Thesnow has gone from the ground, the frost from the air, blustering March is paving the way for tearful April. Miss Pauline Lefroy, luxuriously basking in an easy-chair by the fire, a limp manuscript resting on her knee, is murmuring words of sweetest love in a low, monotonous voice to Mr. Everard, stretched on the rug at her feet—words which reach Mrs. Armstrong in detached sentences, as she sits by the window, sewing, a sufficiently listless and preoccupied chaperone to satisfy even the most exacting lover.
"'And what a beautiful ring!'"
"'And you like this ring? Ah, it has indeed a luster since your eyes have shone on it! Henceforth hold me, sweet enchantress, the Slave of the Ring!'" he answers, in impassioned accents.
"Oh, dear," muses Addie, "what high-flown rubbish! I don't think such wooing would win me. Pauline must be of different metal—rather soft metal, I should say. 'Sweet enchantress,' 'slave of the ring!' I'm glad Tom didn't make such a fool of himself when—when we were courting. Heigh-ho, what a long afternoon it is! I wonder will the boys turn up early? Robert has not been here for two Saturdays running. I—"
"'There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past,'" says Pauline, in haughty melodramatic accents.
"Stuff, Pauline, stuff!" mutters her sister, impatiently tugging at her knotted thread. "Precious heritage of command our ancestors have given us! Nice representatives some of our forefathers were! If Bob or Hal took to representing them, I wonder what—"
"'Ah, Pauline, not to the past, but to the future looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.'"
"Come, that sounds like nonsense, as well as I can make out. Why, Jack Everard, will you always speak to Pauline as if your windpipe were padded with cotton-wool; it can't make her love you, and it is so exasperating when you want to hear—"
"'No, no, I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead. I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth!'"
"'Not the title-deeds to sloth!'" repeats Addie, leaning forward eagerly to catch the falling cadence of his voice as it approaches a period.
"'It is our fathers I emulate when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose. Dearest, couldst thou see with my eyes!'"
Addie, looking up, sees her husband standing inside the door, smiling at the fireside duet. She beckons him to her, noiselesslymakes room for him on the couch, and with her finger pressed to her lips motions him to listen.
"'Margined by fruits of goldAnd whispering myrtles, glassing softest skiesAs cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,As I would have thy fate!'"
"'Margined by fruits of goldAnd whispering myrtles, glassing softest skiesAs cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,As I would have thy fate!'"
Armstrong's face is a study of ludicrous amazement as the words fall in musical sequence from Everard's lips, and, when Pauline, leaning over him, murmurs ardently, "'My own dear love!'" he half rises to his feet; but Addie's hand detains him.
"'A palace lifting to eternal summer,'" continues the lover bleatingly; and then a ray of enlightenment crosses Armstrong's perplexed face, his restlessness subsides, he leans back and watches wistfully the mobile flushing face of his young wife, as she, bending forward eagerly with hands clasped, drinks in the luscious picture of wedded bliss that the gardener-poet paints for her he loves so cruelly. As he continues, Everard's delivery improves; the wooliness leaves his voice, and a ring of true passion which no art could ever teach him vibrates through his every tone and finds an echo in Addie's heart, thrilling through her like an electric current in which pain and pleasure are so subtly blended that she can not tell which predominates.
"'We'd read no booksThat were not tales of love, that we might smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And, when night came, amidst the breathless heavensWe'd guess what star should be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightStole through the mists of alabaster lamps,And every air was heavy with the sighsOf orange-groves and music from sweet lutesAnd murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?'"
"'We'd read no booksThat were not tales of love, that we might smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And, when night came, amidst the breathless heavensWe'd guess what star should be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightStole through the mists of alabaster lamps,And every air was heavy with the sighsOf orange-groves and music from sweet lutesAnd murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?'"
Addie turns to her husband with dewy eyes, and lays her hand timidly on his breast, echoing the last eager words—"'Dost thou like the picture?'"—in a soft whisper.
"I don't know—I did not listen," he answers dreamily. "I never could thrill to Melnotte's lyre. It is too measured, too smooth, too flowery to breathe the fire of earth-born passion."
"Then you do not believe in the eloquence of love?"
"No. I believe that the voice of love—the love man feels but once in a life—finds no polished utterance. It is most times dumb, strangled by the impotence, the poverty of words, or else finds vent in harsh, uncouth, halting measure. It never pleads in flowing rhythm; if it could, more lovers would be successful. You could be won, Addie, by honeyed words. I read it in your face as you sat listening."
"You gave me no honeyed words, no measured music, and yet—and yet—" Her whisper is drowned by Pauline's "stagey" metallic voice—
"'Oh, as the bee upon the flower I hangUpon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!Am I not blest? And, if I love too wildly,Who would not love thee like Pauline?'
"'Oh, as the bee upon the flower I hangUpon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!Am I not blest? And, if I love too wildly,Who would not love thee like Pauline?'
"There—that will do for to-day, Melnotte. Go back to your spade and wheelbarrow. We know our parts to perfection. I'm sick of rehearsing."
"That last scene, Pauline—we're not up in it yet—"
"Pauline! Mr. Everard, what do you mean?"
"I mean Pauline Deschappelles, of course."
"I see, I see. The last scene? Oh, I'm up in it thoroughly; and, besides, I have not time now! I must write a line to Florrie before post-time."
She turns away lightly, and Everard's eyes, following her despondently, rest on the husband and wife sitting side by side.
"I did not know you were there," he says, strolling moodily toward them. "What did you think of it?"
"We thought it capital," answers Armstrong encouragingly. "That last bit was most touchingly delivered—quite up to Barry Sullivan."
"Oh, I feel I shall do my part right enough; but your sister, Mrs. Armstrong, is not up to the mark! Don't you feel it—eh? She's very well—perfection, in fact—in the light, frivolous parts; but where the ring of passion comes in she is hard, stagey, unfeeling. She is not Bulwer's Pauline, she's herself—Pauline Lefroy—and no coaching, no training, will make her anything else."
"Why not suggest her giving the part to a more competent person? I am sure she would fall in with your wish at once," says Addie, a little hurt at the young man's plain and truthful speaking. He does not answer, does not even seem to hear; then, suddenly, after an uncomfortable pause, he bursts out in doleful appeal—
"Mrs. Armstrong, tell me—do you think I have a ghost of a chance?"
"A ghost of a chance of what?"
"Of winning your sister, of getting her to like me?"
Mr. Everard is a young gentleman of limited reserve, and from the first has made no effort to disguise his devotion to Pauline, yet this point-blank attack takes Addie somewhat aback.
"I—I really don't know, Mr. Everard," she stammers. "I can not tell. Why not ask her yourself?"
"Ask her myself! Why, I have asked her myself at least fourteen times in the last month."
"Fourteen times, by Jove!" exclaims Armstrong—"fourteen times! I did not know till now that Jacob was of British breed."
"And what does she say?" asks Addie, eagerly.
