CHAPTER IV.

"Addie, where are you going?"

"Only up to the grove for a good long morning's study, auntie; don't

wait for dinner for me if I'm not back at three. I have some bread and

apple in my satchel."

"Why can't you study quietly in the house, like any other sensible

girl?" says Aunt Jo querulously. "I never saw such children as you all

are; you'd live like squirrels if you were allowed. People may say what

they like about the grand Carlovingian dynasty of the Lefroys; it's my

firm belief they're the descendants of Bedouins or gypsies--nothing

else!"

"I couldn't study in the farm this morning, auntie dear," answers

Addie, laughing; "there is such a heavy smell of cabbage-water and

soap-suds all over the place; and then the baby, poor little dear, is

teething, and not a very soothing companion. Will you tell Bob where

I'm going, if he asks for me?"

* * * * *

It is a fortnight since Miss Lefroy confided her troubles to her old

governess, and the first break in the family has taken place. Pauline

is safely established at Greystones, and in ten days more Addie is

to enter on her new duties as nursery-governess to the family of

Mrs. Augustus Moggeridge Philpot, of Burlington Villa, Birmingham.

That estimable lady, having been fascinated by Miss Rossitor's

recommendation of her candidate, has accepted Addie's services without

inconvenient questioning, and she is now busy storing her mind

with knowledge, unencouraged by advice or assistance from her more

experienced friend, who has gone to the seaside with her mother.

Addie stretches herself at full length on the scented sward, and

honestly tries to occupy her powerful intellect solely with the dry

pages of Noel and Chapsal, tries to banish the fleeting fancies of

the summer hour and all the worries and sorrows crowding her life so

heavily, tries--hardest task of all--to forget for the moment that this

is her beloved Robert's last week on shore, that three days more will

see him sailing down Channel with his sloppy cargo into the thundering

Biscay waves.

"'Adjectives ending in _x_ form their feminine in _se_--as, _heureux,

heureuse_; _jaloux, jalouse_. But there are many exceptions to this

rule--such as _doux, douce_; _roux, rousse_; _faux, fausse_.' Oh, dear

me, what a language French is for exceptions! Poor Goggles was about

right in her grumblings; it's a miserable language when you come to

look into it," sighs Addie wearily. "I've had enough of it for one

morning. I think I'll have a tussle now with the Tudors and those

bothering Wars of the Roses. I wonder how long it will be before the

Moggeridge Philpots--what an awful mouthful!--find me out! Not very

long, I fear; and, after that, the Deluge!"

The drowsy hours creep by; Noel and Chapsal, Ince and Mangnall lie

unheeded on the turf; crowds of ants, wood-lice, and earwigs are

exploring their dry surfaces; Addie, her soft rosy cheek resting

on a mossy bank, is fast asleep, dreaming that she is home again,

helping old Sally to make gooseberry-jam in the big tiled kitchen,

when an adventurous beetle, scampering sturdily across her nose,

awakens her. She rises, yawning heavily, collects her property, and

sets forth to refresh herself with a look at Nutsgrove. But the trees

are too luxuriant in foliage; she walks up and down and stands on

tiptoe without getting a glimpse of its brickwork. Near the high-road

she comes to a stalwart tempting-looking oak, with giant blanches

outstretched, inviting her into their waving shelter, promising her a

delicious peep into the green dell they overhang. She climbs nimbly,

firmly clutching her Mangnall, rests for a minute clinging to the

trunk, and then, advancing cautiously out, balances herself most

luxuriously on the swaying branch, an arm of which supports her back

and shoulders in most obliging fashion.

"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.

So to him the unusual position is unmarred by even shadow-clouds of

dead joys and by-gone pleasures. Addie's fresh flower face awakes no

ghost of fevered memory to taunt him with the sweets of lost youth.

"Here is your tea, Mr. Armstrong; you must tell me if it is right. I

don't know your tastes yet."

"It is delicious," he answers slowly, while a sudden thought strikes

his musing brain, flooding it with a stream of sunshine--a thought

he has never entertained before. What a pleasant thing it would be

to have a woman, a young, fresh-faced, gray-eyed woman like Miss

Lefroy, to sit by his fireside every night and hand him his tea, just

as she does that moment, with that quaint inimitable little air of

business-like patronage, of half-matronly, half-childish, yet wholly

graceful self-possession! Yes; how very pleasant it would be! He has a

house now, a rapidly-growing estate--he has a position of unimpeached

respectability, if not of aristocratic quality--he has a clear future,

a clean past, a goodly name at his banker's--why should he not take a

wife to himself at last, and create ties to dispel the gloom of coming

age--a wife just like Addie Lefroy--who would grace his hearth as

she does, who would refine and enliven with her graceful youth the

atmosphere of the heavily-draped room, which already he has begun to

find so still and wearisome after the bustling life outside his den at

the factory in Kelvick?

