mother had been a person of humble extraction. And he could more easily have forgiven his father had the latter chosen a person still humbler for his second wife. It was chiefly his ever-present consciousness that Louisa was a gentlewoman by birth and breeding, which made him jealously resent the luxuries with which his father surrounded her, and even the fastidious elegance of her dress. And, apart from all other considerations, it would have given him sincere satisfaction to marry a wife who should have the undoubted right to walk out of a drawing-room before Mrs. Martin Bransby.

One of the many points of antagonism between Owen and Theodore was the opposite feeling with which each regarded Mrs. Bransby. Owen had a chivalrous devotion for her; Theodore was nothing less than chivalrous. Owen's admiration was made tender and protecting by a large infusion of pity; Theodore held that in marrying his father Miss Louisa Lutyer had met with good fortune beyond her merits. As to his step-brothers and sisters, Theodore's feeling towards them was one of cool repulsion, with the single exception of little Enid, the youngest, whom he would have petted, could he have separated her in all things from the rest.

As soon as Owen's engagement with Mr. Bragg was assured, Owen called at the Bransbys' to tell his news in person. On inquiring for Mrs. Bransby, he was told that she was with her husband in the garden, and, being a familiar visitor, the servant left him to find his way to them unannounced.

It was a warm September afternoon; everything in the old garden—the lichen-tinted brick walls, the autumnal flowers, the deep velvet of the turf, the foliage slightly touched with red and gold—looked mellow and peaceful. Under the shadow of a tall elm-tree, whose topmost boughs were swaying with the movement, and resounding with the caw of rooks, Martin Bransby reclined on a long chair, and his wife sat on a garden bench a yard or two away. When she saw Owen approaching, Mrs. Bransby laid her finger on her lips, and then Owen saw that Mr. Bransby was asleep.

The old man lay with his head supported on a crimson cushion, against which his abundant silver hair was strongly relieved. The brows above the closed eyelids were still dark. The placidity of repose enhanced the beauty of his finely moulded features; but he was very pale, and his cheeks and temples looked worn and thin. Mrs. Bransby welcomed Owen with a smile and an outstretched hand. At the first glance he had thought that she, too, looked pale and suffering, but the little glow of animation in her face when she spoke effaced this impression.