"Oh, she says the same thing always—she's over-young to marry yet! She says that she won't be able to make up her mind for ever so long, that she has not the faintest idea whether she likes me or dislikes me, that it would be of no use trying to find out until she is older, and all that sort of thing. You see, Mrs. Armstrong, she doesn't encourage, and yet she doesn't discourage, and—and—there I am!"
"And there I wouldn't stay!" says Addie, impetuously. "I'd make her say 'Yes' or 'No,' and have done with it at once."
"If I did so, it would be 'No' at once, and—and—" with a quiver in his voice—"I don't think I could bear that. I love your sister, Mrs. Armstrong, better than my life; so I would rather go on clingingto a straw, hang on to her patiently, and perhaps in the end work her into liking me. They say love begets love, don't they? If so, she must in time take a spark from me."
"And how long do you intend going on burning?"
"Until she is twenty. She says that she won't make up her mind to marry any one until she has seen a little of the world, that many girls sacrifice their life's happiness by taking the first man that asks them, that she, even herself, in her limited experience, has seen too much of the misery of hasty and incongruous marriages to risk a mistake herself—Eh—what's the matter? Dropped your scissors, Mrs. Armstrong? Why, here they are beside you! So she won't accept any one until she is twenty; however, I'll wait and watch, and nag and worry her for two years more, and you'll put in a word for me now and then, won't you, both of you? She'll never get any one to love her as well as I do; and I'm not badly off, Mrs. Armstrong. Your husband here can look into my affairs, prod my property as much as he likes; he'll find it in paying order, swept and garnished for matrimony, drained and fenced, and—"
"I do not doubt it, Mr. Everard," breaks in Addie, earnestly; "and I do not mind admitting that both my husband and I—is it not so, Tom?—quite approve your suit and wish you good speed; but I do not approve of your resolution to hang on to Pauline by the careless thread of hope she offers. You may only reap much misery and disappointment in the future. She knows you love her—you have told her so. I would leave her, let her go her own way during the time she specifies; and then, if you are of the same mind still, renew your offer, propose for the fifteenth and last time."
"Mrs. Armstrong, were you ever in love?"
"In—in—love!" she stammers with crimson face. "In love!" She makes a mighty effort to give a light evasive answer; but a lump in her throat stifles her utterance.
Her husband comes to the rescue with cheerful tact.
"My dear Everard," he says, in mock indignation, "will you please remember that I am a man and a husband? If you press the question home, allow me time to vanish at least from—"
"Beg pardon, I'm sure," the young man mutters, in some confusion. "I did not know what I was saying. What a duffer I am, to be sure, always blurting out the wrong thing at the wrong moment. Forgive me, Mrs. Armstrong, I assure you I never—"
"Look, Addie—there are some visitors coming up the avenue! Who are they?" asks Armstrong hastily, with much apparent interest.
"By Jove," exclaims Everard, his ruddy face turning green with jealousy, "if it's not Stanhope Peckham again! Every time I come to this house I find that sprawling bru—fellow, tracking my footsteps. By Heaven, it would be too monotonous if it were not so exasperating! How any woman can stand a man who wears such trousers and such collars beats my comprehension! Of all the howling Bond Street cads I ever—I say, Mrs. Armstrong, do you know what little Loo Hawker christened him? Sharp girl, that little Loo! Collared Head—ha, ha! Collared Head!"
"Collared Head! How?"
"Don't you see? Because his face is so mottled and spotty, and his collars throttle him up to the ears, Collared Head—by Jove, it'sabout the best thing I ever heard! If 'Punch' could only get hold of it! Collared Head—ha, ha!"
"Addie," says Armstrong, in a low voice, "I want to say something to you. Will you come into my study for a few minutes?"
"Yes. What is it?"
"I am going away—"
"Going away! Where—when—how long?"
"I amgoing away," repeats Armstrong to his wife, "at once, on business. I must leave in ten minutes. I am going up to town first, then on to Dublin and Cork."
"How long will you be away?"
"Ten days—a fortnight at the longest. I have brought over Bob to stay with you during my absence, and have given him all directions which I have not had time to give you. I hope he'll take good care of you."
"I'm sure he will enjoy the change and the responsibility; and I'll see that he leaves in time for business every morning," says Addie mechanically.
"Oh, that is not necessary! He need not go to Kelvick. The fact is—I meant to have told you before, but other things put it out of my head—Robert is no longer in the office—has resigned his appointment, in fact," announces Armstrong.
"You could not keep him? I'm not surprised."
"No; it was his own wish to leave. He was totally unsuited to the work."
"And what is he going to do now?"
"Going to try soldiering."
"Soldiering? You mean he is going to—enlist!"
"Dear me, no, child! What an idea! He means to start with his commission, of course."
"But that is absurd! He has nothing; it is impossible for him to live in the army without money. I—I know—a cousin of mine who has three hundred a year besides his pay, and he is always in debt. It is absurd! I wonder at you, Tom, to encourage him in such an idea!" Her eyes flash on him defiantly.
"He is fit for nothing else, and it has been the dream of the boy's life. I think he will do well in the army; and he is not in the least extravagant. You must admit that, Addie."
She sighs wearily. Suddenly her face clears.
"He'll never get in; he won't have a chance. The examination is competitive, and getting worse and worse every year. The Hawksby and the Wilmott boys have been plucked twice, and have given it up as a bad job. Robert will never pass!"
"He is not going up for the direct Sandhurst exam. He has applied for a commission in the county militia, and, after serving two trainings, he can enter the cavalry with a merely nominal exam., I believe."
She is silent for a moment; a few hot tears steal down her face, her hands drop to her sides with a gesture of tired bitterness.
"So—so he will be a pensioner on you all his life," she says slowly; "he will eat the bread of dependence until he dies. And I can do nothing—nothing; my hands are tied—tied"—twisting her wedding-ring feverishly round and round, as if she would fain wrench it off.
He takes her hand and holds it for a moment in his firm clasp.
"Not yet, Addie, not yet. You promised me a year, remember."
"Such a long year—such a long year!" she sobs.
"I tried to make it as short for you as I could," he says, with almost pathetic humbleness.
"You did, you did; but you went the wrong way to work, Tom, the wrong way."
"So I fear, poor child; but I did it for the best."
"Will you tell Robert you have changed your mind, and do not wish him to enter the army?"
"I could not do that," he says reluctantly. "I have given him my word, his heart is set on it; besides, I conscientiously think it is the only career in which he has any chance of succeeding. You will agree with me when you have had time to think it over."
"You are robbing him of his manhood, his self-respect; you—you have no right to do it. He does not feel—understand now; but he will one day, when it will perhaps be too late. Oh, why do you do it—why? Is it to punish me, to avenge the wrong I did you, to heal the wound I dealt your pride, by humbling mine to the dust? I believe it is—I believe it is; I do not clearly know—I can not fathom you yet. Sometimes I place you on a pedestal high above others, of stuff too noble, too generous, too strong to seek to sting a thing as small, as pitiful, as helpless as myself. Then at other times, as now, you stand among your fellow-men, of common clay like them, vain, small, revengeful, unforgiving, cruel even!"
