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

Pauline. "Come inside; it's all ready in the drawing-room."

"You thoughtful child! Well, Polly, I think this is as near heaven

to me as any spot on earth could be," she says a little tremulously,

sinking upon the sofa beside the tray. "No let me, dear; I'm not too

tired for that. Where's Tom? Where's my husband?"

"Oh, he has disappeared, as any well-behaved husband would in the

circumstances! I see you have him in training already, Addie."

"But he might like a cup of tea; he has not had anything since

breakfast."

"He'll have a glass of wine or something in the dining-room," Pauline

declares lightly. "Don't bother about him, now, but tell us about

everything. You've had a real good time of it, haven't you, Addie?"

"It was very nice," she answers, with cautious guardedness--"weather

lovely, delicious bathing in the morning, drives in the afternoon, and

then the band on the pier at night. I think I told you all about it in

my letters."

"Addie," asks Lottie, her great staring eyes fixed on her sister's

uneasy face, "what's a honeymoon like? Is it very nice? Do you think I

shall enjoy my honeymoon?"

"Oh, Lottie, how can I tell. It depends."

"Depends entirely whether you spend it with Mr. Right, I should say, my

dear," puts in Pauline.

"With Mr. Right? I don't understand. Who is Mr. Right, Pauline? I don't

know him."

"Well, I suppose Mr. Right is not Mr. Wrong, Lottie. That's all I can

tell you about him at present."

"Oh, I see, I see! What a good way of putting it! Addie, is your

husband Mr. Ri--"

"Lottie, if you ask me another question until I have finished my tea, a

certain brown-paper parcel at the bottom of my trunk addressed to you

will go to-morrow to the Children's Hospital at Kelvick," answers Addie

desperately.

Lottie's voice is not heard for twenty minutes.

"Now is your time, girls, to tell me everything about every one," Addie

says presently, her spirits reviving--"dear Aunt Jo, and the boys?"

"All flourishing. I had a letter this morning from Aunt Jo, inclosing

her grandmother's--Lady Susan Something's--famous recipe for catchup

promised to you as a wedding-dower, Addie. And Hal likes his school,

for a wonder, immensely; he is full of football, and cricket, and the

rest of it. It seems to me that the paths to knowledge are made as

flowery as possible at Dr. Jellett's."

"And Bob, dear Bob?"

"Oh, Bob's coming on too! But he has to begin at the beginning, you

know!"

"Of course, naturally; he couldn't be expected to turn out at once a

full-blown clerk."

"No," allows Pauline, with a light laugh, "he couldn't. He is learning

to write now--not a soul in the office could read his drafts at

first--and after that he'll have to turn his attention to spelling, and

then, I believe, to the multiplication table."

"Oh, dear," exclaims Addie, very much taken aback, "is it as bad

as that? I'm afraid he'll be rather a nuisance in the office than

otherwise."

"Yes, I expect so, for the present. But he'll tell you all about it

himself on Sunday."

"Is he coming on Sunday?"--eagerly.

"Of course! Why, you seem to forget that Kelvick is only seven miles

off and they shut up shop--I mean, the office closes early on Saturday.

I expect we shall have him over here every week--won't it be jolly,

Addie?--and Hal too."

"And Hal too?"

"Yes. Jellett's boys are free to return to the bosom of their

families, if they like, from Saturday to Monday; and I believe Mr.

Armstrong wrote himself to tell him to be sure to come and welcome you

home. Didn't he tell you?"

"No."

"Then he meant it as a surprise, I suppose."

"And--and, Addie," puts in Lottie, cautiously recovering voice, "Sunday

is my birthday, you know, and I'm going to ask Mr. Armstrong if we may

all have tea in the woods as usual. Do you think he'll let us? He is

not a strict Sunday-man, is he, Addie? I hope not."

"Sabbatarian, you mean. I don't know. You can tap his theology

yourself, Lottie."

"I will the moment he comes in. I'm not a bit afraid of him, Addie. I

don't think he's at all the bugbear the boys used to make him out long

ago. Don't you remember, before you were mar--"

"Come along, come along," cries Pauline, springing to her feet, "and

see everything! Your room has been done up beautifully, Addie, and

there are new carpets everywhere. And who d'ye think you have got for

your housekeeper, my dear? Why, old Sally herself!"

"Old Sally--mother's old nurse?"

"The same. It seems Aunt Jo recommended her to your husband's patronage

on the score of her serf-like fidelity to the family and her many

other virtues, her bargaining powers, _et cætera_; and so he appointed

her housekeeper. She was in the hall when you came in; but you didn't

notice her; and no wonder--I doubt if you'll recognize her even after

introduction--she's so grand in her black silk dress and lace cap, with

manners, my dear, quite _en suite_. You can see she means to live up to

the tone of your restored establishment, Addie. You could never imagine

her skirmishing at the back-door now, with abusive butchers and bakers,

or trying to wheedle a pound of tea out of the grocer--oh, no!"

"Addie, Addie, look at the new piano; isn't it grand? 'Annie Laurie,'

even without the variations, sounds lovely on it, and when you put down

the pedal it's quite like a band."

"Oh, don't bother about the piano, Goggles--plenty of time to see that.

