The honeymoon is a fortnight old.

Mrs. Armstrong, in a pale silk of grayish blue, with ruffles of creamy lace at throat and wrists, and sparkling diamonds in her pretty pink ears, is languidly toying with a bunch of muscatel grapes, listening to the grateful plash of the waves breaking on the pebbly shore below.

The room in which she sits is a charming one, delicately yet luxuriously furnished, bright with hothouse flowers, with big French windows opening on to a canopied balcony overhanging the restless waters of St. George's Channel. Her husband is leaning back in his chair, sipping his post-prandial claret in blissful enjoyment.

"Headache all gone, Addie?" he asks, breaking a pleasant drowsy silence.

She turns her smiling face to him with a slight start.

"Headache? Had I a headache, Tom? Oh, I remember! That was this morning—ages ago—after bathing! Fancy your remembering all that time!"

"Well, I hope I am not such a callous wretch as to forget my wife's ailments, even after the long 'ages' of a summer morning."

"That is a real pretty speech, as Miss Tucker, on the flat below us, would say. I'll treasure it in my memory, Tom, and recall it to you, say, this day five years."

"You'll find it in tune, my dear. I'm not afraid."

She shakes her head doubtfully.

"Impossible! Even though your spirit was willing, the boys would have corrupted you long before. Fancy Bob or Hal inquiring after a headache six hours old! Listen to the music; how sweet it sounds!"

"Like a turn on the pier, dear?"

She assents gladly, and trips off to array herself, returning almost at once with a chip-hat and light lace-scarf thrown round her shoulders.

"Addie, you're not going out in that flimsy garment at this hour of the night—quite a sharp wind rising too! Go and put on something warmer."

"But I'm quite warm, Tom. Why, I have been out in the bitterest east wind, with snow on the ground and with a bad sore throat, not more heavily clad than this!"

"Well, my dear, that is an experience you may boast of, but which you will not practically repeat. Go, like a good girl, and put on that white woolly thing I saw in your wardrobe this morning."

She complies sweetly, but when out of sight, petulantly pulls the wrap from its shell, muttering—

"Well, I hope this will satisfy him. Why it's first cousin to a blanket! I shall be suffocated. Oh, dear!"

They sally forth and stroll slowly through the fashionable crowd, Addie's feet keeping time to a swinging gavotte, while she furtively eyes some dozen couples whose demeanor and gay attire incline her to suspect that they are in the same interesting position as herself and Tom.

After a time they leave the crowd and walk to the end of the pier, which they have all to themselves. They clamber over the moonlit rocks and stand arm in arm looking across the rippling waters, the music reaching them mellowed by distance into divinely soothing harmony.

It is an hour, a moment to put poetry into the breasts of the Smallweed family.

Armstrong feels its influence. He bends his dark face over his wife's, and asks sentimentally—

"Are you happy, Addie?"

"Oh, yes—yes!" she whispers back, with sparkling eyes. "Why should I not be? You are so very k—"

He blocks the sentence with a kiss.

"You need not have been in such a hurry," she laughs. "How do you know I was going to say that, after all? There are lots of other adjectives beginning with a 'k,' besides 'kind.' Let me see—'kantankerous,' for instance—"

"Hem! When I was at school, 'cantankerous' began with a 'c,' Mistress Addie."

"Oh, dear! I won't try repartee again, no matter how grievous the assault. Tom, what a valuable governess you robbed the Moggeridges of! You owe them compensation, sir."

A faint breeze brings to them a few bars of one of the sweetest, saddest love-songs ever written. Addie's voice drops; she says, scarcely above her breath—

"And you, Tom—are you happy too?"

"Happier, dear, than I ever thought I could be, even in my wildest dreams of matrimonial bliss. I've had you only a fortnight, little wife, and yet I don't know how I did without you during all the past years, or what life would be to me it you went from me now."

"I have no immediate intention of going," she remarks, rubbing her soft cheek against his coat-sleeve.

