Addie's Husband; or, Through clouds to sunshine
"This is jolly, and no mistake!" she laughs delightedly, nibbling a
wrinkled sapless apple. "If the aunt could see me now, there would be
some sense in calling me a squirrel. How sweet and still the old place
looks! Not a soul about hacking or hammering at anything to-day. I
am in luck. Now to work steadily and conscientiously. 'For what was
ancient Babylon famed?' Let me see--let me see. Oh, yes, I know! For
its hanging gardens, lofty walls, and the luxurious effeminacy of its
inhabitants. Hanging gardens! How funny! I wonder if they were as nice
as mine! I wonder if ever a poor Babylonian girl came up and swung in
one to have a peep at her dear lost home that she never--never--"
A sudden heavy swaying movement, an angry, cracking sound, and the next
second, with a sounding thud, Miss Lefroy and her book are deposited
side by side on the turf beneath.
"I think--I think I have broken something--something besides the
branch," pants Addie, half-stunned with pain--"my--my ankle I suppose.
Oh, oh, it is awful! I--I never felt anything like it before. Oh, what
shall I do? I feel so queer--so faint--so--so--"
A cold perspiration breaks over her quivering face, she swerves from
side to side, and then her head falls forward helplessly on the ground,
on a line with her crippled foot.
How long she lies thus she does not know; but, after a time, she is
dimly conscious of a man's arm raising her head, and forcing some
strong spirit through her lips, which, after reviving her for a
moment, sends her into a pleasant painless dream, from which she at
last awakens to find herself lying on a soft couch, her foot firmly
bandaged, a pile of cushions supporting her head, and a picture of
a Dutch fishing-scene which hung between the drawing room windows
at Nutsgrove facing her. She can not be mistaken; there is the same
"soapsuddy" sea, the same fat grimy boat all over on one side, the same
lovely gamboge sunset behind the distant pier, the same massive molded
frame, only well dusted and regilt.
She glances round and quickly recognizes other friends of her
childhood--an old Chippendale cupboard, a Louis Quatorze table, a
tapestried screen, and a pair of large Dresden vases.
"Why, it is Nutsgrove! I am in the drawing-room!" she cries, rubbing
her startled eyes. "The chairs, the carpet, the curtains, are
different; but the room--the room is the same. What does it mean? Who
brought me here?"
A buxom housekeeper who has been bandaging her foot answers at once,
"The master, Mr. Armstrong, brought you here, miss, in his dog-cart
about twenty minutes ago. He saw you lying in a dead faint under a
tree in the grove as he was driving home from Kelvick. I hope you
feel better now; I bathed your foot in hot water according to his
directions, and the swelling went down a good deal. The doctor will be
here in a minute. Ah, here he is already!"
Dr. Newton, after a hurried inspection, says that the ankle is only
slightly sprained, bandages it up again, orders an embrocation to be
applied twice a day, and then speeds off to a dying patient.
"You are looking much better, Miss Lefroy; are you quite free from pain
now?"
Addie turns with a start and finds the new master of Nutsgrove standing
behind her.
He is a tall heavily-built man of about thirty-eight, keen-eyed,
rugged-featured, with a dark strong face, the lower part of which is
entirely concealed by a tawny brown beard hanging low on his broad
chest. A decidedly powerful looking plebeian is Tom Armstrong of
Kelvick.
"Thank you--almost," she answers, a little flurried by his massive
incongruous appearance in that well-known room. "I feel quite restored
now; and I have to thank you, Mr. Armstrong, very much for your prompt
and kindly rescue."
"Pray don't mention it, Miss Lefroy; I was only too glad to have been
of assistance to you. You quite startled me at first, you looked so
still and white lying on the ground."
"I wish he'd sit down, or move away, or do something," thinks Addie
impatiently; "he's so big, he oppresses me and spoils the room." Aloud
she says, with a slightly nervous laugh, "I fell from the tree, you
know, and broke your lovely branch. It was so--so funny! I had just
been reading about the hanging gardens of--of--what's its name?"
"Babylon."
"Yes, Babylon--when down I came with such a thud! I suppose I must have
fainted then, or something, though I can't understand how I did such a
silly thing; it's the first time in my life it ever happened."
"You must have had a very heavy fall."
"Oh, but I've had much worse falls than that! I've come through trap
doors in lofts no end of times. I crashed through a glass-house once
and cut myself horribly. I've been bitten by dogs, had my hands
squeezed in doors and wedged in machinery--all sorts of accidents, in
fact--and I certainly never fainted after them. I'm sure I don't know
what the boys will say when they hear of it." She stops suddenly, with
an air of startled dignity, seeing the ghost of a smile hover round her
host's bearded mouth. "But I am detaining you, Mr. Armstrong; pray--"
"You are not indeed, Miss Lefroy," he answers easily. "I am free from
business in the afternoon. Would you not like me to send a message
to your aunt to let her know where you are, as the doctor thinks it
advisable that you should rest here for an hour before moving again?"
"It is not necessary, thank you. I told her I should probably not
return until the evening, so she won't be uneasy. I'm very sorry to
have to trespass so long on your hospitality," she says stiffly.
He waves aside the apology without comment.
"You must have found it very strange to awake and discover yourself in
this room, Miss Lefroy. Did you know where you were at once?"
