Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine
loyally to me at the moment. No; you had cast your chains aside and
were inhaling a breath of freedom--unhallowed freedom, you poor little
bird," he says with dreary sadness--"and I scared you, Addie. You must
let your wings grow again, you must go back to your careless happy
maidenhood, get clear of the shadow I brought on your path."
"I can not do that--I can not do that; it is too late now!"
"You can, you can," he says. "Youth has strong recuperative power; you
will be the same again, Addie, soon. It will all come back; the boys
will bring it, the old home, the old associations will bring it to you.
This short time of trial will fade from your memory; like a thunderous
cloud, it will pass from your sky; you will find, behind, the clear
light of spring. Believe me, it will be so."
She comes over to him, slowly, hesitatingly, and, dropping upon her
knees by his side, seizes his hands.
"Don't, Tom; don't talk like that! What is the use? You married me, and
nothing can divide us now. I am your wife, and I don't want anything
back but your faith in me."
"That you can never recover--at least not in the sense you mean," he
says, freeing his hands gently from her detaining clasp and walking
away from her side. "Do not ask it, please."
"No," she answers, in a low voice, "I will not again."
She rises slowly to her feet, and stands looking blankly out on the
sunny waves. "I will not again," she thinks bitterly, "because anything
I have to give is of no value to him now; even if I had the love of
Juliet to give--which I haven't nor ever could have for any man--even
if I had that, he would not care for it now. I have killed that feeling
in him; I can read it in the weary bitterness of his face. His fancy
for me was sudden, violent, unaccountable even to himself, and it has
died a death as sudden as was its birth--a few wild unmeaning words,
and it is no more. So much for man's constancy! It is well for me that
I did not love him, that he was not the husband of my choice, or this
might have been a bitterer, crueler day than it is. Poor Ariadne! I
wonder did she make much of a fuss when she was left on the rock,
and for how long did she feel it before the other man--I forget his
name--came up and rescued her--eh? Were you speaking?"--aloud, sharply.
"Yes, Addie: I want to know if you will discuss this matter sensibly
with me, and help me to arrive at the most satisfactory arrangement for
our future lives."
"Certainly, if you wish it; I am quite ready. Had we not better take
seats? You must be tired after your long walk."
Her tone is as steady and as matter-of-fact as his own; they sit at the
table facing each other.
"We must begin by accepting the fact--"
"That you have had no breakfast as yet. Am I right?"
"Breakfast?" he repeats absently. "Yes, no--I--I don't remember. No;
now that I come to think, I have had none as yet."
"Will you allow me to ring and order some for you now?"
"Thank you, you are very kind."
When the servant has retired, he resumes quietly--
"By accepting the fact boldly and clearly that we have made a mistake,
you and I, in casting our lots together--You follow me?"
She nods, without speaking.
"But, having done so, it is our duty to look our position steadily,
cheerfully, even, if possible, hopefully in the face, and without
useless repining or mutual recrimination. We are husband and wife
still, in name at least, in the eyes of the law and the world at
large, and nothing but death can free us from that self-imposed
bondage."
"Nothing," she echoes absently.
"Nothing but a contingency which is not likely to occur, and which
therefore I need not discuss with you. The question which now must
occupy us is how to make our future lives as bearable as we can in the
circumstances. If you wish it, we can manage to live apart without
much--"
"No no," she breaks in vehemently, "not that--not that! If you mean
that I am to live at Nutsgrove without you, I will consent to no such
arrangement. I will never return there without you; you can not move me
in that."
"I do not wish to do so. The plan I would propose is that you and
I return there together, as we had originally intended, and, for a
couple of years at least, keep up before the world in general, and
your brothers and sisters in particular"--here he winces for the first
time--"the semblance, the form of union. Do you feel equal to such an
undertaking? Would it be too much for you?"
"No," she answers, almost cheerfully; "it would not. I could do my part
easily."
"Yes," he says, with a melancholy smile, "I suppose you could. You--you
are a capital actress, Addie."
She flushes quickly.
"Not as good as you think--oh, Tom, not as good--"
But he goes on, heedless of the interruption--
"The task will not be so difficult as it may appear to you now. Life
at Nutsgrove will be very different from what it has been here. I,
of course, shall be away at my business all day, and shall have many
interests to occupy me which will not touch your life. You will have
the boys and the girls to look after, your household affairs, and, I
suppose, social engagements which will fill your days pleasantly, I
hope. Then it is decided we return together? You have no other plan you
would like better to suggest?"
"No; let us go home," she says, shortly.
"So be it. We agree to take up the burden of our separate existences
as bravely and as cheerfully as we can, having one tie in common--the
secret of our mistake to hide between us. At the same time, if you
think it necessary or advisable to confide in your brother Robert and
your sister Pauline, I will raise no objection. You have never had, I
heard you say one day, any secret from them as yet."
"No; I don't think I have--at least, not of any importance," she
interrupts hurriedly; "but--but I would rather have this now. I would
rather--oh, much rather they did not even suspect!"