A wife just like Addie Lefroy--not one whit more elegant, more

beautiful, more fascinating, but just as she is--soft-faced,

irregular-featured, simple-mannered, gentle-voiced, yet with a

suggestion of hot-breathed, breezy youth about her every movement, her

every gesture. Yes; if ever he marries, it will be some one like her,

very like her--her exact counterpart, in fact; and where is he to find

that? That is the question. Rapidly, while he sips his tea, he runs his

eye, as he would down a stiff column of figures, over the many eligible

young ladies whose acquaintance he owns in his native town; but none

of them suits his prejudiced eye. One is too handsome, another too

tall, another too fashionable, another too affected--all of them are

everything that is not Addie Lefroy. Addie Lefroy, Addie Lefroy! Softly

he repeats her name again and again, as if the words themselves tickle

his palate and season his tea pleasantly, fragrantly. Addie Lefroy! How

the name suits her! It has a sort of liquid, swinging sound. If ever

she changes it, will she get another to suit her as well? For instance,

Addie--Addie--Arm--

With a start he "pulls himself together," and swallows a big lump of

cake that he loathes, which he hopes will act as a sort of break in the

dangerous current of his imagination.

Meanwhile Miss Addie, quite unconscious of the agreeable turmoil that

her presence is awaking in the breast of her massive middle-aged host,

sips her tea and munches cake in blissful unconcern.

"I suppose," she muses, with a little ruefulness, "if the boys and

Polly knew, they would think it awfully mean of me, feeding on the

enemy like this; but--but--I really can not help it--I'm half famished.

Perhaps, if they hadn't eaten anything from seven A.M. until five P.M.

but half a moldy apple, they wouldn't be so particular. I don't know

about Bob, though; I think his pride would stomach a longer fast than

that. I don't believe any strait of body would induce him to eat a crumb

under this roof now--and yet Mr. Armstrong hasn't behaved so badly. I

might have been lying in the wood but for him. Oh, dear, how horrible!

I've actually cleared the whole plate of toast alone! I--I hope he won't

notice; I'll shove the dish behind the urn. Yes; he can't see it there.

How did I do it? I never felt myself eating. That cake is delicious

too--better than any of Sally's. I feel so much better now; I suppose it

must have been hunger that helped me to go off in that ridiculous

fashion in the grove."

Her head sinks back pleasantly on the soft cushions; she looks out on

the sunny lawn and the timbered wealth she knows so well. Both the

windows are wide open, and a faint evening breeze brings to her couch

a breath of mignonette from a parterre outside, which her mother laid

out with her own hands when she came to Nutsgrove, a happy bride,

twenty-two years before. A thrush that has yearly built his nest in

the heart of the gloire de Dijon, the shining leaves of which are

fluttering against the casement, bursts into song. Addie closes her

eyes, and she is at home once more, living over again the sweet spring

evenings of her blissful neglected youth. Armstrong of Kelvick and his

trim purified apartments vanish into space; the notched and rickety

chairs are back again, the threadbare carpet with its sprays of dim

ghostly terns, the dusky curtains. Her work-box is standing in its old

place, she hears Pauline's light footsteps flying down the stairs, the

boys are calling the dogs

"With wild halloo and brutal noise"

away to "marshy joys" in the grove, and old Sally is hunting the

chickens out of the kitchen with a peculiar hooting noise that no

throat but her own can produce.

"Miss Lefroy, you have not answered my question yet. You were very fond

of Nutsgrove, were you not?"

She starts up, an angry crimson dyeing her face, to find her host

leaning forward, his keen hazel eyes fixed intently on hers. She

answers vehemently, passionately--

"No, I did not answer you, because I thought it was a senseless

question; but I will answer you now, if you insist. Were we fond of

Nutsgrove? We were--we were--we were! Will that satisfy you? What else

had we to be fond of? We had no father, no mother, no friends, no

outside amusements or pleasures, and we wanted nothing--nothing but

to be left here together. We were content--oh, yes! Even--even when

Polly and I began to grow up, we never longed to go away to London or

Paris, to fashionable places, or balls and parties, like other girls;

and the boys--they never asked to go to school or foreign parts, never

wanted to see the world, like other boys. The woods, the river, the

gardens, the dear old farm-yard, gave us all we wanted the whole year

round--summer, winter, autumn, spring. Fond of Nutsgrove? Ah, we were!

We loved every blade of grass, every mossy stone, every clump of earth;

every flower and every leaf of the trees was dearer to us than they

can be to you if you live here half a century. Now you are answered,

Mr. Armstrong, and very rudely and impertinently too; but--but I could

not help myself. I--I am very hot-tempered, and you should not have

persisted when you saw--when you saw--"

"I know, I know," he interrupts earnestly; "but, believe me, Miss

Lefroy, I did not persist out of idle curiosity or for the purpose of

giving you wanton pain. Will you bear with me yet a little longer, and

permit me to ask you another question, which--which may appear to you

even more impertinent than the first? I have a purpose--an extenuating

purpose in both. You are leaving this house very soon, are you not, to

become a governess--a nursery-governess if I have heard aright--in a

family of inferior position, and at a salary so mean as to exclude the

idea of helping your family, who are--are almost completely unprovided

for, thrown on the world without any visible means of support? Is my

information correct?"