"No, you're bound for life now, thank Heaven!" he says fervently. "And, when I think of the many times I have been within an ace of losing you, child, of throwing the whole thing up and letting you go, I rejoice in possessing the gift of pig-headedness, and—"

"You were within an ace of giving me up! When, Tom? I never knew."

"Scores of times. I thought I could not make you happy, or myself either. I shrunk from the risk."

"Why? What risk?"

"We were so different, you see, Addie—there was such a gulf between us, not only of years, but of experience, of habit, of thought and mode of life. My past had been so rough, so lonely, so self-sufficing. And then—then, you did not like me, Addie; I saw that plainly enough. You used to shrink if I tried to come near you; and the way you hedged yourself in with those blessed boys was disconcerting, to say the least of it."

"I saw you did not like it," she says, with a low laugh.

"Not like it! By Jove, if you could have guessed the many times my fingers have itched to close on the shapely throat of that brother of yours, my dear, you would—"

"Poor Bob!"—a little anxiously. "You must not bear him ill-will, Tom; he's off his guard now. You see, I did not understand you then—did not know how to talk to you; you looked so big—so out of my world. But now it is all different." Then, after a short pause—"And so you think I can make you happy, husband—you don't regret it? You won't find us too much for you at Nutsgrove? For we're—we're not a comfortable family to live with, Tom! Oh, indeed we're not! Poor Aunt Jo had an awful time of it with us, and the Beechers found Pauline very trying at Greystones. Then I have a shocking temper; and Lottie, poor child, is dreadful when her questioning mood is on. Now don't be ridiculous, Tom, for I'm quite serious."

"I like Lottie," he says, smiling; "she's persevering, to be sure, but quite without guile. Pauline I think I can put up with too. Your temper, sweetheart, may be a bit of a trial; but fortunately I've a broad back, and a constitution, physical and mental, of granite."

"You'll want it, I suspect. But tell me, Tom, something about your early life. Had you no father or mother that you remember?"

"No; my mother died when I was an infant, and my father left me on the parish and went to America."

"How very strange—both our fathers behaving in much the same way! I think fathers are rather a mistake in families, Tom."

He laughs.

"So I began life unembarrassed by family connections—a—a—foundling, in fact—you don't mind, do you, Addie? And for the thirty-seven years of my life I've lived alone, entirely for myself—worked for myself, struggled for myself, dreamed for myself, built castles in the air to be inhabited by myself alone. A despicable state of existence, wasn't it? I blush when I look back on it now."

"You were not unhappy?"

"No, because I did not know any better. I could not go back to it now; you have broken the charm of egotism and sordid ambition. Oh, sweetheart, you cannot imagine how strange and refreshing it is to shake off the monotony of self at last, to be absorbed in another night and day, to forget one's separate existence, to feel that life before one will be full to overflowing of goodly promise, unfading blossom! It is like stepping back from the blightful shade of a late autumn night into the glory of a fresh spring morning. Ah, you cannot follow me there, little one! You have not been baptized in selfishness as I have been; and, though you like me well enough not to shrink from the future which is to me a vista of undimmed sunshine, yet I am not to you what you are to me, Addie; I doubt sorely if I can ever be."

"Hush!" she says, quickly, with a shudder she cannot repress, "It is no good discussing such matters now. You cannot expect me to follow you in your pretty simile, because I am only passing from spring into summer, and so I do not know what autumn may be like—it will come in time. You like my youth, don't you? You would not have me older? I am young in years, in experience, and in feeling. I cannot help that. I do not know much; but I know that I like you, Tom. I know that; I know too that you are good and stanch and true—ah, twice too good for me!" she adds, with a dry sob that startles him and makes him drift into a more cheerful channel as quickly as he can, into which she follows him with evident relief.

"And so, Tom," she asks, presently, "you have no relatives that you know of, except that old Mrs. Murphy who sent me that lovely patchwork quilt as a wedding present? And she is—"

"Only a third or fourth cousin on my mother's side."

"And have you lived all your life at Kelvick?"

"No, dear. I have been half over the world, knocking about east and west since I was twelve years old."

"Fancy that! I never knew. Your life must have been an interesting one."

