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NO. 388. SINGLE NUMBER. PRICE 10 CENTS.
THE
Seaside Library
Pocket Edition.
Addie's Husband;
OR,
THROUGH CLOUDS TO SUNSHINE.
By the author of "LOVE OR LANDS?"
17 TO 27 VANDEWATER ST
NEW YORK
George Munro
PUBLISHER
The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition. Issued Tri-weekly.
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Thorne" 10
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150 For Himself Alone. By T. W.
Speight 10
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Blatherwick 10
152 The Uncommercial Traveler.
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"The Duchess" 10
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197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary
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Croker 15
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By W. Clark Russell 10
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Braddon 10
212 Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon.
By Chas. Lever (Complete
in one volume) 30
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Reade 15
214 Put Yourself in His Place. By
Charles Reade 20
215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa
Nouchette Carey 15
216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade 15
217 The Man She Cared For. By
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Helen B. Mathers 15
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Clark Russell 15
224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil
Hay 15
225 The Giant's Robe. By F. Anstey 15
226 Friendship. By "Ouida" 20
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228 Princess Napraxine. By "Ouida" 20
229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By
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Answered. Wilkie Collins 15
234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery.
Miss M. E. Braddon 15
235 "It is Never Too Late to
Mend." By Charles Reade 20
236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alexander 20
237 Repented at Leisure. By the
author of "Dora Thorne" 15
238 Pascarel. By "Ouida" 20
239 Signa. By "Ouida" 20
240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10
241 The Baby's Grandmother. By
L. B. Walford 10
242 The Two Orphans. By D'Ennery 10
243 Tom Burke of "Ours." First
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243 Tom Burke of "Ours." Second
half. By Charles Lever 20
244 A Great Mistake. By the author
of "His Wedded Wife" 20
245 Miss Tommy, and In a House-Boat.
By Miss Mulock 10
246 A Fatal Dower. By the author
of "His Wedded Wife" 10
247 The Armourer's Prentices. By
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248 The House on the Marsh. F.
Warden 10
249 "Prince Charlie's Daughter."
By author of "Dora Thorne" 10
250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Diana's
Discipline. By the author
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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and
Other Tales. By Hugh Conway,
author of "Called Back" 10
252 A Sinless Secret. By "Rita" 10
253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10
254 The Wife's Secret, and Fair but
False. By the author of
"Dora Thorne" 10
[CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER.]
ADDIE'S HUSBAND;
OR,
THROUGH CLOUDS TO SUNSHINE.
By the author of "Love or Lands?"
NEW YORK:
GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER,
17 TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET.
ADDIE'S HUSBAND.
CHAPTER I.
"'Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, policeman, plowboy, gentleman--'
Adelaide Lefroy, lift your lovely head, my dear; you're to marry a
gentleman."
Miss Adelaide, who is absorbed in the enjoyment of a ruddy ribstone
pippin, turns her blooming freckled face to the speaker, and answers
pleasantly, though a little indistinctly--
"I'm to marry a gentleman, brother Hal? Well, I guess I've no
particular objection! Whenever he comes, he will find me ready to
do him homage, and no mistake! Can't you tell me more about him? 'A
gentleman' is rather vague. Is he to be rich, poor, or something
between? Am I to share his gentility in a Belgravian mansion or a
suburban villa?"
"The oracle does not say. I can't tell you any more, Addie. I've come
nearer the point with the others, though. Pauline is to be a soldier's
bride, Goggles a policeman's!"
"Don't you believe him, Addie!" burst in Goggles, a pale
delicate-looking child of twelve, with large protruding eyes and a
painfully inquiring turn of mind. "He cheated horribly; he ran the
policeman in before the tailor the second time, and left out the
sailor."
"I didn't, miss--I did it quite fairly. You had four chances; you
got the tinker once and the policeman three times. You're to marry a
bobby--there's no hope for you!"
"I won't, I won't, I won't!" she retorts passionately, angry tears
welling into her big, foolish eyes. "I won't marry a policeman, Hal!
I'd rather die an old maid ten times over."
"First catch your policeman, my dear," chimes in Pauline, languidly
waving aside a swarm of gnats dancing round her beautiful dusky head.
"You'll not find many of that ilk sneaking round our larder, I can tell
you!"