His eyes sink, a dusky glow creeps over his face, as he asks himself if there is not a little truth in her judgment of him. Does he not find an acknowledged sneaking satisfaction in thus watching her writhing under his kindness, in loading her shrinking shoulders with the weight of his benefits? After all, is there any necessity for him to mount that swaggering brainless boy on the charger his father rode so disreputably—Robert's wish is to join the —th Hussars, a regiment in which both his father and two uncles served, which his grandfather commanded during the Peninsular campaign with much gallantry and distinction—any necessity to pander to the sister's daily increasing vanity and greed of admiration, to feed them all on the fat of the land, as he is doing?
"Ah, you cannot look me in the face!" she continues, with a sad laugh. "My estimate was right; you do not stand on the pedestal, after all. Well, well, husband, you are getting full value for your outlay; your coals of fire reach me, scorch me, every one; my heart is scarred—sore—"
"As Heaven is my witness," he says hurriedly, "I would not willfully hurt a hair of your head! I would not—"
"Then tell Bob you refuse to help him with his commission," she puts in quickly. "He is paralyzed if he can not reach your pockets. Tell him, Tom—tell him that you have changed your mind, that you can't make him an allowance."
"It is too late, I fear, Addie; his militia commission arrived to-day; but—but—we can talk it over when I return, if you like."
"Train-time just up, sir; the trap is at the door!"
She walks away to the window to hide her face as her sisters come dancing in, having only just heard of Armstrong's intended departure.
"You'll be sure to be back before the theatricals, Tom? You know I'm to act in both pieces; and the Hawksbys will be disappointed if you don't put in an appearance," says Pauline effusively. "The third of May, remember!"
"You'll see me long before that."
"And, Tom dear," puts in Lottie, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his coat-sleeve, "you're going to London, aren't you? If you should any day happen to be passing before that big sweetshop in Regent Street—"
"I'll not forget you, little woman."
"You dear! And, Tom, listen! Above all things, see they give you plenty of 'Turkish delight.'"
"'Turkish delight'? I'll make a note of it."
"You'll know it easily. Don't let them put you off with cocoanut-paste; it's not the same. The 'delight' is flat and pink and sticky, powdered in sugar—you'll remember? Burnt almonds, chocolate-creams, and dragées are also very good at that shop; but I leave it all to yourself."
"And, Tom, if you should chance, in the course of your travels, to come across a pair of twelve-buttoned palest eau-de-Nil gloves, six-and-a-quarter, and an aigrette, Tom, of the same color, with one of those golden humming-birds posed in the center, you'll remember your poor little sister-in-law wants both articles—they are not to be had in Kelvick—to make her new ball-dress just the sweetest thing out. You'll not forget—twelve-buttoned, six-and-a-quarter, foamy green? Good by, Tom, good-by! We'll be as good as gold while you are away—you'll see!"
He kisses them hurriedly, and then approaches his wife at the window.
"Good-by, dear," he says gently, almost entreatingly, bending over her. "Won't you say a word to me, Addie?"
She turns away with a pettish gesture; then, after a lingering moment, he leaves her.
However, just when he is stepping into the dog cart, she runs out, and seizes him almost viciously by the arm.
"You're coming back? You're coming back?" she asks fiercely. "This is not a trick, a ruse, to get away and make me stay on here—is it—is it? Because—because—it won't do, I tell you; I won't stand it—nothing on earth would make me!"
"My dear child," he answers, in a tone of such genuine amazement that she is disarmed at once and a little ashamed of her impetuosity, "what an idea to take into your head! Fancy a man of my age and standing abandoning my wife, family, home—my beloved chimney-pots—at a moment's notice like this!"
"I—I believe you, and—I'll say good-by to you now, if you like," she says, laughing, and awkwardly raising her face to his.
As his mustache lightly brushes her cheek, she whispers eagerly—
"I'm sorry you're going, Tom—I'm awfully sorry. It—it would take very little to make me cry. How horrid of you to laugh like that! I shall miss you, I know, every day. Oh, can't you believe me—can't you believe me a little sometimes?"
"Twelve buttons, eau-de-Nil, six-and-a-quarter!" "Turkish delight, pink and sticky, chocolate-cream!" are the last words borne on the breeze as Armstrong drives down the avenue.
Turning suddenly to nod in acquiescence, with a throb of joy he sees a handkerchief applied to his wife's eyes.
"Could she have known—have guessed I should look round?" he thinks, in happy doubt. "In any case she might have been ready for the emergency. Bah! I believe her eyes are as dry and as bright as her precious sister's this minute. I wish—I wish I had given in about that wretched commission, though. Confound that boy! He's a desperate nuisance. Suppose I turn back and do so now? But no; if I did, her life wouldn't be worth living with him in the house. It will be time enough when I come back. I won't be more than a week away, if I can help it."
When the dog-cart has disappeared, Addie faces her brother.
"Well, Robert, I have to congratulate you on your improved prospects. I heard of them only a few minutes ago. It's a big jump from a junior clerk in a merchant's office to a lieutenancy in a cavalry regiment."
"Oh, ah, yes—Armstrong told you!" the young gentleman replies, with affected nonchalance, to hide his inward perturbation. "Yes, we have been working the thing for some time; but I did not like to tell you anything about it until it was finally settled."
"I knew all along," says Pauline triumphantly. "Isn't it grand news, Addie? Fancy, his commission arrived this morning, and you have now the honor of addressing a full-blown lieutenant in the Royal Nutshire Fusiliers. Wouldn't you almost guess it by the extra vitality of his mustache?"
"Yes," simpers Robert, "I am now a member of that gallant corps; and a rare lot of fellows some of them are. You know most of them, Polly, don't you?"
"All those worth knowing, Bob. I had an invitation, you must know, to command the regiment last Thursday."
"No! Had you, though? Fancy old Freeman turning spooney at his time of life! Well, I never! You would have been his third wife, wouldn't you, Poll?"
"I should have started with two sons and a daughter older than myself," says Pauline.
"Well, I hope he'll let me off easily during the training, for your sake, my dear."
"When did you leave Mr. Armstrong's office?" asks Addie, in a chilly voice.
"Oh, I cut the shop nearly three weeks ago! Couldn't stand it any longer, you know. It is all very well for a man brought up to that sort of thing, with mercantile parents,et cætera, but with me it was different. Then the society I had to mix in, to rub against officially all day—very good fellows in their way, respectable and all that,but not—not the class I could stand. I saw that from the beginning, and Armstrong himself came to acknowledge it in the end. Clear-sighted fellow, your husband, Addie. He quite understood and sympathized with my inclination for soldiering—in fact, as I learned rather to my surprise, he had done a little in that line in his early days."
"A little!" exclaimed Addie. "He served in a two-year campaign, fought in nine pitched battles, and was wounded several times, very severely indeed at Vicksburg!"
