Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine

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. CHAPTER XXI. "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 of _Venus Victrix_ with 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 last five 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 you _bon 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