Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine

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 the _menu_, as it seems we have the reputation at the club of having the best-flavored _entrées_ and 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 absolutely _en famille_ during 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 only laughs 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." CHAPTER XX. "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!'"