"Ah, indeed!" says Robert patronizingly. "Strange he never mentioned the fact to me until the other day, when I was quite astonished at the—ah—technical knowledge he seemed to have of military affairs, and then he casually mentioned his early experience."
"He served in the ranks, Robert—what you would do if you had any real sense of manliness and honor," remarks Addie quickly.
"What do you mean, Adelaide? How dare you address such words to me?"
"I mean what I say. I mean that lots of gentlemen's sons nowadays, who have no means of getting commissions, enlist in the ranks and work their way bravely up the tree, as you ought to do."
"You mean me—me—Robert Lefroy—to enlist as a common soldier—me to herd for years with the most degraded class of society in the kingdom! I think you are losing your senses, Adelaide," he says contemptuously.
"No, I am not, Robert; and I maintain it would be infinitely less degrading to do so than to go on sponging for years on the almost unparalleled generosity of a man with whom you are connected by no ties of kindred, and to whom we already owe a weight of obligation we can never hope to repay. Why should it be derogatory to you, if your heart is really set on soldiering, to begin in the ranks and work your way manfully, bravely up to a commission, as my husband did?"
"You cannot compare me and my estate in life," he retorts angrily, "with that of your husband, a man who never owned a grandfather, who had no prestige to support, no family to consider. It is simply senseless comparing me to him."
"It is, it is!" she answers, with kindling eyes. "My husband did not own a grandfather; but he owns an upright, proud, self respecting spirit, and he would rather, yes—I know it—a hundred times starve in the streets from which he sprung than live on another man's alms as you do, Robert Lefroy!"
"Stow that, Addie, stow that!" he cries, roughly advancing to her, glaring with anger. "I have taken a good deal from you; but I'll not stand any more. For the future, mind your own affairs and let me mind mine, and never again presume to address me on this subject. If I liked, I could retort on you, and tell you to do your duty as a wife more effectively than you do, to make your husband's life happier, instead of preaching to others; but—but, degraded and unmanly as I am, I make it a rule never to strike a woman, no matter how much she deserves it; and I'll leave you now with the warning, which I'll take measures to make you respect, that I am doing duty in this house by your husband's orders."
"I think—I think I almost hate you, Robert!" she mutters between her teeth, as he strides away. "I wish I had let you go to Calcutta a year ago with the salt—I wish I had!"
"Addie, Addie," cries Pauline, dancing in, "aren't you dressed for dinner yet? Two of our fellows—I mean the Royal Nutshire—are dining with us, you know. The dressing bell has rung."
"Two men dining here to-night! Who asked them?"
"Robert, of course. Haven't you heard the convivial orders that Tom gave before he left—that, above all things, we weren't to wear the willow for him, that we were to ask our neighbors in to spend the evening just as if he were at home, and have everything the same? Bob is in a great state about themenu, as it seems we have the reputation at the club of having the best-flavoredentréesand the subtlest Burgundy in the county, and he naturally feels the responsibility of his position."
"Do you mean to tell me," Addie says slowly, "that my husband gave Robert the permission to ask in any guests he likes, and as often as he likes, during his absence?"
"I believe so—at least, all those whom he himself saw fit to entertain, with the exception of one or two naughty boys, the Dean's sailor-son, young Vavasour, among the number—which is rather a pity, for I like young Vavasour's roving black eyes. I must confess however that he's left us a good wide margin; so I—"
"Pauline, do you know how often we have dined absolutelyen familleduring the last two months? I have kept an account. Exactly fourteen times—fourteen times in sixty days! And we have given five large dinner-parties and three small dances."
"Well, what of that? I think we have done very nicely. Besides, you must remember we dined out on an average once a week, and two of your dinner-parties were for Tom's Kelvick friends, whom you insisted on entertaining. Ye gods, what entertainments they were! Never shall Bob or I get over the last bunch—Alderman Gudgeon and his lady, and the Methodist vessel, with his two ruby-nosed daughters, and the brewer's son, who sung 'In the Gloaming' and 'Nancy Lee'—never shall I forget!"
"And never shall I forget Bob's rudeness and yours that evening, Pauline, and the way you and he sat in a corner and sniggered; it was the most unladylike thing I ever saw in my life. I can tell you my husband thought so too."
"Oh, well, don't bother about that now, but go and dress for dinner! I daresay it was unladylike; but I know I couldn't help it. I have a much keener sense of the ridiculous than you, Addie, you know. Oh, by the bye, I forgot to tell you that Flo Wynyard and a cousin, a very jolly girl who is staying on a visit with her, are coming over to-morrow to remain until Tom returns; they'll keep us alive at any rate, and it will be very convenient for the rehearsals, our being together."
"More convenient still if we put the whole company up until he returns; they are only seventeen, I believe, including the supers. Better consult Robert!"
But this bit of sarcasm is quite lost on Miss Pauline, who onlylaughs and admits that it would be very jolly; she fears, however, that the whole company would not agree under one roof, particularly as four or five of the leading men are awfully spooney on her and unpleasantly jealous of one another.
Here the gracious voice of Robert receiving "our fellows" in the hall recalls Addie to her duty. She goes upstairs, puts on her dinner-dress, and re-appears, as sulky and uninviting a little hostess as one would care to see; but Pauline's smile and Robert's cordiality, flavored with the renowned Burgundy, fully make up for her lack of courtesy; and her guests pay no more attention to her, give no more heed to her somber looks than if she were a marble effigy of "Gloom."
"No, no, Mrs. Armstrong—impossible. We can't let you in. Manager's orders can't be questioned. No admittance except on business. And you have none, Addie; so be off!"
It is the last dress rehearsal before the final performance; and the company have unanimously elected that it shall take place at Nutsgrove, being a more central position, they argue, and there being more fun to be had there than under the superintendence of old General and Mrs. Hawksby, who have got up the theatricals for the amusement of their eldest son and daughter. So the school-room is converted into a green-room and the drawing-room turned topsy-turvy to represent as nearly as possible the stage-arrangement at New Hall, the Hawksby's place.
"You might very well let me in," grumbles Addie. "What harm will it do for me to see you dressed? It's nonsense!"
"No admittance except on business; critics and reporters rigidly excluded."
The door is shut in her face, she moves away listlessly, then pauses for a moment, looking out at the dappled glory of the spring sky.
"What am I to do with myself all the afternoon?" she mutters languidly. "I feel too lazy for a walk. I'll get Lottie to come for a drive with me! She'll be glad to get off her lessons for once."
But Addie finds that Miss Lottie has taken it upon herself to dispense with her governess for the afternoon, and is busy preparing for a rat-hunt in the grove with Hal and two of his school-friends who are spending the day with him.
"Very sorry, Addie, I can't go for a drive with you; but I wouldn't miss the hunt for anything. Hal said at first that I wasn't to come—wasn't it nasty of him? But Burton Major stood up for me, and they had to give in. I like Burton Major awfully—don't you, Addie?—much better than Wilkins Minor; he's such a nice boy. I hope he'll come over every Saturday."