"I don't care whether I do or not. I won't marry a--"
"That will do, Lottie; we have had quite enough of this nonsense,"
interposes Addie, suddenly and unexpectedly assuming the tones of a
reproving elder sister. "You came out here to study, and I don't think
either you or Pauline has read that French exercise once, though you
promised Aunt Jo you would have it off by heart for her this afternoon.
Give me the book; I'll hear you. Translate 'I am hungry; give me some
cheese.'"
"_Je suis faim; donnez-moi du--du--_"
"No; wrong to begin with. It is _J'ai faim_, 'I have hunger.'"
"'I have hunger!'" grumbles Lottie. "That just shows what a useless
humbugging language French is! Fancy any one but an idiot saying, 'I
have hunger,' instead of--"
"Don't talk so much. 'Have you my brother's penknife?'"
"_Avez-vous mon frère's plume-couteau?_"
Miss Lefroy tosses back the tattered Ahn in speechless disgust.
"Never mind, Goggles; I'll give you a sentence to translate," whispers
Hal teasingly. "Listen! _Esker le policeman est en amour_--eh? That's
better than anything in an old Ahn or Ollendorff, isn't it? _Esker le
poli_--"
"Hal, do leave your sister alone, and attend to your own task. I don't
believe you have got that wretched sum right yet, though you have been
at it all the morning."
"And such a toothsome sum too!" says Pauline, leaning forward and
reading aloud the problem inscribed on the top of the cracked greasy
slate in Aunt Jo's straggling old fashioned writing--
"'Uncle Dick gave little Jemmy five shillings as a Christmas-box.
He went to a pastry-cook's, and bought seven mince-pies at twopence
halfpenny each, a box of chocolate, nine oranges at one shilling and
sixpence per dozen; he gave tenpence to a poor boy, and had four-pence
left. What was the price of the chocolate?'"
"It's a rotten old sum--that's what it is!" says Hal trenchantly.
"What's the sense of annoying a fellow with mince-pies and things when
he hasn't the faintest chance of getting outside one for--"
"Hal, don't be vulgar!"
"Besides, you can change the pies into potatoes or rhubarb-powders if
you like," puts in Goggles spitefully, "and work the sum all the same.
I'll tell auntie you did nothing but draw the dogs all the morning."
"Yah! Tell-tale tit, your tongue shall be split!"
"Why did you say I'd marry a--"
"Charlotte, hold your tongue at once!"
There is a ring of authority in Miss Lefroy's fresh voice that insures
silence.
Pauline throws herself back upon the mossy sward, yawning heavily;
Addie weaves herself a wreath of feathery grasses and tinted
autumn-leaves, then picks a milky-petaled flower, which she stealthily
and cautiously begins to fray.
"'Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, policeman, plowboy, gentleman--'
Again! How very strange! There seems a fate in it! I wish I could find
out more, though. I can't bring it to 'soldier'--heigh-ho!"
It is a still slumberous noon in early October: a mellow sun trickles
through "th' umbrageous multitude of leaves," which still linger,
vivid-hued, on the stately timber that shelters Nutsgrove, the family
residence of the pauper Lefroys.
Nutsgrove is a low rambling brick manor-house, built in the time of
the Tudors, surrounded by a stone terrace leading to a vast parterre,
which, in the days of their opulence, the Lefroys were wont to
maintain, vied in beauty and architectural display with the famous
gardens of Nonsuch, in the reign of Henry VIII., sung by Spenser,
but which now, alas, was a ragged wilderness, covered with overgrown
distorted shrubs, giant weeds, ruinous summer-houses, timeworn
statues, and slimy pools, in which once splashed fairy-mouthed
fountains.
"So pure and shiny that the silver floode
Through every channel one might running see"
to the bottom,
"All paved beneath with jasper shining light."
Beyond this acreage of desolation is the orchard, protected by
crumbling walls, creeping into the famous nut-grove, the uncultured
beauty of which the noisome hands of neglect and decay have not touched.
As the nut-grove was in the days of Tristran le Froi, when he
established himself on Saxon soil, so it is now--a green-canopied
retreat, carpeted with moss and fringed with fern; it is the chosen
home of every woodlark, blackbird, thrush, and squirrel of taste in the
shire--the nursery, school-room, El Dorado of the five young Lefroys,
children of Colonel Robert Lefroy, commonly known as "Robert the Devil"
in the days of his reckless youth and unhonored prime, a gentleman who
bade his family and his native land goodnight in rather hurried fashion
about three years before.
