CHAPTER XIII.

Certainly Miss Pauline Lefroy is right. Life at Nutsgrove under the new

_régime_, so far as creature-comforts go, is a vast improvement on the

old. Its contrast was at first too great to be entirely satisfactory

to the nerves of Colonel Lefroy's unsophisticated daughters; but this

feeling soon wore away, and they dropped naturally and contentedly into

the reign of order and methodical respectability inaugurated by Mr.

Armstrong's well-trained servants. They learned to answer to the chime

of bell and gong, to enter a room quietly, and, above all, to dress, as

ladies are supposed to dress, neatly and becomingly. The dogs followed

the example of their mistresses, and no longer dragged their muddy paws

across fresh carpets and waxed boards, or rested their dusty bodies on

the drawing-room couches.

"How changed it all is!" thinks Addie. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm

myself at all, if I haven't been changed with the carpets and curtains."

With a sort of rueful satisfaction, of struggling content, she looks

at herself, at the elegant young person in rustling _broché_ which the

swivel pier-glasses so importunately reflect whenever she crosses her

luxurious bedroom. Can she be the same light-hearted girl who stood in

a ragged cotton dress and patched boots but a short year ago before a

cracked fly-stained old mirror?

"In those days," she thinks, with a laugh, "why, the prospect of a

new dress would keep me awake for a week! And now!--now that I have

as many as I like, now that I could have a ruche of bank-notes at

the bottom of each skirt if I wished--I don't seem to care about it

or anything else in particular. I suppose it is always the way. They

say a confectioner feels as little inclination to eat one of the buns

crowding his counter as an apothecary to swallow a box of his pills.

It's a pity that possession should bring satiety so soon. I have all

I once longed for in plenteous measure, and yet I want something

else--something else I once had and did not value in the least. How

foolish of me to want it now, just because it's out of my reach! I

suppose that's the reason--because it's out of my reach. Oh, why can't

I take the good things in my way like Pauline and the others? Pauline!

What a wonderful girl she is, and how little I knew her before! I

thought she would be a regular whirlwind in this model establishment,

would be always kicking over the traces; on the contrary, she has toned

down quicker than any of us, though indeed, for the matter of that,

we've behaved as a family very creditably on the whole--we, a flock of

hungry sheep turned suddenly from a region of bare sun-dried rocks

into a rich clover-valley. Yes, we have behaved well; we have not

betrayed our jubilation in uncouth gambols or childish caperings, and

credit is due to us, I think. I suppose it's the race-horse strain, as

Bob calls it, that has supported us under the ordeal--the race horse

strain, the Bourbon blood, the Lefroy breeding," she goes on, a little

impatiently. "I wish Bob did not talk quite so much about them. I

know we come of a good old stock--we're descended from Charlemagne's

sister, and all that; but I do think he makes too much of it. Not that

Tom minds it a bit, but I fancy sometimes that he laughs at Bob--yes,

I feel sure of it--and despises him a little too for his incapacity

and what he, I suppose, calls 'bragging.' And yet how handsome Bob is,

how noble-looking even! What an air of _grand monarque_ there is about

his lightest movement! For all that, I suppose some people would call

him 'a conceited young prig.' I wonder would there be any truth in

it if they did? Oh, dear, I feel awfully at sea lately about things,

everything getting topsy-turvy, and no one to set me straight--no one!"

The master of Nutsgrove intrudes but very little on the lives of his

womenfolk. Every morning at nine o'clock, after a hasty preoccupied

breakfast, he either drives or rides to Kelvick, scarcely ever

returning before the dinner-hour, when he always appears, clothed

in broadcloth and courtesy, to lead his sister-in-law in to dinner;

after which he generally bears them company for an hour or so in the

drawing-room, occasionally taking a hand at _bésique_ or go-bang,

sometimes standing by the piano like a gentleman at an evening party,

turning over music and expressing polite satisfaction at the extremely

mild entertainment, both vocal and instrumental, provided by Addie

and Pauline; though the former has a sweet little voice enough, but

perfectly untrained and husky from want of use. After ten o'clock, when

he retires to his study for a couple of hours' reading, they see him no

more until the morning.

The hours of his absence between breakfast and dinner are pleasantly

filled, the mornings being devoted to study, under the superintendence

of an experienced finishing-governess, who keeps Pauline and Lottie

hard at work until twelve; after which, three times a week, masters for

music and drawing, from whom Mrs. Armstrong also condescends to take

lessons, attend from Kelvick.