"He has been over three Saturdays running, Lottie; you can't complain," says Addie.
"No. He says he likes this place awfully, Addie; he'd much rather spend his holidays here than at home. Now I must be off. I wish you were coming with us, too, Addie—'twould be much jollier than driving about by yourself; but I don't think the boys would like it, you know."
"I suppose not, Lottchen. I must only put up with my own society, which is not very exhilarating at the best of times."
How is she to kill the afternoon? Echo answers, "How?" She goes up to her bedroom yawning wearily, and looking around vaguely for inspiration, but none comes.
"Miss Addie, Miss Addie, what are you doing sitting moping there? Why don't you go out for a good brisk walk this lovely afternoon, and get up a bit of an appetite for your dinner, which you want badly enough, I've been noticing for the last week?" says Mrs. Turner, unceremoniously, entering the room about half an hour later, and laying her hand with a motherly gesture on the girl's shoulder, as she reclines in an arm-chair by the open window.
"A walk, Sally? I don't feel equal to it somehow; and I have no one to walk with me; besides, they're all otherwise engaged."
The old woman grunts, and then says abruptly—
"When is your husband coming home, Miss Addie? He's a long time away."
"Yes," she answers, a little sadly, "more than six weeks; and he meant at first, to remain only ten days; then he got that telegram, you know, which obliged him to go to New York. But in his last letter he says he hopes to be home soon now—next week probably."
"I hope he will. To my mind, Miss Addie, there's been a sight too much junketing and racketing going on in this house, and it's time some of it should be put a stop to. It's not agreeing with you, my dear, let me tell you—far from it."
"Sally," says Addie, after a short pause, "I am very like my mother, am I not?"
The question startles the old woman; she looks quickly at her young mistress, and then answers lightly—
"You are and you aren't, my dear. Of course there's a certain likeness—for you're not a bit of a Lefroy; but she was a far prettier woman than you, Miss Addie, far prettier."
"I know that; but the other day I was looking at that picture of her painted ten months before she died, and I thought her very like me—only prettier, of course, as you say."
"I don't agree with you a bit—not a bit," says Mrs. Turner, rising abruptly. "I don't see the least likeness. She was pale and faded and worn like before she died, as why shouldn't she be, after all the troubles she'd gone through, and bearing six children, and all that, poor darling? And you, Miss Addie, are fresh and rosy and young, and all your troubles to come—"
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come!'"
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come!'"
laughs Addie, "Why, Sally, that's pretty! Are you aware of it?"
"The first bit of poetry I ever made in my life, Miss Addie, I give you my word. And now get up, like a dear young lady, and take a turn in the garden, and forget—forget—"
"Forget my mother died of decline before she was thirty! Yes, I will, Sally," she says, with a careless laugh. "I don't think of it often, I assure you."
"What makes you think of it at all?" asks the other sharply.
Addie, for answer, holds up her handkerchief, on which there is a bright red stain.
"That," cries Mrs. Turner, with a loud shrill laugh—"that? Musha, it's little need it takes to put it into your head! That? Why, before I was your age, Miss Addie, when I was a slip of a girl of eighteen, I was mortal bad in that way, and was never a bit the worse of it afterward; and my brother's child—I often told you about Kate McCarthy that married the miller's son—why, she was that bad with blood-spitting that all the doctors said she couldn't live a year; and now she's as strong and as healthy a woman as ye'd find in the County Westmeath, and the mother of twelve children, every one of them as strong as herself! That indeed!"
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come,'
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come,'
"—a cheerful little verse, Sally. I must set it to music and sing it to myself whenever I feel in exuberant spirits like now. 'Fresh and rosy and young'"—looking at herself critically in the glass. "Yes, I'm afraid I don't look like dropping into a picturesque decline yet a bit; but then, Sally, if all my troubles are to come, wouldn't it be as well for me to give them the slip—"
"Tut, tut, Miss Addie! Much ye know about it! When you've got your troubles, you won't be anxious to give them the slip; you'll stick to them fast enough, I'll be bound!"
"Stick to my troubles, Sally? You're not talking poetry now, but blank verse, a thing I never could understand."
"Never mind; are ye going out? You understand that, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, you old bother!"
She walks languidly round the old garden, picks herself a bunch of pale May blossoms, and then re-enters the house, and tries the handle of the drawing-room door, hearing sounds of inviting merriment within, but the key is still obdurately turned.
After some minutes of irresolution, she goes into her husband's study opposite, and sinks into a chair at his desk, on which her head droops wearily.
"I do miss you, Tom—I do, I do! I wish you'd come home—I wish you'd come home! I wonder what you would say if I showed you that little red stain on my handkerchief? Would you be startled as Sally was? Would you be sorry or glad, frightened or relieved? It may mean nothing—I dare say it does mean nothing; but still, if it did mean liberty to you, would you take it gladly or painfully? Would you miss me at all as I miss you now? Would you sometimes come here of an evening, when your busy day was done, and think a little of the foolish hot-headed girl you once loved and tried to make happy, but couldn't? Would you think of her kindly, pitifully, tenderly even, and forgive her at last?"
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come.'
"'Fresh and rosy and young,And all my troubles to come.'
"Bother that idiotic little distich—I can't get it out of my head! 'All my troubles to come'—'all my troubles to come.' A pretty prospect! As if I have not had enough of them already. Much Sally knows! 'All my troubles to come,' and I only twenty-one—twenty-one to-day; and nobody wished me a happy birthday—nobody. It is the first time in twenty-one years that I have been forgotten, wholly, completelyforgotten! Sally might have remembered; she helped to bring me into the world. Aunt Jo might have remembered; she was my godmother. Pauline, Bob, Hal—ah, well, they were full of other things! Perhaps it won't be so hard to forget me if I—I go altogether. The first time in twenty-one years! It's an evil augury; it means—means perhaps"—with a shuddering sigh—"I may never see another birthday. Oh, if some one would break the spell! I don't want to die—I don't want to die! I'm too young yet, I'm too young. No matter what my troubles may be, I don't want to die. Mother had a longer time; she was twenty-nine, and I am only twenty-one—twenty-one—"
A loud burst of laughter from the drawing-room comes through the half-open door, and then a few bars of rollicking life stirring music that changes into a rhythmic mournful waltz.
Addie's eyes close, and presently her spirit wanders back to a certain day of sunny girlhood, when they all drank her health in bumpers of raspberry vinegar, and Teddy—bright Teddy Lefroy—knotted a silk handkerchief round her young throat, and, with his lips to her blushing ear, murmured fondly—
"Many happy returns, sweet Cousin Addie!"
She feels the clasp of his warm fingers on her neck, feels his lips brushing her cheek, and slowly opens her eyes to see her husband's swarthy face bending over hers. She does not start or speak a word, but just remains for a moment as she is, looking straight into his grave inquiring eyes, smiling faintly, rosy with sleep.