"There goes Bob! I wonder did he get the ferret out of old Rogers?"
exclaims Hal, breaking a drowsy silence. "I wish he'd come and tell us."
But the heir of the house of Lefroy, heedless of appealing cry and
inviting whistle, stalks homeward steadily, a rank cigarette hanging
from his beardless lips, a pair of bull-pups clinging to his heels. He
is a tall shapely lad of eighteen, with a handsome gypsy face and eyes
like his sister Pauline's--large, dark, full of haughty fire.
"How nasty of him not to come!" grumbles the younger brother. "I
wonder what has put his back up? Perhaps old Rogers turned crusty, and
wouldn't lend the ferret. Shouldn't wonder, because--"
"The gong, the gong at last!" cries Pauline, springing to her feet. "I
didn't know I was so hungry until its welcome music smote my ears. Come
along, family."
They need no second bidding. In two minutes the grove is free from
their boisterous presence, and they are flying across the lawn,
their mongrel but beloved kennel barking, yelping, and scampering
enthusiastically around, making the autumn noon hideous.
* * * * *
"What's for dinner?"
"Rabbits!"
"Rabbits! Ye gods--again! Why, this is the fourth day this week that
we've fared on their delectable flesh!" cries Robert, striding into the
dining-room in grim disgust.
"At this rate we'll soon clear Higgins's warren for him!" chimes in Hal.
"Aunt Jo, let me say grace to-day, will you?"
"Certainly, my dear," Aunt Jo responds, somewhat surprised at the
request. She is a mild, sheep faced old gentlewoman, with weary eyes
that within the last two years have rained tears almost daily.
Pauline folds her slim sunburnt hands, bows her head, and murmurs
reverently--
"Of rabbits young, of rabbits old,
Of rabbits hot, of rabbits cold,
Of rabbits tender, rabbits tough,
We thank thee, Lord, we've had enough!"
"Amen!" respond the family, in full lugubrious choir.
"I wonder if I shall know the flavor of butcher's meat if I ever
taste it again?" says Robert presently, with exaggerated exertion
hacking a cumbrous limb that covers his cracked plate--a plate which a
china-collector would have treasured in a cabinet.
"You certainly won't taste butcher's meat again until the butcher's
bill is paid," answers Aunt Jo sharply. "Thirteen pounds eleven and
sixpence--so he sent me word when Sarah tried to get a mutton-chop for
Lottie the day she was so ill. Until his bill is paid, he won't trust
us with another pound of flesh; that was the message he sent to me--to
me--Josephine Darcy! Oh that I should live to receive such a message
from a tradesman! What would my dear uncle the bishop have felt if he
could have heard it?"
"But he can't hear it, auntie dear," says Lottie, consolingly. "He's
dead, you know."
"Not dead, but gone before," reproves Miss Darcy, burying her face in
her handkerchief.
"Water-works again!" groans Robert, _sotto voce_. "Use the plug, some
one."
Addie obeys the elegant order by slipping her arm round the old lady's
neck.
"There, there, dear; don't take on so. You fret too much about us;
you'll make yourself ill in the end. Cheer up, auntie dear, cheer--"
"Cheer up!" she interrupts, in a wailing voice. "Oh, child, it is
easy for you to talk in that light way! Cheer up, when poverty is at
the door, starvation staring us in the face! Cheer up, when I look at
you five neglected, deserted children, growing up half fed, wholly
uneducated, clothed as badly as the poorest laborer on the vast estates
your grandfather owned--you my poor dead sister's children! Oh, Addie,
Addie, you talk and feel like a child--a child of the summer, who has
not the sense, the power to feel the chill breath of coming winter!
How can you know? How can you understand? You heard your brothers and
your sisters here grumbling and railing at me not five minutes ago
because I had not legs of mutton and ribs of beef to feed you with,
grumbling because this is the fourth time in one week you have had to
dine off rabbit. Well"--with a sudden burst of anguish--"do you know,
if Steve Higgins, devoted retainer that he is, had not the kindness,
the forethought to supply us, as he has been doing for the last month,
with the surplus of his warren, you'd have had to dine off bread and
vegetables altogether? For not a scrap of solid food will they supply
us with in Nutsford until my wretched dividends are due, and that is
four months off yet. Oh, Addie dear, don't try to talk to me; I can
bear up no longer! Sorrows have come to me too late in life. I--I can
bear up no longer!"