"Yes, and--no. It was such a surprise, I could not tell whether I was
asleep or awake at first," she answers more naturally. "You--you have
not changed the room so much, Mr. Armstrong; the tone of the paintings,
of the carpet and curtains, is much as it was, and you have many of the
old things too. That's mother's old screen by the fireplace, just as
it always stood. She worked it when she was a girl at school. But that
corner over there by the second window is quite different--where that
_jardinière_ stands, I mean. That used to be my special little parlor.
I kept my old work-box there, papier-mâché desk, and two little padded
baskets for Andrew Jackson and the Widow Malone."
"For whom?"
"My dog and cat; we had one each. I gave Andrew to Mr. Rossitor, but
the poor Widow disappeared two days before the--the--auction, and I
have never seen her since."
There is a short uncomfortable pause.
"You--you were fond of your old home, were you not, Miss Lefroy?" he
asks presently.
The girl's gray eyes flash angrily, her cheeks deepen to a dusky glow;
she answers not a word. He looks at her seriously, a little sadly, in
no whit abashed by the eloquent rebuke of her silence. She glances at
the clock and half rises.
"I--I really must be going now, Mr. Armstrong; my aunt will be getting
uneasy, and my foot feels much better."
"Won't you at least wait to take a cup of tea, Miss Lefroy? The
carriage is not round yet--let me persuade you."
She hesitates; her eyes fall on the tea-tray that is being brought
that minute into the room, bearing most appetizing fare--a pile of
hot-buttered toast, a jug of delicious cream, home-made plum-cake, a
few dishes of fresh fruit resting on cool green leaves.
The servant lays his burden on a side-table, preparing to officiate,
when he is interrupted by a shrill cry from Miss Lefroy.
"Our old Crown Derby set! Our dear old set! Oh, have you got it--have
you really got it? Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Armstrong, let me pour out the
tea; do--just for this once! I always did it--always since I was seven
years old--and I never broke anything. Let me--do!"
Mr. Armstrong laughs outright at this impulsive appeal, at the eager,
childish face and outstretched hands. He motions to the butler to bring
the table to Miss Lefroy's couch. Blushing somewhat at the effect
of her outburst, and heedless of medical advice, she struggles into
an upright position and softly caresses the delicate surface of the
sugar-basin.
"There was a chip on the lip of the cream-jug. Yes, it's there still.
Hal did it when he was a baby. I see you've had a handle put on to this
cup. How neatly it is done!" sighs Addie, discontentedly acknowledging
to herself that even during his short tenancy the bachelor-master of
Nutsgrove has made some marked efforts to remove the stains, rents,
seams of their untidy reckless childhood, to purify his orderly
household from all trace of their damaging footprints, as Bob said he
would. What wonderful penetration, what knowledge of the world the
dear boy had! Yes, all would come to pass as he had prophesied; a few
years more and she would not know the old home again. This was her last
glimpse, her farewell view; that handle to the cup was the beginning of
the end, the key-note to the reign of paint, of varnish, of vandalic
renovation and commercial "improvements" that were to wreck the home
she loved.
But Addie does not linger long over these somber forebodings, for the
urn is hissing at her elbow, and duty and instinct claim her undivided
attention for the moment. In virtue of her twelve years' office she
has arrived at a pitch of perfection in the art of tea-making which
commands the family respect. Before the tea-pot she reigns supreme;
no one ever questions her authority or presumes to criticise the
quality of her brew, and her sarcastic information in reply to a
request for a fourth cup--"Certainly; as long as there's water there's
tea"--is always received in meek silence, from fear lest she, being a
hot-tempered and ofttimes hopelessly huffy young person, might throw
up office and leave the family at the mercy of either Pauline or Aunt
Jo, both of whom have been tried and found dismally wanting during her
temporary illnesses. She knows to a grain the quantity of sugar each
member requires, to a drop the cream; she knows who likes "mustard,"
whose nerves and tender years exact "wash," who requires a sensible and
palatable "go between."
Therefore, Addie unable to throw aside the patronizing attitude of
years, more or less overcome by the beloved familiarity of her
surroundings, rattles the enemy's rich-toned crockery with the same
freedom and brisk importance as if she were handling Ellen Higgins's
coarse "chaney" in the farm parlor.
"Do you take cream and sugar, Mr. Armstrong?"
"Cream and sugar," he repeats stupidly, as if half asleep--"cream and
sugar? How? Where?"
"Where?" Addie answers, a touch of elder-sisterly impatience in her
voice. "Where? In your tea, of course!"
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure. How dull I am! Yes, both, please."
This is the first time in his thirty-eight years of life that a lady
has presided at Tom Armstrong's tea-board, and the strangeness of the
circumstance has for the moment paralyzed his attention. He has had a
motherless, sisterless, almost homeless childhood; no woman's gentle
influence and refining contact have smoothed the rugged upward path
that he has been climbing for more than a quarter of a century. In his
springtide, when men's fancies are apt to "lightly turn to thoughts of
love," he was too absorbed in prosaic business and ambitious dreams
of wealth and power to have time for sweethearting like most young
fellows of his age and position. He has never strolled down country
lanes on soft Sabbath morns, his arm encircling the plump waist of some
apple-cheeked Mary Jane or Susan Ann; he has never picnicked with her
under scented hawthorn-hedges, or drunk tea with her, seasoned with
shrimps and radishes, at rustic inns or in beer-tainted summer-houses.