Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine
"I said nothing particular--neither 'Yes' nor 'No.' I said I wanted
time to consider and consult with you all."
"Thank Heaven, thank Heaven!" Miss Darcy's quivering voice breaks the
silence as she half staggers with arms outstretched toward her niece.
"And I had begun to doubt--to question Providence! I am rebuked now--I
am rebuked now. Addie, my dearest, you have made me a happy old woman
to-night!"
"I knew you would be pleased--would wish me to--to accept him," says
Addie softly, a little impressed by her heartfelt emotion; "it was the
others I felt doubtful about--whose opinion I wanted."
She looks round at the flushed faces of her brothers and sisters; but,
of the four, three, though evidently eager to give their opinions,
are afraid to open their mouths until "Robert the Magnificent," the
recognized head of the family, arbiter of its ethics and manners, has
first given tongue.
He walks round slowly from the fireplace, lays his hand heavily
upon his sister's shoulder, and then says, in a tone crisp, terse,
Napoleonic--
"Marry him! Shut your eyes, my girl, and swallow him as if he were a
pill."
"Oh, Robert, I--I couldn't do that! One could swallow anything but a
husband. A husband is always there; he can't be swallowed."
"Yes, he can. You don't understand those things, child. After the first
gulp, you won't notice him; one husband is much the same as another,
after a bit. It's his surroundings, not his personality, that will
affect your life and your happiness; and they are good--the best of
their kind."
"Oh, Bob, Bob, I never thought you would take it like this!" breaks in
Addie, half crying.
"Addie, child, my first thought is your welfare; all selfish emotions,
all inward stings must subside before that consideration. You'll not
get another chance like this; and we Lefroys must e'en bow our haughty
heads and swim with the tide. We're not prepared to pull against it; we
should only sink in the struggle. Marry him, Addie, my dear. It will be
as I have said, a bit of a wrench at first, but you'll soon get over
it, and you will always have your family to fall back upon. We shall
be always there, never you fear, to stand by you--to brush him up for
you, to--"
"Oh, yes, yes," bursts in an eager impassioned chorus, "we'll stand by
you, Addie, darling!"
"We'll brush him up for you!"
"We'll tone him down; you'll see--you'll see!"
"Marry him--marry him, dear! Never mind his vulgarity."
"Never mind the vitriol or the chemical ma--"
"Or the grocer's van, or anything. You'll have us and the old place
back again. What does anything else signify? Marry him, marry him,
Addie!"
Poor Addie, overwhelmed by the vigor and unanimity of the verdict
against her, so different from what she has expected, turns from one to
another, and then whimpers pathetically--
"It's all very fine you talking like that; but--but, if you were in my
place, how would you feel? I don't believe you'd marry him, Pauline,
not for all--"
"Wouldn't I, just?" breaks in Pauline stoutly. "Why, I'd marry him if
he were three times as old and as plain and as common as he is! Marry
him? Why I'd marry an Irish invincible, I'd marry the hangman himself,
in the circumstances! His age is another score in your favor, Addie;
he's a man pretty well on in life, I should say."
"Only thirty-seven," she puts in moodily.
"Well, thirty-seven is a good age--nearly double your own, child; and a
man like him, who has had such a hard life of it, who has been scraping
up sixpences since he was four years old, is sure to break up early--he
can't stand the strain much after his prime. The chances are ten to one
you'll be a free woman before you're thirty. Think of that, my dear!"
"Oh, yes, think of that, Addie! Think of yourself as a lovely--well,
not exactly lovely, but extremely nice young widow, with lots of money,
living at Nutsgrove, and we all around you, happy as the day is long!
Oh, wouldn't it be too awfully lovely!"
Addie shakes her head, wipes her eyes slowly, and tries to smile.
Pauline kisses her wet cheek coaxingly, Robert pats her plump shoulder.
There is a moment's soothing silence, broken by Lottie, who has also
crept up to her side, asking in an eager whisper--
"Addie, tell us what he said--what he did. Is he awfully in love, like
Guy was in the 'Heir of Redcliffe,' you know? Did he try to--"
"Lottie, Lottie," Addie answers angrily, with flaming cheeks, "what
silly, what absurd questions you do ask! I never met a child like you."
"I don't see how I am so idiotic," she rejoins aggrievedly. "Why should
Mr. Armstrong want to marry you unless he were in love with you, I'd
like to know?"
"Why?" repeats Robert loftily. "I think the reason ought to be patent
even to your immature comprehension, Lottie."
Addie looks at him with an expression of sudden interest.
"Bob, do you know I'm afraid I'm quite as dull as Lottie--for--for--I
don't see his reason for wishing to marry me. What is it?"
"He is marrying you for your position, of course. What other reason
could he have?"
"My position? Oh!"
"Yes, your position. He has money, he has lands, he wishes to found a
family and sink the manufacturer in the squire; therefore, like all
of his class, he looks about him for a wife who will bring breeding,
ancestry, position as a dowry, the only means by which he can creep
into county society. His eye naturally falls on you, the eldest
daughter of the House of Lefroy; he seeks to reinstate you as mistress
of your forefathers' acres. And what follows this move? Why, without
an effort on his part, without one introductory cringe, the gates of
county society are swung open to him through you, and his end effected.
By Jove, now that I come to think of it, it's a jolly smart move on his
part! I didn't give him credit for such clear-sightedness; he's a sharp
fellow, and no mistake. Good thing for you, Addie--you'll have me at
hand to look after your settlements. I'll keep a sharp eye on him!"