"Am I welcome?" he asks softly.
"I have missed you," she says—"missed you every day. You are welcome."
She rises heavily, rubs the sleep from her eyes, and puts her hands in his.
"What brings you here alone? Where are the others? Why are you not with them?" he asks, frowningly scrutinizing her face.
"The others are all rehearsing for the theatricals to-morrow night—a dress rehearsal—and they would not let me into the drawing-room. I—I felt sad in my own room, and there was such a smell of roast mutton in the dining room that I came here to rest after my walk. I did not know you would arrive, or I would not have intruded. I will go if I am in the way."
He looks at her again, sharply, earnestly, and notices a glazy brightness about her eyes and a quiver almost of pain about her mouth that tells him his absence has not brought the rest and peace he hoped it would.
"In the way?" he repeats lightly. "Well, well, perhaps you are. Still, if you'd make me a nice hot cup of tea at once, I think I could bear with your company, and condone the intrusion even, for I'm very hungry and thirsty, my dear."
"You would like it really, Tom?" she cries, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks dimpling. "You would not rather have a brandy-and-soda, a sherry-and-seltzer—eh? The Royal Nutshire go in for no other refreshment 'tween meals."
"No, only a cup of tea made by your own hands, Addie. I have tasted no tea like yours in my wanderings."
"You want to put me into a good humor. Well, I have been ina precious temper all the afternoon; I feel better now. Let me look at you. Yes, you have a hungry look somehow, as if you hadn't eaten anything since you left America. You come straight from there, don't you?"
"Yes, I landed at Liverpool five hours ago. So I look hungry? Is it a becoming expression?"
But she is already in quest of the tea-pot.
"I look hungry, hungry," he repeats, with a laugh of pitiful self-contempt; "and well I may, for I have hungered for you, love, love, night and day since I left you—hungered for a glimpse of your fair sweet face, for the sound of your voice—hungered for that careless note of welcome, that frosty smile you gave me just now. You have missed me, you say—ay, missed me as a callous child might miss a—"
"Tom, will you clear that end of the table, please? My arms are so tired."
"And no wonder, my dear girl! Why did you carry that heavy tray? Where are the servants?"
"I did not want any of them to know you had arrived—they would only be fussing and bothering—so I stole everything from the pantry—kettle, spirit-lamp, and all. You have a match—that's right!"
While she busies herself cutting the bread and making the tea, he opens a portmanteau, takes out a letter, and begins writing hurriedly.
"Only a line," he explains apologetically, "in answer to a business letter I found at my office. There—it is dispatched; I'll drop it into the post-bag outside the door. And now to our stealthy tea, my dear."
"Just turn the key in the door, Tom, will you? For, if Pauline, who has the nostrils of a hound, gets the fragrant aroma, she and the whole company will be in on us before you know where you are."
"Which the heavens forbid! There is the sound of as many voices—"
"The sound of seventeen voices—the whole company. They came early this morning, and are remaining to dance to-night. They were here the night before last too; they are here always."
"You have not had opportunity to miss me much then. Robert kept you alive, as I thought he would."
"Oh, yes, he did his best, and the Royal Nutshire helped him! He has four bosom-friends of his own age who are rather heavy in hand, and who belong to the leech tribe. When once they get into the house, you can't get them out. I'm rather sick of 'our fellows,' Tom, 'our training,' 'our mess,' 'our uniform,'et cætera. I wonder, if I went in and told them you had just returned from America very bad with yellow-fever, would it rout them before dinner, do you think?"
"I'm afraid not. The quarantine laws would not fit with my appearance here. That's Lottie's voice in the hall now."
"Yes; she has been out rat-hunting with Burton Major and Wilkins Minor—two school friends who are spending the day with Hal."
"By-the-bye, I was nearly forgetting her commission. In fact,at the eleventh hour, even at the Liverpool station, I purchased the 'Turkish delight,'et cætera. Here it is. I had to put it in with my letters. Pauline's gloves I nearly made a mess of too. Couldn't remember whether it was six-and-a-quarter or six-and-three-quarters. However, I chose the six and a quarter. Right, eh? That's fortunate. You gave me no message, Addie," he says hesitatingly, taking a case from the breast of his overcoat; "and so—so I was thrown on my own resources to choose you asouvenirof my travels. I hope you will like it; it's Yankee manufacture."
She opens the case, and is unable to repress a cry of keen admiration when her eyes rest on a band of massive gold incrusted with diamonds, her initials sparkling in the center—a bracelet which, to her dazzled eyes, might grace the wrist of a Rothschild.
She looks at it for a moment in silence, and then pushes it back to him sullenly.
"No; I do not like it. Why do you bring me these things? You know I hate jewelry of all kinds; I have told you so often enough."
He takes the ornament from her, closes the case, and pushes it aside, saying quietly:
"I am unfortunate in my selection, after all. I do not ask you to accept the bracelet if you do not like it; only I think you—"
"You are angry with me?"
"No, not exactly angry, but I am a little hurt, I think. I wonder if you received any other birthday-gift quite as ungraciously as you did mine to-day, Adelaide?"
"Any other birthday-gift?" she repeats quickly, jumping to her feet, her face flushing suddenly. "Did you mean that bracelet as a birthday-gift? Tell me—tell me—quick!"
"It matters little what I meant it for now."
"You did then, you did?" she cries impetuously, stammering a little with emotion. "Who—who told you this was my birthday? How did you find out? When did you remember? You—you did not even know my name this time last year. How—how did you know this was my birthday?"
He stares at her in unspeakable surprise for a moment, and then says:
"My dear girl, what is the matter—what has excited you so? Is not this your twenty-first birthday? Yes? What mystery surrounds it? Why do you think it strange I should be aware of the fact?"
"I will tell you," she says hotly, "I will tell you. It startles—it surprises me, because you—you are the only person in the world who has remembered the fact—you, who, as I say, did not know my name was 'Addie' this time last year. I—I was crying here twenty minutes ago because every one had forgotten me for the first time in twenty years; my brothers, my sisters, my old nurse, who always met me on my birthday morning with warm kisses, glad wishes, even little worthless presents manufactured in stealth, did not give me one kind word this year—not one."
"My dear child, why should you mind that? It was only through inadvertence; they were so occupied with these theatricals and other things—"
"I know—I know the omission was not willful; why should it be? But it pained me all the same; it made me feel so sad and blank,that and—and other things, that I—I took it into my head I should never see another birthday unless some one broke the spell. I never thought of you. Give me back my present—quick! It is the loveliest, the sweetest thing I ever saw. I'd rather have a bracelet than anything you could give me. How did you guess my taste—how? How did you know I was dying for a bracelet just like this? Fasten it on my arm, Tom"—baring her pretty wrist eagerly—"so. How it sparkles! Now wish me a happy birthday, please."
He does so, smiling a little sadly.
