Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine

rights and working-men's wrongs, and the rest of it! Why, he's one of the tallest talkers at mechanics' institute meeting, union _soirées_, corporate gatherings in Kelvick! You should just hear him in the chair! Why, he has a flow of steady municipal oratory that would simply surprise you! I must smuggle you into the gallery some evening, Addie, and you can hear your lord spout." "And me too, Bob," pleads Lottie, who is listening most attentively. "I should like to hear Tom in the chair too; I'm sure he has very little to say in any of our chairs. Polly and I have to do all the talk of an evening; he's generally as quiet as a mouse. And, as for toning him down, polishing him up--you remember, Bob, what you said we should have to do when he married Addie? Why, I really don't see there's any need for it all! Tom is quite as polite and as well behaved as any one else who comes here." "Lottie, Lottie, what are you talking about?" breaks in Bob, his face reddening unpleasantly. "I never said anything of the kind!" "But Bob, you did--you know you did--and so did Polly, too; but you forget. You said we should have to teach him how to enter a room, to sit at table, eat his dinner, and behave like a gentleman. You said he'd put his knife in his mouth instead of his fork, drink his soup like an alderman, sop up his gravy with bread, and so on. And he does nothing of the kind; he just eats his dinner like you, or me, or any one. I watched him carefully from the very first night. Polly, Polly, you're kicking my shins! Oh, oh! What's the matter? What have I--" "The matter!" cried Polly, in a low angry voice. "The matter is that I strongly suspect you'll end the year at Miss Swishtale's; and I sincerely hope it may be so." "Oh, Polly, I'm so sorry!" whines Lottie, looking at her eldest sister walking away quickly with very bright cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes as of unshed tears. "But I never can remember she's married to him; they're not a bit like husband and wife--you know they're not--and she's always Addie Lefroy to me." "Then let me once more impress on you the fact that she's not Addie Lefroy, and never will be again," says Pauline, with impressive impatience. "And you, Bob, ought to be more guarded in what you say, and not criticise her husband as freely as you do. I can see she does not like it." * * * * * Addie walks slowly down the hall, seeing her husband--the door of his study standing ajar--writing at his desk. She pauses for a moment, moves on hesitatingly, and then hurries forward and knocks briskly. "It is you! Pray come in, Addie," he said politely, rising to meet her. "Won't you sit down?" "No, I won't detain you; I see you are busy. I--I only came to tell you that Bob has just informed me that you have some idea of standing for Kelvick at the next election, and he--he seemed to think it strange I had heard nothing about it from you." "But I have no denned idea of standing for Kelvick, and the election is many months off yet. I should certainly have spoken to you on the matter, had I begun to think seriously of it myself. It is not too late now. What are your views? Are you as anxious as your brother Robert that I should go in for senatorial honors?" Then, with a quick cold smile, seeing she does not answer--"Would you care for the mystic initials 'W. M. P.' after your name, my dear?" "'W. M .P.'! What do they stand for?" "'Wife of member of Parliament.' Haven't you read 'Our Mutual Friend'? No? Then you ought to do so; it's a capital book." "If you went into Parliament," she says slowly, "you would have to spend a couple of months in town, would you not--would have to tear yourself away from the bosom of your family for nearly a quarter of a year at a time? That would be a--a trial you ought to consider, I think." "I will consider all the drawbacks and advantages of the position carefully, before I commit myself, you may be sure. I will not--" "Do anything in a hurry again," she puts in quickly, her eyes smoldering. "You are right. It would be a mistake." He takes not the slightest notice of the taunt; she, looking defiantly, wistfully into his strong swarthy face, lit up with that smile of genial indifference it always wears when by rare chance they find themselves alone together, acknowledges to herself with a pang that she is bruising herself in vain, that no movement of her restless, petulant little hand will move him from the position he has taken, that no frown, no laugh, no tear, no sigh, will soften the granite of his face or nature, or bring his life nearer to hers again. "What is your programme for the afternoon?" he asks, in a tone of polite interest. "It is a pity not to avail yourselves of this pleasant weather, with bleak November within a week of our heels." "We were thinking of riding over to Beeton Hall--Robert, Polly, and I--to see Mrs. Morgan's apiary, I think she called it; it ought to be amusing. I know I always enjoyed the monkey-house at the Zoo better than anything else." Armstrong's shield is lowered for a minute; he looks up into his wife's childish face with a smile that brings back to her the short warm fortnight by the sea, and makes her mutter to herself: "How almost nice-looking he would be if he always smiled in that way! I suppose I must have said something startlingly idiotic to make him look natural all of a moment like that." "'Apiary'?" he repeats. "Did you expect to see monkeys in Mrs. Morgan's apiary, Addie?" "Apes?" she answers stoutly. "Of course we did--Polly, Robert, all of us. We expected to see monkeys, apes, chimpanzees, gorillas even; she said it was a splendid one. What are we to see, Tom?" "Bees, Addie." "Bees," she echoes blankly--"only bees! I do call that a 'sell,' and no mistake! Going to ride nine miles to see a lot