"I think you are right. I think, after mature deliberation, that
the more jealously we guard our unfortunate secret--for a time at
least--the better it will be. For you must know, my dear, that in cases
of this kind--in fact, in almost all cases of family disagreements
and domestic ruptures--no matter how much the man be in fault--and he
is generally the leading culprit--the burden of blame of trouble, of
disgrace even, always falls heaviest on the weakest shoulders. And you
are very young yet, Addie, and you have not many friends; that is why I
have taken it upon myself to advise you as I have done, to advise you
to bear for the present the shelter of my name and protection."
"How good you are--how very good!"
"Hush! You know nothing of me--nothing. Do not criticise, but help me
to render you justice, to repair the wrong I have done you in my--"
"Wrong--wrong? What wrong have you done me?" she asks wildly.
"You are unnerved and excited from want of food and of rest. Here comes
breakfast at last. Afterward you must go and lie down and have a good
sleep; you look as if you wanted it badly."
In constrained silence they finish their meal; then he rises wearily.
"I am going down to the club for an hour or two, and then I shall
have a few letters to write. I hope to see you quite refreshed by
dinner-time. Ugh, how dark and cold the morning has become, hasn't it?
Coming along, I noticed the storm-warning up at the coastguard station.
I'm afraid we're in for bad weather."
"Yes; it looks like a change."
"Would you like to be moving, Addie? Have you had enough of the sea?
We've had a pleasant fortnight here, and splendid weather for the
season. If you'd like to begin moving slowly homeward, I'm quite ready."
"Very well; let us move before the storm then."
"I'll write to-day to Nutsgrove to prepare them for our arrival at the
end of the week."
"Thank you. That will be very nice."
He walks slowly to the door, hesitates for a moment, then returns to
where she sits toying with her spoon.
"You--you bear me no ill-will, Addie? We--we are friends still, are we
not?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so--whatever you like!" she answers coldly. "You
have taken upon yourself the definition of our relationship; let us be
friends certainly, if you think it judicious."
He looks at her for a moment with frowning brow, then says shortly--
"That is all I have to say. We understand each other, I think, at last."
"Do we?"
"And this subject need never be reopened between us; do you hear me,
Addie?"--a little sternly, for she is humming the refrain of a flippant
little song that the band had played on the night before. "I wish the
discussion of this subject not to be renewed. I have said all I want
to say, and I have heard all I want to hear from you. Until this day
twelvemonth I refuse to listen to another word on the subject; on
that day we can compare notes and give each other suggestions for the
improvement of our programme of life. Are you listening? Do you hear
me?"
"Oh, yes, I hear you! Good-morning!"
* * * * *
Later on in the day Addie sits on the rocks where she stood on the
night before muffled in her woolly wrap, her life almost as free from
restraint and vexatious watchfulness as if she still bore her maiden
name. Yes, her days are her own again in all that minor detail of
movement that makes the sum of existence; she can cast aside every
cumbersome article of her _trousseau_, take off her hat, her cloak,
even her shoes and stockings, and paddle in the cool waves, unheeded,
unadmonished. But, such is the inconsistency of woman's nature, with
the power of this freedom for which she has so lately panted, all
desire to exercise it has passed away; she sits very still and subdued,
wrapped up in her cloak, shivering a little, her gray eyes fixed in
troubled perplexity on the tumbling waters.
"Yes," she thinks, with a dreary sigh, "I suppose he is right; there
is no use in crying over spilled milk; it is better to accept the
inevitable, and make the best of it. Fretting and worrying won't mend
matters for him or for me. And, after all, have I not the best things
in life left to me still--my own darling brothers and sisters and the
home I love? They ought to be enough, surely, surely! Oh, yes, yes, I
will do as he wishes! I will put the past from me, forget it, and enjoy
the good things left to me. Is it my fault? I never meant to hurt or
harm him--Heaven knows that--he knows it too--therefore why can't I
be happy by and by? Oh, I must, I must"--with a burst of protesting
passion--"and I will!" Then after a long wistful pause--"If I were
not so heavily weighted! If I had any hope of paying him back, of
lightening the debt! But I have none--none! I got my chance. I've had
my day, and lost it--lost it forever!"
CHAPTER XI.
So Mrs. Armstrong's honeymoon is cut short. Four days later she is
again driving up the well-worn avenue of Nutsgrove.
It is a lovely afternoon, and, as Addie peers out of the window, a
great gladness fills her heart, for every flower seems to bow its head
to her in fragrant welcome, and standing on the doorstep are Pauline
and Lottie waving their handkerchiefs, surrounded by half a dozen dogs
giving joyous tongue, while the Widow, at a discreet distance inside
the porch, is purring melodiously.
"How lovely it all looks!" she cries, hugging the girls rapturously.
"How jolly it is to get home again! It seems ages and ages since I left
you all. Oh, Tom"--turning to her husband, who is trying to silence the
dogs--"don't stop them! They're only telling me how glad they are to
have me back--their bark is music."
"You look a little tired," says Pauline, critically.
"We've been traveling since eleven. Oh, how I should like a--"
"Cup of tea. Addie, Addie, I see you retain your old habits!" laughs