Come out and look at your ponies, Addie--such a delightful pair!--and

the phaeton to match. Oh, won't it be grand, us three bowling along in

it all over the country! The groom says they go at such a pace. Come

on, come on; you look half asleep, Addie! What's the matter?"

"Joy," answers Addie, with rather a shrill laugh--"joy tempered by a

touch of indigestion. How can I swallow all these good things at a

gulp? Let me dispose of the piano before I attack the ponies and old

Sally in _poult de soie_. Give me breathing-time, sisters, I pray you."

* * * * *

Saturday brings the boys, boisterous and jubilant. The five young

people spend the balmy September noon poking about all the haunts of

the past, paying pilgrimages to the shrine of their childish pleasures

and mishaps, hunting up scraps of personal property, moldy relics in

outhouses and farm-sheds; and Addie, all the troubles of her short

matronhood laid aside, in a plain unflounced skirt--the simplest in

her _trousseau_--thickly booted, trips by their side and enters into

all their pleasures with a heart, for the time being, as light as their

own.

It is after six o'clock when they return, stained, dusty, disheveled,

to prepare for dinner and a decorous greeting of their host.

"I say, Addie," asked Bob incidentally, "isn't it time your skipper was

due? Does he stick to the shop all Saturday too?"

"I don't know," she answers, suddenly, sobered by this the first

allusion to her absent lord. "This is the first Saturday I've spent

here since--since I was married. But he always comes home on other

days at six; he ought to be in now. Ah, here is a note from him on the

table! I--I wonder what's it about?"

She reads it through quietly, and then says, in a low voice--

"Mr. Armstrong is not returning to dinner this evening. He has business

detaining him in Kelvick."

"Not coming back this evening! Good man, good man!"

"More power to you, Tom!"

"Hurrah!" shout the boys in a breath.

Addie colors to the roots of her hair, and walks away slowly without a

word.

"You shouldn't, boys," interposes Pauline, with a sage nod of her

tumbled head. "Remember, she is his wife now, and may not like

your--your expressing yourselves so freely."

"Oh, stuff, Polly! She does not mind a bit--why should she? She'll be

one of ourselves to the end of the chapter. I don't see a bit of change

in her."

"Don't you?" retorts Pauline. "Well, I do--a great change; and you'll

agree with me before long, I think."

"You mean to insinuate that she'd take Armstrong's part against us? Not

she! Addie's grit to the backbone."

"Time will reveal who is right."

"There goes the first dinner-bell!" shouts Lottie, rising. "I hope

you're in splendid appetite, boys, because we've famous dinners now, I

can tell you--regular young dinner-parties every day--soup, entries,

joints, such sweets, and such desert!"

"My!" exclaims Hal, smacking his lips and rubbing the middle of his

waistcoat vulgarly. "'Times is changed,' as the dogs'-meat man said."

* * * * *

Meantime Addie, with lowering face and trembling hands, was divesting

herself of her soiled dress, pained and indignant.

"I won't stand it--I won't! The house is his, not ours; and, if he

won't enjoy his own home, we must clear out of it--that's all. Business

indeed! I don't believe a word of it; he hadn't more business in

Kelvick after hours than I had. He just remained there shut up in that

dingy parlor all alone because he thought we should be happier without

him--because he felt he'd be in the way in his own house, one too many

at his own dinner-table. It's simply carrying things too far, and I

won't stand it. I'll tell him so to-morrow, whether he snubs me or not.

He can't silence me for a year, he'll find--I'll tell him so to-morrow."

But the morrow does not bring Mr. Armstrong to Nutsgrove. After a

long drowsy morning spent shut up in the family-pew, Addie proclaims

herself invalided with a racking headache, and unable to take part in

the celebration of her sister's birthday. So the family, among whom

sympathy with the sick and afflicted is not a distinguishing trait,

after vaguely suggesting tea, soda-water, eau-de-Cologne, and the rest,

depart grove-ward with a goodly hamper, leaving her alone on a couch in

the drawing-room window, limp and feverish with pain.

It is dark before they return in boisterous spirits, full of their

adventures, and with countenances smeared with blackberry-juice.

"Oh, Hal, I wish you would not shout so!" pleads Addie. "If you could

feel how your voice goes through my head!"

"Beg pardon, I'm sure, Addie; I quite forgot all about your head--at

least I thought it was all right by this," Hal answers, in a voice that

plainly says, "What a fuss to make about a bit of a headache!"

"Perhaps it would be better for you to go to bed, Addie," Pauline

suggests briskly.

So Addie retires and sits by her open window, with wide dry eyes and

burning cheeks.

"How selfish they are!" she mutters petulantly. "They never even asked

if I was better. Oh, they have fallen off somehow--all of them! They're

not quite the same--there's something changed. I--I wonder is the

change in them, or in me, or in both? I wish I knew. The last time I

had a headache it was so different--so different! I remember it was on

the day after that long drive in the sun to the Lover's Leap; and, when

I came home, he had the room all darkened, and my head bandaged with a

handkerchief steeped in iced eau-de-Cologne, and the band stopped in

the hotel garden all the afternoon, and--and everything I could want

by my side. And I never even thanked you, Tom; I don't think I felt

grateful. What a wretch I was--what a wretch!"