Her voice dies away in hysterical sobs. By this time the family
are grouped round the afflicted lady; even Robert's hard young arm
encircles her heaving shoulder. He joins as vehemently as any in the
sympathizing chorus.
"There, there; don't, auntie dear. Heaven will help us, you'll see!"
"Every cloud has a silver lining, every thorn-bush a blossom."
"Something is sure to turn up, never fear."
"And we shouldn't mind a bit if you wouldn't take on so and fret so
dreadfully."
"Don't heed our grumblings; they're only noise. We'd just as soon have
rabbit as anything else--wouldn't you, boys, wouldn't you? There,
auntie, you hear them. Boys must grumble at something; it wouldn't be
natural if they didn't."
"Oh, auntie, auntie, can't you believe us? We're quite, quite happy as
we are. As long as we are all together, as long as we have the dear old
place to live in, what does anything else matter? We're quite happy. We
never want to change or go away, or wear grand clothes, talk French, or
thump the piano like other common people. We don't--we don't indeed! If
you would only leave off fretting, we'd leave off grumbling, and be all
as happy as the day is long."
Somewhat cheered by this unanimous appeal, Miss Darcy wipes her eyes,
though still protesting.
"I know that, I know that; as long as you're allowed to wander at
your own sweet will, lie on haystacks, rifle birds' nests, strip the
apple and cherry trees, hunt rats and rabbits, and, above all, do no
lessons, and make no attempt to improve your minds in any way, you will
be happy. But the question is, How long will these doubtful means of
happiness be left to you? Acre after acre, farm after farm, has slipped
from the family within the last thirty years. You have now but nominal
possession of the house, garden, orchard, and part of the grove--only
nominal possession, remember, for the place is mortgaged to the last
farthing; the very pictures on the wall, the chairs you sit on, the
china in the pantry, are all security for borrowed money. And--and,
children"--impressively--"it is best for you to know the worst. If--if
your--your father should cease to pay the interest on this money, why,
his creditors could seize on this place and turn you out homeless on
the roadside at an hour's notice!"
There is a deep silence; then comes a protesting outburst. Robert's
dark face flushes wrathfully as he exclaims--
"But--but, Aunt Jo, he--he will--he must pay the interest, and give me
a chance of reclaiming my birthright. He--he couldn't be so--so bad as
to let that lapse under the circumstances."
"Circumstances may be too strong for him."
"In any case," says Pauline hopefully, "the creditors couldn't be so
heartless, so devoid of all feelings of humanity as to turn us out
like that; they must wait until some of us are dead, or married, or
something. Where could we go?"
"Your father's creditors are Jews, Pauline; they are not famed for
humanity or forbearance. However, as you say, children, it is best to
look at the bright side of things, and trust in the mercy of Heaven."
"And in the mercy of a Jew too!" chimes in Addie.
"'Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions--fed with the same food, hurt with the
same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is? If
you prick him, does he not bleed? If you tickle him, does he not laugh?
If you poison him, does he not--'"
"Bravo, Addie--bravo; well done!"
"That was tall spouting, and no mistake! Where did you pick it all up?"
"That's Shakespeare," Addie answers, lifting her rosy pale face
proudly--"it is from the 'Merchant of Venice;' I read the whole play
through yesterday, and enjoyed it greatly."
"You imagined you did, my dear."
"Nothing of the kind, Robert; I found it most interesting."
"Don't tell me, Addie," says Pauline, with a tantalizing laugh, "that
you found it as interesting as 'The Children of the Abbey,' 'The Castle
of Otranto,' or 'The Heir of Redcliffe,' for I won't believe you."
"The styles are quite distinct; you could not possibly compare them,"
Addie retorts more grandly still. "I am going up to the grove now to
read 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' I believe it's beautiful."
"Don't you think, my dear niece, you had better mend that hole in your
stocking, just above the heel, first?" interposes Miss Darcy gently.
"It has been in that yawning condition for the last two days; and, to
say the least of it, it scarcely looks ladylike."
"I noticed it when I was dressing," assents Addie, placidly, "but quite
forgot about it afterward. Who'll lend me a thimble and a needle and
some cotton?"