CHAPTER VII.

"How does your ankle feel this morning?"

"Better--much better, thank you. In a day or two it will be quite

strong again."

Miss Lefroy is seated in a moldy old summer-house at a corner of the

farm-house garden, shelling a dish of peas, little Emma Higgins, her

landlady's youngest but two, helping her with zealous dirty fingers.

Unable any longer to bear the horsehair hardness of the parlor sofa and

the stuffiness of the house, she has escaped hither, heedless of her

aunt's protestations.

Mr. Armstrong stands leaning against the rotting woodwork, supporting a

starved clematis-stalk, making the whole building creak and quiver with

the weight of his brawny shoulders.

"Mr. Armstrong, spare us!" laughs Addie nervously. "We're two such

miserable little specimens of the Philistine, Emmy and I--we're

scarcely worth destruction."

"I don't know about that. If measles or croup had carried off Delilah

when she was as young and harmless-looking as you, Miss Lefroy, why,

Samson might have died in his bed. May I enter? There are no scissors

on the premises?"

"No; your beard is quite safe; you may enter if you like."

"I went to the farm first, and your aunt directed me here," he says,

taking a seat beside her on the stone slab.

"I got tired of the house--it was so close. The smell of the laborers'

dinner toward midday is very strong everywhere; it flavors even the

sweetbrier outside the parlor window; so I came here."

"Yes, it was a good move."

A silence follows; Addie wildly racks her brain for a sensible remark,

but finds not one. He, resting his arm on the table, for some moments

contentedly watches the movement of her slim brown fingers.

"Miss Lefroy, you are throwing the pods into the dish and the peas on

the ground. Is that--"

"So I am, so I am!" she answers petulantly. "But I can't do anything

when I'm--I'm watched like--that. Mr. Armstrong"--with sudden desperate

bluntness--"you have come for your answer, have you not? Well, I have

consulted them all, and they think it ought to be 'Yes.'"

"Then you will marry me, Miss Lefroy?"

"I suppose so."

He takes her unresisting hand and holds it in a strong cool clasp,

while every nerve in her body tingles with the impulse to snatch it

rudely from him; but she resists it, and merely says, panting a little--

"I must go in now with the peas."

"Oh, not yet! There is time enough surely!"

"No; they are wanted for early dinner, and take a great deal of

boiling."

"Where's little Emmy? Gone off! Then I will take them in myself and

bring you out some cushions and footstools; your ankle is not at all

properly supported. I wonder your brothers or sisters did not look

after you better!"

As soon as he disappears Addie hobbles out eagerly, and looks around.

Spying Lottie prowling among the gooseberry bushes she hails her

imperatively.

"Lottie, come here at once! Where are the others?"

"Mooning about. Auntie gave orders that no one, on any account, was to

disturb you and Mr. Armstrong in the summer-house. She said I was not

even to peep through the cabbage-plot at the back. I wonder why? Is it

because he may want to kiss you?"

"Go and tell them all, all--to come to the arbor at once, and to stay

with me the whole time that Mr. Armstrong is here; do you hear? Tell

them--tell aunt, too--that, if they don't, I'll send him about his

business as sure as my name's Addie Lefroy! Go quickly, miss; I'm in

earnest. Let them come back before him now, or else--"

Lottie obeys, duly impressed by her sister's determined manner, and,

when the happy suitor returns, laden with footstools and cushions,

prepared for a long morning's _tête-à-tête_ with his love, he finds

the rickety bower in possession of the whole family, who linger by him

all the morning, favoring him with their views, and opinions of things

in general, favoring him also with diffuse reminiscences of personal

biography, and systematically intercepting the faintest exchange of

word, or even look, with his sweet-voiced betrothed.

He bears it with tolerable patience for an hour or so, and then

relapses into moody taciturnity, thus leaving the burden of

entertainment on the able shoulders of "Robert the Magnificent," who

fancies that the brilliancy and aristocratic flavor of his conversation

are creating a most favorable, in fact, overpowering effect on his

plebeian guest, little deeming, honest lad, that the said guest at

the time is inwardly voting his future brother-in-law one of the most

insufferably flippant young prigs and bores it has ever been his

misfortune to meet. At last, unable to stand it any more he takes an

irritated turn round the garden, where he is immediately joined by the

two younger Lefroys.

