A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Oh—you have a married sister then?” Lady Dynely said.

“Not now, yer ladyship—sure she’s dead, God be good to her, an’ it’s

poor Terry’s an orphan this many a day.”

“An orphan?” her ladyship repeated, still gazing very earnestly at

Terry, who, quite overcome with bashfulness, put one grimy finger in his

mouth and turned a very dirty little face to the wall. “It is rather

hard upon your father, having to provide for his grandchildren, isn’t

it? Is—” Lady Dynely paused, and over her pale face there flushed a

crimson light,—“is the lad’s father dead?”

Biddy shook her head, and her blue, handsome eyes flashed angrily.

“I don’t know, yer ladyship, an’, savin’ yer presence, I don’t care. Oh!

but it was the misfortinit day for this house whin that black-hearted

villain iver set fut in it!”

“Did he—” again she faltered—“surely he did not deceive your sister?”

Biddy looked at her, and drew her fine figure—a figure that had been

left, like Nora Crena’s, to “shrink or swell as Heaven pleases”—to its

full height.

“Desave her, is it? He was her husband, if that’s what yer ladyship

manes, married by Father O’Gorman, himself, in the parish chapel beyant.

Oh, faith! he knew betther than to come palaverin’ here widout the ring.

He was an Englishman—bad cess to him wheriver he is—kem here for the

fishin’ one summer, an’ met Maureen on a summer evenin’, comin’ home

from a fair. Oh, wirra! that he iver laid eyes on her! sure from that

day he was at her heels like her very shadda.”

“Was she handsome, this sister of yours?” Lady Dynely asked, with

curious interest in this lowly romance.

“The purtiest girl in Galway, an’ that’s a big word. Och! but wasn’t he

afther her hot fut, mornin’s, noon, an’ night, an’ niver a day’s pace

wud he give her, till she said the word, an’ they wint up to Father

O’Gorman, an’ were married.”

“And then?”

“An’ thin he tuk her away wid him, an’ for a year or more we seen nor

heerd nothin’ av aither av thim. Sure poor Maureen cud naither read nor

write. An’ thin all at wance she kem back one fine mornin’ wid Terry

there, a weeny baby in her arrums, an’ from that day to this we niver

seen hilt nor hair av her fine English husband. The curse o’ the crows

an him this day!”

“He deserted her?”

“Sure he did. What else cud ye expect, a fine illegant gentleman like

that, as bould as brass an’ as rich as a lord, an’ herself wid nothin’

at all but two blue eyes an’ a purty face.”

“A lord, did you say?” Lady Dynely repeated. “Surely he was not—”

“I don’t know what he was,” said Biddy, shortly; “no more did Maureen.

He called himself Dennison, an’ was married by that name. But, maybe it

wasn’t—sure the divil himself cudn’t be up to the desate av him. Och!

Father O’Gorman warned her, but she wudn’t be warned. An’ that day six

months, afther she kem back, she died here wid Terry in her arrums, an’

a prayer for him, the villain av the world, on her lips.”

“And the child remains here since? A fine boy, too. Come here,

Terry—here’s a shilling for you.”

But Terry, altogether aghast at such a proposal, shrank away into his

corner and glued his grimy countenance to the wall.

“Arrah! Come here, Terry, come here, avic, an’ spake to the lady,” said

Biddy, in persuasive accents. Then, as the dulcet tones produced no

effect, she whipped him up bodily with one strong, round arm, and bore

him over to be inspected.

“Sure, thin, he’s dirtier than a little baste,” said Biddy, with

considerable truth. “It’s himself does be rowlin’ undher the bed wid the

pig from mornin’ till night.”

Lady Dynley smiled in spite of herself. Terry’s face was really

picturesque, frescoed so to speak, with dirt. She held out a handful of

loose silver, which Terry grabbed with ravenous eagerness.

“Would you part with the child?” she asked, after a pause, and Biddy

regarded her with silent wonder. “I may as well acknowledge it,” her

ladyship went on, her delicate face crimsoning painfully. “I once knew

this—this child’s father. He has spoken of him to me, recommended him

to my care. Hush!” she said authoritatively as she saw Biddy about to

flame forth; “not a word. He is dead. In the grave let his sins rest

with him. Suffice it to say, I will take this boy and do better by him

than you can ever do. In fact—so far as I may,”—she paused, and grew

very white—“so far as I may,” she repeated, steadfastly, “I will atone

for his father’s wrong. If you decline to let him go—well and good—I

shall trouble you no more. If you consent, you shall be amply repaid for

all the trouble and expense of the past. I will take him, educate him,

and treat him in all respects as my own—yes, as my own son. Now, tell

your parents, and bring me word this evening. Go to the inn in the

village and ask for Lady Dynely.”

She arose and left the cabin. The rain had ceased, and with the look of

one who had done a hard and humiliating duty, Lady Dynely went back.

That evening Biddy came. Her ladyship was very good, and they would

humbly accept her offer. It had been a hard season in the Claddagh—only

for that they would never have let Terry go. There was but one

stipulation—Terry must be brought up in the faith of his mother.