"Not one, not one, Tom, but ten, twenty, thirty birthdays. Wish them to me with all your heart, your whole heart, Tom, for I feel I do not want to die for ever so long. I do not look like a person likely to die young, do I—do I?"—peering into his face with wistful pathos, her eyes swimming in unshed tears.
"Addie, what has put death into your thoughts to-day, you silly little girl? To-day of all days, when you are supposed to cast aside the fears and frivolities of girlhood and cut your wisdom-teeth."
"Then you do not think I look like a girl who would die young?" she persists, clinging to him.
"I do not know," he answers, banteringly, smoothing away the hair from her hot face. "If a blushing Hebe, for instance, be considered a candidate for the tomb, I may have a prospect of widowhood; but otherwise, Addie, otherwise, no—I cannot say you look or feel like a person who would die young"—touching the white shapely arm that rests on his knee.
She laughs complacently.
"It has not a ghostly feel, has it? Tom, do you think I have a pretty arm? One day I was picking a rose well above my head, and somebody told me I had."
"Who told you?"—sharply.
"Oh, a—well, how can I remember? Some one or other—it was long ago"—rather hurriedly. "What is your opinion? Have I a pretty arm?"
"I have not studied arms. It is a prettier arm than mine."
"You wretch! You will give diamonds and gold, but not one miserable little compliment. By the bye, I have not even thanked you for your diamonds or your good wishes."
"I do not want thanks. Spare me them."
"No, I must make some amends for my ungraciousness. I will not use many words—great gratitude, like great love, is sometimes dumb, I feel. May I thank you as graciously as I can, Tom—may I?"—raising her white arms to his neck, her parted lips to within a few inches of his half-averted face.
He tries to resist, to break the spell; he mutters to himself the words he heard her utter as an incantation, but they sound meaningless, impotent; he puts up his hand mechanically to remove her clasp, but only grasps hers to retain it more firmly there.
"May I?" she says again, her breath fanning his flushed face.
She sees his eyes deepening, smoldering, taking reluctant fire under her glance; she feels his chest heave with a restless struggling sigh, sees his proud head droop an inch nearer hers; in another second she knows victory will be hers; she will have Samson, shorn, at her feet again.
"Addie, Addie, open the door, open the door! What's the matter? The rehearsal's over, and we're going to dance! Open the door—quick!"
With a cry, half of wrath, half of relief, he frees himself and confronts the astonished company—unthanked.
"Wonderful—charming! A polished actress!" "Would make her fortune on the London boards, by Jove!" "Talk of Mrs. Langtry—she's a stick to Miss Lefroy!" "As to looks, who would compare them?" "Who indeed?"
"Your sister was charming—perfect, Mrs. Armstrong. I congratulate you most sincerely on her success. She is the feature of the evening, the center of all attraction. By Jove, I never thought I could sit out an hour and a half of amateuring until now—she chained me to my seat! A perfect Pauline!"
Addie listens to it all with a triumphant smile, and her eyes follow her beautiful sister, sailing through the ball-room in her gay theatrical feathers, with glowing eyes, her hair piled high over her forehead, powdered to perfection, blazing in diamonds.
"She is lovely, isn't she, Tom? You liked her acting, didn't you?"
"Her looks and her graces would carry almost any acting through," he answers temperately; "and we Nutshire notabilities are not subtle dramatic critics. It is a case ofVenus Victrixwith Pauline to-night. Yes, Addie, yes; I do think her lovely."
"Lovely?" echoes a harsh voice in Addie's ear which makes her start uncomfortably. "Yes, Armstrong, a good few share your opinion."
"Mr. Everard, I never saw you coming up. Allow me to congratulate you. Your Melnotte was so affecting; there were two old ladies near me almost in hysterics during the cottage scene. The comedy too was capital! What is the matter with you? Do you intend to play the tragedian all night, or have you come to ask me to dance at last?" she says gayly, her heart sinking at the sight of the lad's woe-begone face and the cold fire of his blue eyes.
"No, Mrs. Armstrong, I haven't come to ask you to dance, but to say good-by to you; I am going home."
"Going home, and the ball only beginning? Oh, nonsense, Jack!" she says, unconsciously using the familiar name, and laying her hand on his arm with a sisterly gesture.
"Yes," he says, a quiver in his voice, "I am going to follow your advice at last, Mrs. Armstrong. I am throwing up the game; she gave me the last straw five minutes ago."
"What did she do?"
"She would promise me only one dance; and, when I went up for it a minute ago, that fellow she is dancing with now—that hulking Guardsman—"
"Sir Arthur Saunderson?"
"Yes—claimed it too. She decided in his favor. She met him only a week ago, and I—I have followed her like a dog for the lastfive months, have anticipated her slightest wish, have obeyed her every wanton whim, have put my neck under her foot, let her trample me as she would!"
"Oh, why, why did you not do as I told you, Jack? I warned you in time. I told you Pauline was too young, too careless, too high-spirited to be touched by love as yet; she told you so herself."
"Oh, yes!" he laughs bitterly. "She told me, she gave me a few yards to gambol in; but, when she saw me two or three times at the end of my tether, jibbing to get away, to be free, she gave me a little chuck that brought me back to her side in double-quick time. Oh, she did not use me well—your sister! I know I was warned; I don't mean to reproach any one or anything but my own besotted infatuation. I didn't expect her to fall in love with me. Oh, no, no! And I don't want any quarter now; I wouldn't take it, in fact. What chance should I have competing against Saunderson's sodden face, his fine leaden eye, his baronetcy, his twelve thousand a year? What chance indeed! I'm not going to try—not I! I'm off the day after to-morrow. Any commission for Norway, Mrs. Armstrong?"
"Norway? Are you going there?"
"Yes, in my cousin Archie Cleveland's yacht. We sail from Cowes next week—a jolly bachelor party."
"I wish youbon voyage, and a speedy cure," she says earnestly, pressing his hot hand.
"Thanks; awfully—Oh, yes. I'm sure I shall get over it fast enough! I feel I shall, in fact; I've a strong constitution. Good-by, Mrs. Armstrong, good-by, Armstrong! Thanks, old fellow, for all your good wishes, your kindness to me,et cætera. I'll not forget them, though I will her—ay, fast enough, Heaven helping me!"
He takes a long hungry look at the girl whom he loves flying past him in his rival's arms, his heavy tow-colored mustache almost brushing her lovely glowing face, upturned to his.
The poor boy turns aside to hide the unmanly moisture clouding his bright eyes, and finds Addie's pitying little palm still imprisoned in his grasp.
"Oh, Ad—Mrs. Armstrong," he cries with a sob in his voice, "if—if Heaven had only given her your tender heart, your sweet nature—"
"And her own face and figure," puts in Addie quickly, with a soft laugh. "But, Jack, what would my poor husband have left then? Not a very promising patchwork—eh?"
"Your husband? Oh, he is a lucky fellow!"
"Is he?" says Addie, wheeling round and looking up into her husband's face with a bright, eager, questioning look. "Is he, Tom?"