"Your information is perfectly correct, Mr. Armstrong," Addie retorts,

springing to her feet, her eyes blazing; "but I fail to see your object

in forcing me to discuss such--"

With a gesture he silences her, motioning her back to her seat almost

impatiently.

"A moment more, if you please; then I shall have done. On your own

admission, therefore, I may conclude that your future prospects,

both personally and collectively, are not, to put it mildly, in a

flourishing condition, and that at present you see no glimmer of

improvement, no chance of reprieve from a life of servile drudgery, for

which you feel yourself totally unfitted, first of all from a strong

distaste to teaching, and secondly from the unconventional nature of

your early life and education."

She is too amazed to resent even by a gesture this extraordinary

speech. After a slight pause, he resumes, in the same low mechanical

voice, with a faint tinge of color in his swarthy cheek:

"Therefore, I presume to ask you, Miss Lefroy, if in these

circumstances you would deem it any improvement to your condition

to--to--marry me and live out your life at Nutsgrove?"

She looks at him with eyes wide open, staring stupidly, and blank white

face.

"To--to marry you? I--I don't understand. Are you joking, Mr.

Armstrong?"

"No, Miss Lefroy, I am not joking; on the contrary, I am very much in

earnest. Men mostly are, I believe, when they ask a woman to be their

wife."

"You ask me to--to be your wife?"

"Yes, I most assuredly do. If you consent, I will settle this place on

you unreservedly, so that, whatever happens to me, nobody will be able

to oust you from it again. Nutsgrove will belong to you, you alone, as

virtually as it belonged to your grandfather sixty years ago, before

an acre was mortgaged. Will you marry me, Miss Lefroy? Is the bribe

sufficient?" he asks sharply.

But poor Addie has no power to answer; she sits gazing into the

frowning, flushed face of her suitor with the same blank expression,

without a tinge of shyness, hesitation, or embarrassment in her

attitude, or flicker of color in her cheek. Armstrong feels as if he

would like to shake her.

"She looks at me as if I were not human, as if I were some strange

animal escaped from a menagerie. She's a woman, I'm a man; why should

I not ask her to marry me?" he thinks. "Well," he says aloud, with

an irritation he strives in vain to repress, "have you understood my

question, Miss Lefroy? Must I repeat it? No? Then will you kindly put

me out of pain--that is the correct term, I believe--as soon as you

can?"

"Oh!" pants Addie, waving her hands nervously, as if pushing him from

her. "Can't you give me a moment to breathe--to feel--to understand?"

"Certainly, if you wish it."

He walks to the window, steps out, and paces up and down the terrace,

smoking furiously.

Addie, left to herself, heaves a great sigh of relief, then glances

languidly round the room, and tries to realize her situation, to

understand that she can be mistress of the old place again, that she

need never yawn the dreary hours away in the Moggeridge school-room,

need never darn alien socks, help to tub peevish babies, never bow her

haughty young head to the yoke of uncongenial servitude, but spend her

days by the familiar fireside, rambling through the leafy grove and

mellow orchards, her own, her very own forever. A flood of sunshine

bathes the park in flickering glory; every leaf trembling with the

pulse of coming summer, every bird singing in the budding grove, every

gurgling ripple of the stream that feeds the marshy pond behind the

park, seems to whisper to the girl's troubled heart words of welcome

and entreaty, seems to sing in gladsome chorus, "Come back, Addie, come

back, come back; we miss you sorely!" At that moment a shadow falls

across her path, the song of the birds dies into a wordless twitter,

the glory of the evening fades, as the burly, massive form of the

vitriol-manufacturer stands between her and the sunset.

"To live with him alone here!" she thinks, with a shudder, while

the hot blood dyes her face and neck. "Oh, I couldn't--I couldn't!

He would spoil everything; he would take the beauty, the poetry out

of everything I love. I couldn't--I couldn't! Nobody would expect

it of me. The bribe is big, but not sufficient--not sufficient,

unless--unless--Oh, I wish I knew what to do--what to say to him!

If he would let me be his gover--I mean his housekeeper, his

dairy-maid--anything--anything but his--his--wife! Oh, dear, dear, what

put it into his head? What made him think of such a thing? He never

even looked at me when he came to the farm; and now he wants to marry

me. He is a strange man; when he turns to me with that stern straight

look in his eyes, I feel--I feel as if I didn't belong to myself, as

if I had no power over my life. Ellen Higgins says that he always gets

everything he wants, that every one gives in to him sooner or later

in Kelvick--nice prospect for me! And the flowers told me last autumn

that I was to marry a gentleman--a gentleman they told me over and over

again--a gentleman!"