Next day Lady Dynely started on her return journey, with Terry washed

and clothed, and looking a new little being, in her train. She went to

Dublin, and there for good and all dismissed the maid who had

accompanied her. All clew to Terry’s antecedents must be lost. In the

Irish capital she engaged another who would act as nurse to Master

Terence, and maid to herself for the present, and pursued her journey to

England.

She went to Lincolnshire, and there left her charge. It was her native

place, and the Vicar of Starling was an old friend. With the vicar and

his family the lad was placed. The vicarage lay down in the dreary fen

country, with flat, dank marshes all about it—the flat sea, lying gray

and gloomy beyond the sandy coast. He was a poor man, rich only in many

daughters, and Lady Dynely’s proposal that they should bring up Terry

was gladly accepted. Her account of him was brief. He was Terence

Dennison, the orphan son of a distant cousin of her late husband. An

Irish cousin—a very distant cousin—still a cousin, and as such, with a

claim upon Lord Dynely’s widow. He was poor and utterly alone in the

world. Would Mr. Higgins take him as one of his family, let him grow up

among them, educate him and accept in return—

The offer was munificent in Mr. Higgins’ eyes—the bargain was closed

there and then, and little Terry Dennison’s life began anew.

He could not tell these good people much about his early life—he was a

slow child, but they could easily see he had been brought up among the

very poor. Until he was fifteen he remained at the vicarage—then he

went to Eton with little Eric, Lord Dynely, and the two lads got

acquainted. That Christmas for the first time he spent the vacation at

Dynely Abbey, and thenceforth alternately passed his holidays at the

vicarage and the Abbey. It would be hard to say which the boy liked

best. At the vicarage, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had been as father and

mother to him, and there was little Crystal, his baby sweetheart, the

prettiest fairy in all Lincolnshire. But at the old ancestral Abbey

dwelt the angel of his life, Lady Dynely. It was wonderful—it was

pathetic, the admiring love and veneration Terry Dennison had for this

lady. Of all women she was the most beautiful, of all women the best. He

could now realize all she had done for him, and it filled his slow soul

with wonder, the greatness of her goodness. From the depths of poverty

and misery she had descended like an angel of light to rescue him.

All that she did for her own son she did for him; he had even more

pocket money than Eric. This Christmas she gave him a gold watch, the

next a pony—she loaded him with costly presents and kindly words

always. Costly presents and kindly words, but never once—no, not once,

one caress. Instinctively she shrank from this boy she had adopted with

a look absolutely of repulsion—absolutely of terror at times. This

Terry did not notice. I have said he was slow, but his heart yearned

vaguely sometimes for just one touch of her white, slim hand on his

shaggy, tawny head—for just one of the kisses she lavished on her son.

He envied Eric—thrice happy Eric—not his beauty, not his title, not

his wealth; ah, no! but one of these motherly embraces showered on him

like rain. Eric shook her off, impatient, boy-like, of kisses and

fondling, and then Lady Dynely would see Terry’s round, Celtic eyes

lifted wistfully to her face with the longing, pathetic patience you see

in the eyes of a dog. This love, little short of worship, grew with his

growth—to him she was the perfection of all that was purest, fairest,

sweetest, noblest, among women. He never put in words—most likely he

could not—one half the veneration with which she inspired him. And

partly for her sake and partly for his own, for the gallant and golden

beauty that charmed all hearts, he loved Eric, as once upon a time

Jonathan loved splendid young David—“With a love surpassing that of

women.”

Terry grew to manhood, went up to Oxford, reached his majority, and then

his benefactress bestowed upon him the crown of his life, the desire of

his heart, a commission in a crack regiment. He could have cast himself

at her feet and kissed the hem of her garment, so grateful was he, but

he only turned very red indeed, and looked foolish and awkward, after

the fashion of your big-hearted men when they feel most, and stammered

incoherently two or three stupid phrases of thanks.

“No, don’t thank me, please,” Lady Dynely said hurriedly. “I can’t do

too much for you, Terry. You—you are a relative of my late husband’s,

you know. In doing this I am only doing my duty.”

“Only her duty.” Ah, she made him feel that, feel it ever. Always duty,

never love.

“Five hundred a year has been settled upon you, also,” her ladyship went

on; “this, in addition to your pay, will probably suffice for you. Your

habits are not expensive, Terry,” with a smile; “not like Eric’s for

instance, who spends more in a month for bouquets and kid gloves than

you do in a year. But if it should not suffice, never hesitate to draw

upon me freely, and at all times. My purse is open to you as to my own

son.”

“Madame, your goodness overpowers me,” is all poor Terry can answer, and

there is a choking sensation in his throat, and tears, actual tears, in

the boy’s foolish blue eyes.

She sits and looks at him as he stands before her, big, broad-shoulders,

sunburned, healthy, not in the least handsome, not in the least graceful

or refined, with the grace and refinement that is her darling Eric’s

birthright, but a gentleman from head to foot. She takes his hand and

looks