Years after Everard remembered the look, the attitude of husband, of wife, as they stood thus gazing at each other under the big magnolia shrub—remembered the tune of the waltz that pursued him as he walked down the avenue, his brain on fire, his heart bursting with wrath, love, and despair.
"There, Tom—look! What a disgraceful state your table is in! All the letters that arrived while you were in New York higgledy-piggledy all over the place! When are you going to settle them?"
"When I have time; they are not of much importance—only bills, prospectuses, begging-letters, receipts—"
"May I settle them for you? Do let me; I'll do it so nicely. All the receipts in one drawer, bills in another, prospectuses in another, and begging-letters in the waste-paper basket—"
"Bravo, Addie, bravo! I see you know how to set to work."
"Then I may do it? You do not mind my opening them? You have no secrets?"—running her hand lightly through the pile. "What is this large square envelope, crested and monogrammed, addressed in a lady's writing, kissing the face of the income-tax? You look guilty, Tom! Am I touching pitch?"
"You are touching an invite to a dinner-party—a gentleman's dinner-party at the Challice's on Friday week," he says, laughing.
"Would you like it answered? I'll answer it for you. You can not go, Tom, for I've written to Aunt Jo to come next week; and the chances are ten to one she'll arrive on that very day, and it would look very bad if you were absent, wouldn't it? You were always such a favorite of hers, you know."
"I won't be absent then. I'm not sorry for the excuse; those aldermanic feasts are becoming rather too much for my digestion of late. I'm afraid I'm getting old, Addie, and feeble—"
"Old and feeble!" she retorts. "I never saw a stronger-looking man than you; you have a grasp of iron. Taunt me with being like Hebe indeed! You are a mixture of Vulcan and Samson."
"Samson's days were short on earth; you may be a widow before you are thirty, Addie."
She looks at him with startled eyes; but his face is careless and unconscious. She moves away hurriedly.
"I may be a widow before I am thirty! The very words they used a year ago; and I—I—actually laughed—yes, I remember, I laughed. What a wretch I was! And now—now I can not bear to hear them, even in jest, not even in jest, my dear, my dear!"
It is a week after the theatricals. An unusual spell of quiet and peace has followed the excitement and racket of the preceding month, for Robert and the "Royal Nutshire" have left the soil for their annual month's picnicking in the Long Valley, and Miss Wynyard, not able to bear the reaction of dullness, has taken flight likewise, and is enjoying herself in town, while Pauline, in deserted Nutsgrove, pores greedily over the accounts of her gay doings, and valiantly determines that her sister shall have a comfortablepied-à-terrein the neighborhood of Eaton Square or Park Lane next season.
Meanwhile Addie is working briskly at clearing the study-table. The waste-paper bag is filling rapidly with the fluent literature of professional beggary, when suddenly a long sheet of paper bearing Madame Armine's address on the top, closely covered with scratchy French writing, drops in dismay from her hands. It is Miss Lefroy's account for goods supplied from the sixteenth of January to the first of May, and three figures represent the total. Poor Addie stares at them stupidly, rubs her eyes, even goes to the window for a moment to take breath and clear the cobwebs from her brain; but when she comes back they confront her still. One hundred and eighty-four pounds! Pounds—not pence, not shillings even, but pounds, sterling pounds!
"What do they mean?" she asks aloud. "It must—it must be a stupendous mistake. How could any girl wear or order one hundred and eighty-four pounds' worth of clothes in less than six months? Impossible! She has been remarkably well-dressed of late, I have noticed, and—and I remember Lady Crawford telling me that she is considered one of the best got-up girls in Nutshire. Her last ball-dress was very handsome; but—but, all the same, this bill is simply incredible. It's a mistake—of course it's a mistake! It's an account of some large family—the Douglases or the Hawksbys probably—and they have got hers; that's it, of course. I'll just run my eyes down the items to make sure. How hard they are to make out! Let me see—let me see. Costume of white satinmerveilleuse, and gauze and flounces of Cluny lace, sixteenth of January—forty-five pounds. That sounds like the dress she got for the Arkwrights'—satin gauze and Cluny lace; but—but forty-five pounds! I thought it would be ten at the outside. To be sure, I never ordered a dress for myself, so—so I don't know; but forty-five pounds! It's awful, awful!"
With head down-bent she goes slowly and laboriously through each item; when she reaches the total, her face is crimson with shame and bewilderment. She pushes the document from her, walks feverishly up and down the room, then takes up the account again.
"Sortie du balof silver plush trimmed in blue fox-fur—twenty-eight pounds ten shillings. That can't—can't mean that simple little dolman she wore going to the theatricals the other night? Impossible! I'll go and ask her about this at once."
She rushes off, scared and excited, calling her sister's name loudly. No answer comes to her in the house. She passes out, the ominous document trembling in her hands.
"Here I am, under the ash in the tennis-ground! What's the matter? What has happened? Any one hurt?"
"No," pants Addie, "no; it's a bill of yours, an awful bill, from Armine—since last January. I can't make it out; it must be wrong. I got such a shock when I saw the total."
She parts the drooping boughs of the ash, and finds herself confronted by her sister, crimson with confusion and anger, and Sir Arthur Saunderson, caressing his tawny mustache, an amused smile stealing over his insolent dissipated face.
"Oh, is that you, Sir Arthur?" she exclaims, with scant courtesy, knowing that her husband has a strong personal objection to that gentleman. "I did not know you were here."
"Came half-hour 'go. Pleasure a-finding Miss Lefroy in the grounds; did not go the house," he answers languidly. "Lovely aft'noon, ain't it?"
"Lovely," she answers shortly, sitting down beside Pauline, with an irritated gesture that says as plainly as words could say, "You're in the way, sir; your departure would be acceptable."
But he takes not the slightest notice; and presently, after a few half whispered sentences, he and Pauline rise together for the ostensible purpose of examining some early rose-blooms in the pleasure-ground, leaving her alone.
"Horrid man!" she mutters indignantly. "How can Paulinestand him? She knows perfectly well too that Tom objects to his coming here. If his morals are as bad as his manners, I don't wonder he does, I'm sure! And, oh dear me, I remember the days when I used to imagine a Guardsman an angel of fascination and manly grace, something every girl must fall down before and worship at the first glance, not an insolent goat-faced clown like—Well, I am getting bitter! I hope he'll go soon, in time for me to go over that bill with Pauline before Tom returns. I wonder has he seen it yet? If he has, I shall not be able to look him in the face. One hundred and eighty-four pounds! More than the whole six of us had to live on for two years! One hundred and eighty-four pounds! It grows bigger every time I think of it. One—"
"Addie, Addie, my love!"
She starts, and then leans forward in an attitude of breathless, puzzled expectancy, her hands clasped. Was she dreaming? Did her senses deceive her? Surely a voice whispered her name, a voice that takes her back with a thrill of reluctant pain to a summer night four years ago.
She turns and finds herself clasped in a man's arms, feels a shower of kisses falling on her scared and shrinking face.