of stupid old bees! Oh, won't the others be just mad! And Polly and I after stuffing our saddles with sugar and nuts and eau-de-Cologne--oh, dear!" "I sympathize with you, my dear; and I think Robert might have remembered enough of his Latin to know that _apis_ means 'bee.'" "Such a long uninteresting ride too along the quarry road!" she grumbles. "I--I suppose you wouldn't be tempted to join our festive party, would you?" "Unfortunately I have to return to Kelvick. I'm engaged to dine with Challice the banker." "At his club?" "No; at his private residence." "Oh, I see! I suppose you'll have a very pleasant evening?" "I hope so. By the bye, I think I'll remain at the factory all night. They generally keep it up rather late at the bank-house. Challice is an indefatigable whist-player." "Miss Challice, is she a good player?" "Very fair; she plays a steady hand." "I--I suppose now she'd know that an apiary wasn't an ape-house?" "I never had occasion to sound her knowledge in the matter; but I should say she would." Addie draws a quick resentful breath, leans over her husband as he is placidly stamping his letters, and whispers in his ear: "What a pity you didn't marry her, Tom, instead of me!" With this parting shot she flies from the room. CHAPTER XIV. "Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy. Lady Portrann at home Tuesday, the 16th of January, 10 P.M. Dancing." "Addie, that means a ball, doesn't it? How delightful! You're going, of course?" "I suppose so. Mr. Armstrong wishes it." "And you'll wear your white _broché_ and pearls. Oh, isn't it well for you?" groans Pauline wistfully. "Miss Lefroy--that's me, of course. It was nice of them to ask me, wasn't it, Addie?" "Yes. I suppose they did not know you were still in the school-room, Polly." "I'm past seventeen, and eldest daughter now that you're married and done for, Addie, and I do think it's hard lines keeping me down." "If Mr. Armstrong wishes to give you the advantage of education, no matter how late, I think you ought to be extremely grateful to him, instead of grumbling as you continually do," says Mrs. Armstrong severely. "You're so remarkably well educated yourself, Addie," retorts Pauline, "you can well afford to preach. Didn't you see how Tom stared the other night when you asked him which would take longest, to go to New York or Calcutta? I'm sure, if he keeps me in the school-room, he ought to keep you too. 'Lady Portrann at home, 10 P.M. Dancing.' How lovely it sounds! How I wish I could go, just to see what it would be like! I wouldn't dance, you know, Addie, or wear a silk dress, or anything in that way, but just sit in a corner and look on quietly; and--and don't you think, if you put it to your husband mildly like, that he might--might--" "I think nothing in the matter, my dear," answers Addie decisively; "and I'll put nothing to my husband, mildly or otherwise; so it's of no use asking me." "Don't then!" "I won't." The sisters glare at each other; then Addie moves away, humming a tune, and the vexed question is not alluded to again that day. The next morning, when she is seated at her desk, composing her acceptance, Pauline bounces in with dancing eyes and leans over her. "'Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong have much pleasure in accepting--' It won't do--it won't do! You'll have to begin again, my dear, though this is the third sheet I see you've spoiled. Begin again, Addie, begin: I'll dictate to you-- "'Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy have much pleasure in accepting Lady Portrann's kind invitation for Tuesday, the 16th proximo.' Yes, you may stare; but I'm going to the ball. Tom says I may, if I can get your consent; and I know I shall get that--you couldn't be such a--a--fiend, Addie, as to refuse when he has consented?" "I suppose I couldn't," she answers meekly, attacking her fourth sheet. "If I did, you'd lead me such a life that--" "I should, dear," admits Miss Lefroy briskly--"I certainly should. Now give me the note; I'll put it into the post-bag myself." "Wait a moment, Polly! About your dress? As you don't mean to dance, I suppose one of your ordinary evening grenadines, with a little furbishing up, will do very well?" "But, as I do happen to mean to dance if I'm asked, one of my ordinary evening grenadines won't do for the occasion at all." "But I thought you said--" "I said nothing to Tom, but just asked if I might go, and he answered 'Yes,' without conditions or qualifications of any kind. So I'll go now in regular _tenue_." "Then you can have one of my _trousseau_ dresses--that pretty blue silk, if you like; our figures are not very unlike, and a little altering--" "Thanks, dear--you are very kind; but, as this is my first ball, I must appear in virgin white, and I could not exactly wear your wedding dress, could I?" "I shall wear it myself." "Exactly. So I think we had better order the carriage this morning, and we'll drive to Kelvick and interview Armine at once on the subject. I know what I'll have to a flounce--the exact copy of a dress described in the 'Queen' last week--it was worn at a Sandringham ball--all white satin and gauze with clustering bunches of white lilac and maiden-hair, and a corsage of that lovely pearl _passementerie_." "Pearl _passementerie_, satin, gauze! Pauline, are you aware that those are about three of the most expensive materials you could hit upon? Where is the money to come from?" "The money is here; don't trouble your head about that!" breaks in Pauline, triumphantly displaying a bundle of crisp notes. "He gave me it at once, and said besides that anything over and above was to be entered to your account at Madame Armine's. Now are you satisfied?" "Satisfied!" she echoes passionately. "Satisfied! Oh, Polly, Polly, dear sister, I wish you wouldn't--wouldn't take money like that! And