The afternoons are spent in driving or riding, in returning or

receiving calls; for the county people, who had by degrees dropped the

neglected children of Colonel Lefroy, are suddenly and unanimously

inspired with feelings of civility toward the wife of the wealthy

manufacturer, and day after day the trim well-weeded avenue is marked

with the track of some county equipage _en route_ for Nutsgrove, a

state of things which affords much satisfaction to Pauline and her

elder brother.

"By Jove, Addie," exclaims that young gentleman one Saturday afternoon,

while turning over the contents of her card-tray, "you are in the

swim, and no mistake--Lady Crawford, Mr. and the Misses Pelham-Browne,

General Hawksley, Sir Alfred and Lady Portrann, the Dean of St.

Margaret's, and Mrs. Vavasour, the Dowager Countess of Deenmore

and--do my eyes deceive me?--no--Admiral and Mrs. Beecher of the Abbey,

Greystones. I'll trouble you for a half-glass of sherry, Goggles.

Thanks. I feel reasonably convalescent now. Admiral and Mrs. Beecher of

the Abbey, Greystones! After that, I feel equal to anything!"

"We weren't at home on the day they called," laughs Pauline. "I was so

sorry, for I meant to have faced them gallantly."

"Well, Addie, well," exclaims Robert triumphantly, "wasn't I a good

prophet? Didn't I tell you how it would be? Didn't I tell you you'd

open the gates for him and give him the run of the county--eh? I expect

he's precious glad now he didn't let you slip through his fingers,

Addie!"

"He doesn't care a straw," she answers contemptuously--"I know he

doesn't. He wouldn't care if he had the run of twenty counties unless

he liked the people personally--unless they were clever, or amusing, or

took an interest in his affairs."

"Stuff, Addie, stuff; you don't know what you are talking about.

Armstrong is just as pleased as Punch that the neighbors are looking

you up. I saw it in his face at once. Why else did he give up three

afternoons in the last fortnight to return those calls with Pauline and

you, I should like to know?"

"He did that because it would not have been the thing for me, a bride,

to return the first time without my--my husband; it would have been bad

form, but it bored him awfully--I saw it did," she persists; "and he

did not care for the people either. He was awfully disgusted with Lady

Crawford--at the way she talked and the questions she asked me. He said

afterward that he would not allow his wife to be patronized by such a

meddlesome ill-bred woman as that."

Robert flushes angrily.

"That's because he does not understand. People of his class are always

hunting up affronts, imagining they're being snubbed and patronized,

when nothing of the kind is intended. I am perfectly certain that Lady

Crawford meant only to act kindly in offering advice to you, a young

girl unaccustomed to the etiquette of matronhood, without a mother to

put you in the way of doing things."

"No," declares Addie, "she meant nothing of the kind. The way she

looked at me through her gold-rimmed glasses, turned me round,

commented on my dress, my appearance, my appointments altogether, and

then informed me calmly that she thought I should do, was, to say the

least of it, extremely impertinent and underbred; and I quite agree

with my husband in the matter."

Robert and Pauline exchange a rapid glance: there is a storm-signal in

the latter's eyes. So Robert wisely lets the matter drop, and busies

himself with the card-basket.

"By the bye, Addie," he resumes, half an hour later, when the "breeze"

has passed, "about this contemplated return of your husband to

Parliament at the next election--I hope you will use your influence to

make him fall in with the views of the electors; they are most anxious

he should stand--"

"My husband returned for Parliament!" she interrupts quickly. "I--I did

not know, have not heard anything about it. They want him to stand for

Kelvick?"

"Yes, when old Hubbard retires at the end of the next session; he's

been past his work for years. Fancy Armstrong not telling you anything

about it! Why, every one is--"

"He does not talk much of his business affairs at home. I suppose he

does not think they would interest me," she says hastily.

"Well, but this is not business exactly; and let me tell you, Addie,

it's a subject in which you ought to take an interest. The position of

the wife of a member of Parliament is always one to command respect,

though it is a great pity Armstrong should go to the wrong shop for his

politics. However, I suppose, having risen from the ranks, he could

scarcely at the eleventh hour go over to Toryism--"

"Because he married a Lefroy? Well, scarcely! And I'd rather not ask

him to do so, if that is what you mean, Robert," says Addie, with a

slight sneer, which she finds it difficult at times to repress when

discussing her husband with Robert. Then, after a pause--"Fancy his

going into Parliament! I never thought he had any inclination for a

political career."

"Oh, but, my dear," says Robert, with lofty indulgence, "you must not

judge Armstrong by what you see of him here! He's not the sort of man

to shine in society, not a carpet-ornament by any means; but he's

just the man to prose away in the House by the hour anent artisans'

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.