"So that is his reason, his motive!" thinks Addie, with contemptuous
bitterness. "Of course it is a much more likely solution than--than
that airy nonsense about the cup of tea. I wonder how a man, a big
middle-aged man like him can be so full of littleness, of meanness,
and--and--hypocrisy!"
"Yes," resumes Bob, with cynical fluency, "that is his little game; and
his next move will be to gently push the family cognomen from behind
the scenes and bring our identity to the fore. He'll begin after a
year or two by tacking 'Lefroy' on to 'Armstrong;' you'll be 'Mrs.
Lefroy Armstrong of Nutsgrove,' my dear; then a hyphen will be smuggled
in; after that you'll become 'Mrs. Armstrong-Lefroy of Nutsgrove;'
and, by Jove, before your son and heir reaches maturity probably,
he'll be as clean a Lefroy, at least in name, as would have been his
poor disinherited uncle but for the irony of fate. You must call him
'Robert,' after me, Addie."
But this generous speech has not the soothing effect intended, for
Addie, with red, angry face, starts to her feet and shakes off her
clinging family passionately.
"How do you know I shall ever marry him at all? I never said I would;
and I'm sure I won't now--I'm sure I won't. I might have done so
before--before, when I didn't understand; but, now that you have shown
me what he is, I won't be the staff to prop his mean snobbishness. Let
him get pedigree and breeding somewhere else; he shall not buy them
from me, big as his price is!"
Dismay appalls the family at this unexpected turn of affairs; the
unfortunate orator and elucidator stands staring with open mouth,
not able to produce a protesting sound. Aunt Jo it is who briskly
and successfully comes to the rescue. She has taken no part in the
discussion, but has sat at the window apart in a soothing daydream,
her heart singing a canticle of joy that the days of her bondage are
at last closing in--sat, living through in happy prospective the
coming year, established once more in her neat, comfortable little
house, where the day worked itself out from sunrise to sunset with
the soothing regularity of clock-work, where the voice of insulting
tradesmen never penetrated, where all was peace, neatness, comfortable
economy, and respectability.
"Robert, Pauline, Henry," she cries sharply, roused by Addie's
disastrous wrath, "what are you tormenting the poor child about,
talking of things you do not in the least understand? Don't you see
that she is perfectly worn out with exhaustion and excitement and the
pain of her foot. Come to bed, child, come to bed; you're not in a
state to be up. I'll make you a nice hot drink that will send you to
sleep at once. Here's your stick. What a grand one it is! Where did you
get it? From Mr. Armstrong? Well, it's like himself, strong, reliable,
and stout-limbed."
CHAPTER VII.
"How does your ankle feel this morning?"
"Better--much better, thank you. In a day or two it will be quite
strong again."
Miss Lefroy is seated in a moldy old summer-house at a corner of the
farm-house garden, shelling a dish of peas, little Emma Higgins, her
landlady's youngest but two, helping her with zealous dirty fingers.
Unable any longer to bear the horsehair hardness of the parlor sofa and
the stuffiness of the house, she has escaped hither, heedless of her
aunt's protestations.
Mr. Armstrong stands leaning against the rotting woodwork, supporting a
starved clematis-stalk, making the whole building creak and quiver with
the weight of his brawny shoulders.
"Mr. Armstrong, spare us!" laughs Addie nervously. "We're two such
miserable little specimens of the Philistine, Emmy and I--we're
scarcely worth destruction."
"I don't know about that. If measles or croup had carried off Delilah
when she was as young and harmless-looking as you, Miss Lefroy, why,
Samson might have died in his bed. May I enter? There are no scissors
on the premises?"
"No; your beard is quite safe; you may enter if you like."
"I went to the farm first, and your aunt directed me here," he says,
taking a seat beside her on the stone slab.
"I got tired of the house--it was so close. The smell of the laborers'
dinner toward midday is very strong everywhere; it flavors even the
sweetbrier outside the parlor window; so I came here."
"Yes, it was a good move."
A silence follows; Addie wildly racks her brain for a sensible remark,
but finds not one. He, resting his arm on the table, for some moments
contentedly watches the movement of her slim brown fingers.
"Miss Lefroy, you are throwing the pods into the dish and the peas on
the ground. Is that--"
"So I am, so I am!" she answers petulantly. "But I can't do anything
when I'm--I'm watched like--that. Mr. Armstrong"--with sudden desperate
bluntness--"you have come for your answer, have you not? Well, I have
consulted them all, and they think it ought to be 'Yes.'"
"Then you will marry me, Miss Lefroy?"
"I suppose so."
He takes her unresisting hand and holds it in a strong cool clasp,
while every nerve in her body tingles with the impulse to snatch it
rudely from him; but she resists it, and merely says, panting a little--
"I must go in now with the peas."
"Oh, not yet! There is time enough surely!"
"No; they are wanted for early dinner, and take a great deal of
boiling."
"Where's little Emmy? Gone off! Then I will take them in myself and
bring you out some cushions and footstools; your ankle is not at all
properly supported. I wonder your brothers or sisters did not look
after you better!"
As soon as he disappears Addie hobbles out eagerly, and looks around.
Spying Lottie prowling among the gooseberry bushes she hails her
imperatively.
"Lottie, come here at once! Where are the others?"