"Are you fond of gooseberries, Mr. Armstrong?" begins Lottie, whose

voice has not had fair play in the arbor. "Would you like me to pick

you some?--though they are wretched in this garden--little sour hard

balls scarcely worth picking."

"They're splendid up at Nutsgrove," he answers eagerly, struck with a

happy thought--"splendid, large, soft, sweet, and yellow. Suppose you

all trot up there now--Robert, Pauline, Hal, and you, and have a good

morning's feed--eh?"

"Oh, it would be delicious! You'd come with us, too, wouldn't you?"

"Well--ah, no; I would remain with your sister and aunt--keep them

company until you come back."

"Would you? Oh, dear, then we can't go."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because Addie made us all promise faithfully, while you were away with

the peas, that we would remain and help her to entertain you whenever

you came, and never to leave her. She has no conversational powers,

she says; but Rob and Polly have a lot--haven't they? And they have

promised, so have Hal and I too. It's an awful pity, isn't, it? I--I

wish you'd come with us; I know Addie wouldn't mind a bit. She's very

hot-tempered, you know--worse than any of us--but awfully good-natured,

and not a scrap huffy, like Bob and Poll."

Armstrong takes no notice of the suggestion, but walks straight back to

the arbor and bids the attached family farewell.

They stand in a group watching his tall massive figure stalking down

the path.

"How big he looks in this bit of a garden--regularly dwarfs the old

shrubs into plants!"

"Yes, he's what Sally would call a fine figure of a man. Well, Addie,

you'll have quantity, if you don't have qua--"

"I say, Addie," bursts in Bob, excitedly, "did you ask him about my

ship?"

"No, Robert, of course not."

"You didn't? And yet you know I have to sail on Saturday, and leave

here to-morrow afternoon. Quick, quick; run and ask him about it now!"

"What am I to ask him?"

"What? Why, hang it, there's a question! Ask him if I may write and

throw up the whole thing, of course."

"Oh, Bob, Bob," cries the poor little maid, coloring and shrinking.

"I--I couldn't ask him yet; I couldn't begin so soon--the very first

day!"

"What?" cries Bob, with angry bitterness. "Then you'll actually let me

sail in the beastly rotten old tub to-morrow, and live the life of a

water-rat for the next six months--perhaps never see me again--rather

than say one word that would save me? Oh, I never heard of such

confounded selfishness in all my life! I never imagined that any one

calling herself a sister could behave so!"

"Oh, Addie, Addie, don't be so hard, so selfish!"

"Don't send away poor Bob like that. Go after him--go after him, quick!"

"But my foot--my foot--I can scarcely walk! I should never catch him

now," she pleads.

"Yes, you could--here's your stick; he has stopped to light his cigar

at the gate. Go!"

Thus urged, she limps painfully after him, calling his name, but he

does not hear her, and the distance between them increases. She is

about to give up the pursuit in despair, when he stops a second time

to caress a tawny mongrel that has wriggled itself fawningly between

his legs; then her voice is borne to him on the light summer breeze.

He turns and advances quickly to meet her, with a glad smile and

outstretched hands.

"Have you come to say good-by to me, Addie?"

"Yes--no--yes," she answers breathlessly, unconsciously clinging to him

to steady her shaking knees. "It's--it's--about Robert. Need he--must

he join his ship on Saturday?"

He looks thoroughly bewildered.

"Need he join what ship--where? I don't understand."

"Oh, don't you remember? I told you about it yesterday--such a dreadful

service--no salary--articles for three years--cargo of salt to China!"

"Yes, yes, to be sure; I remember. He does not care for his

appointment. Tell him he may write to cancel it at once; I'll make

it right at head-quarters for him; and then we must find him a more

suitable berth on shore."

"Oh, thank you, thank you! How very kind you are!"

She is about to move away; but he lays his hand on her shoulder.

"Wait a moment; you're not half rested. You--you will try to like me a

little, won't you, Addie?"

"Oh, yes!" she answers fervently, her shining eyes looking straight

into his. "I will begin at once, and try as hard as ever I can to like

you, Mr. Armstrong; you are so very kind!"

With a laugh that is half a sigh his hands drop and he turns away.

"I'm a fool, a fool--a blind, besotted fool!" he says to himself

a little later. "I wish I could throw it all up; I wish I had the

strength of mind. It won't do--it won't do! I shall live to reap in

remorse and sorrow what I've sown in doubt and weakness--something

tells me I shall. Well, well, so be it, so be it! I must go through

with it now to the end, come what may."

* * * * *

Addie somewhat sulkily imparts the good news to her family, and then

goes up to her room, locks the door, and lifts from the bottom of

her trunk her cracked old papier-mâché desk, from which she takes

a photograph wrapped in tissue paper, with the remains of a gloire

de Dijon rose that was nipped from the parent-stem one soft June

night three years before and fastened near her throat by warm boyish

fingers--cousinly, not brotherly fingers. She scatters its loose

stained petals out of the window, and then takes a long look at the

picture of her soldier-cousin, Edward Lefroy, who spent a month at

Nutsgrove the last time the colonel visited his home.

It is a bright laughing young face, fair and unbearded, as different in

form, color, and expression from the face of her present lover as it

possibly can be. The difference seems to strike the girl with painful

reality, for tears fall from her downcast eye and drop upon the smiling

features.

"Oh, Ted, Ted, did you mean anything on that day when you were rushing

away? It was all so quick, so hurried, when the order came for you

to rejoin, that I had not time to think, to understand. Did you mean

anything in that hot farewell whisper, 'Good-by, good-by, little woman;

we're as poor as a pair of church-mice now, but, should I come back for

you one day with a lac of rupees, you'll be ready for me, won't you,

Addie darling?' That was three years ago, Ted, three years ago--and

never a word from you since! I'm a goose to think of you now--I know

I am; something tells me you've whispered the same to half a score of

girls since; but, Teddy, if you did mean anything, come back for me

now, before it's too late, before it's too late!"

"Addie, Addie, dinner is up, and there's a batter-pudding! Come down

quick!"

"Coming!" she shouts; and then, carefully wiping the precious

cardboard, she opens the well-thumbed family album. "I needn't destroy

you, poor Ted; but you must leave my old desk now, and spend the rest

of your days with the family"--placing him opposite to a simpering

crinolined relative leaning against a pillar, with a basket of flowers

in her hand. "Good-by, good-by, dear boy; I've watered your grave for

the last time! And now for batter-pudding and a breaking heart!" she

adds, with a light, half-contemptuous, half-wistful laugh, as she runs

down-stairs.

* * * * *

The next morning, when Miss Lefroy appears at breakfast, she finds

the parlor heavy with the breath of roses; eagerly she inhales their

delightful fragrance.

"Aren't they lovely?" cries Lottie. "Did you ever see such a basketful?

They are all for you, Addie, with 'T. A.'s compliments.' And look

at the dishes of cherries and strawberries! Bob has been at them

already--has polished off a couple of pounds. If you don't be quick,

you'll not have any left. Fall to, Addie, fall to!"

But Addie turns away her head, and declares that she does not care for

fruit so early in the day; and presently she even finds fault with the

flowers--they are too much for the small close room--they give her

a headache. She goes forth to the clover field opening out from the

yard, and stretches herself at full length on the fresh sward to while

away the long morning hours, her idle mind no longer troubled by the

irregularities of French grammar, or the habits and manners of ancient

Babylonia.

* * * * *

"Addie, Mr. Armstrong is in the parlor with Aunt Jo. Will you go in to

him, or are we to bring him out here?"

"I'll go in to him; you're all there, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. Don't you fear; we're all there, and we mean to stop."

"All right then; I'll follow you in presently," says Addie; and then,

after a minute or two, she moves toward the house, muttering to herself

as she does so, "'Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, policeman, plowboy,

gentleman--' Oh, you wretches, you mocking little wretches, you

shameful little fibbers, can you not tell me the truth even now? I'm to

marry a gentleman still, am I? Oh, Ted, Ted, does it mean that you are

coming across the sea to me--now--now, at the eleventh hour? I wish I

knew!"

* * * * *

Mr. Armstrong does not stay long this afternoon, having business of

importance at Kelvick. He waits to drink a cup of tea poured out by his

love's nimble hands; and so, during a lucky moment, while the family

are engaged in a light skirmish, he manages to slip unperceived a hoop

of diamonds on her unwilling finger, and then he takes his leave.

After this they are not troubled very much with his society. About two

or three times a week he looks in for half an hour to enjoy a peep at

his future wife, whom he always finds enshrined in a circle of her

devoted family, a circle which, after the first unsuccessful attempt,

he does not try to rout. Miss Darcy is the only member with whom he

is able to enjoy the favor of an uninterrupted _tête-à-tête_; and one

morning toward the end of June, after being closeted with her for a

couple of hours, it is decided to their mutual satisfaction that the

sooner Miss Lefroy becomes Mrs. Armstrong the better for herself and

all those interested in her.

This conclusion is delicately conveyed to the young person, who has not

a tangible objection to raise, not a single plea to urge for delay,

particularly as Aunt Jo skillfully cuts the ground from under her feet

by complaints of her failing health and her longing for the restoring

air of Leamington, which would be sure to set her up again at once, she

feels.

Addie's marriage is settled to take place during the second week in

August, a little over two months from the day of her betrothal; and the

reign of bustle begins by an immediate migration from the undignified

shelter of Sallymount Farm to Laburnum Lodge, just outside Nutsford,

the residence of Mrs. Doctor Macartney, who has gone to the seaside

for a couple of months with her family, and who was quite ready, for a

smart pecuniary consideration, to let her neatly appointed house even

to the reckless Lefroys for the time being.

Addie hotly opposed the change at first, but, as usual, was overruled

by the family, backed by Aunt Jo.

"We can't afford it--you know we can't!" she pleaded earnestly. "You

told me not a fortnight ago that you had only seven pounds ten to

finish the quarter; therefore how can we afford to take Laburnum Lodge,

Aunt Jo?"

"We must manage it somehow, child," Miss Darcy answered, with a

slight blush. "Don't trouble your head about it any more, for the

thing must be done. It would be too unseemly to have you married from

Steve Higgins's farm, your sisters and brothers quite agree with me;

and--and--Mr. Armstrong wishes it besides--so there is nothing more to

be said about it."

It was the same with her _trousseau_. In vain she protested, objected,

revolted, against each article of attire added daily to her miserable

wardrobe--against dresses, bonnets, mantles, against shoes, gloves,

umbrellas, underclothes; it was all of no use. Aunt Jo and Pauline

went on ordering and suggesting just as if she had not spoken. It

seemed to the pained, bewildered girl that she was in the hands of

every tradesman and tradeswoman in the town of Kelvick, and, after

a couple of hours' shamefaced agony, she used to escape from Madame

Armine's smooth wily fingers and approving exclamations in a state of

impatient revolt that strangely puzzled that experienced lady. "Oh,

it is unbearable," she would cry, "to be lodged, fed, clothed by him

thus--unbearable to think that every pound of meat that comes to the

table is paid for by him, as well as the dress, the stockings, the

shoes, the gloves I shall wear standing beside him at the altar! It is

unbearable to think he is paying for me before I am purchased! How can

they stand it, all of them? How can Robert, whom I thought so haughty,

so proud, so sensitive, take it as he does? They must know--of course

they must know--and yet don't seem to mind."

At other times a mad impulse would urge her to take up the finery that

was fast filling the house, and fling it at Mr. Armstrong's feet,

refusing to be further suffocated by his benefits; but luckily the

opportunity failed for the uncomfortable feat, as Armstrong was called

away on business of importance to the North of England just a fortnight

before his wedding-day, and did not reappear at Laburnum Lodge until

all her boxes were safely corded and standing in a row in the hall,

labeled in Robert's round schoolboy hand--"Mrs. Armstrong, Charing

Cross, London."