"Hardly. It was not exactly commonplace; but it certainly wasn't picturesque in any of its phases. I went to Australia when I was quite a lad—worked my way before the mast, and made a little money out there. I came home, and the demon of invention got hold of me. I conceived some wondrous piece of agricultural mechanism which was to make my name and my fortune, over which I spent every farthing I had scraped together. Well, it proved to be a mere worthless abortion, and the discovery was a smart blow to my conceit and my energy. I lost heart for a time, went to the States, where I joined the Confederate Army, fought for two years—it was the time of the struggle for emancipation—and, when it was over, I steered further west, to California, where I did fairly at mining."

"Why, you have been a Jack-of-all-trades, Tom—sailor, soldier, inventor, miner, manufacturer—what else?"

"That's the whole list. I found at last that liquid-manufacturing paid the best; so I stuck to it. Vitriol gave me my decisive lift. Now, Addie, I will not allow that disdainful little sniff, for vitriol lies very close to my bosom just now. Vitriol bought me Nutsgrove, and Nutsgrove bought me you, and you bought—"

"Armstrong of Kelvick, is that you in the flesh? What can have tempted you into the giddy haunts of fashion, so far from your savory chimney-pots, my dear fellow?"

"Like the man in the Scriptures, 'I married a wife.' Addie"—to his wife, who stands rather shyly in the background—"let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Henderson."

They leave the pier and walk to the hotel, remaining for a few minutes talking under the porch; then the two men return to the pier for a smoke. Addie watches them disappear, hatching a little moonlit scamper on her own account to a solitary part of the shore, where she can plunge her free hands and hot face into the rippling water. Alas, woman proposes, but man disposes! She has just cleared the last step of the terrace, when she meets her husband face to face.

"Addie, I just ran back to see that you did not remain standing in that draught. Where are you going, child?"—and in an accent of intense surprise.

"Oh, nowhere in particular—at least, only to the edge of the sea for a moment!" she answers, a little hurriedly.

"To the shore at eleven o'clock at night, alone! You must have lost your senses, my dear. You must learn to understand that things of that sort cannot be done, and particularly in a place of this kind. Go up to your room at once, please, or you will grieve me very much."

For an instant she stands irresolute, trying to repress a wild instinct of rebellion, for there is a ring of authority in his voice which stirs the haughty Lefroy blood.

"I do not see what harm there is; I have been out at all hours of the night at home, and nobody said anything," she persists sullenly.

"It is of no use," he says almost sternly—at least it sounds so to her—"drawing parallels between your past life and your present; they are meaningless. If you wish to return to the shore, I will accompany you, and tell my friend not to wait for me."

"It is not necessary," she answers, in a low voice. "I am going in."

He follows her a few steps and lays his heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Addie darling, forgive me; I do not make allowance for your youth and the habits of your past life, and—and—I'm so accustomed to be obeyed, to command inferiors, that I—I forgot I was speaking to a lady, to one dearer to me than my life. Forgive me, sweetheart, forgive me!"

"Yes—oh, yes!" she says, slowly withdrawing herself from his detaining hand.

She walks listlessly up the stairs, stands panting heavily in her flower-scented room, looking to right and left with the quick, restless movement of an animal newly caged. She takes off her hat and cumbrous wrapping, removes the diamonds from her ears, the heavy gold bands from her fingers, and throws them from her; her arms drop to her sides. She remains thus, erect, motionless, rigid, for nearly half an hour, fighting against the sultry storm that sways her young soul; then she sinks quivering into a chair by the table, her head falls on her outstretched hands, and her passion finds vent in a storm of sobs and wild complaints.

At last she is alone; the long tÊte-À-tÊte is broken. A stranger's voice had broken the spell; she can be herself again—can wake Addie Lefroy from her maiden grave for a few short moments, and bid her live and suffer; she can throw the suffocating mask aside, let the hot tears rain from her weary eyes; the quick word, petulant, peevish, fall from her quivering lips—can be herself again, can seek to find the problem of her troubled life, can ask herself if it was a lie, a fraud, a base sequence of hypocrisy, or a glorious martyrdom, an heroic act of self-sacrifice. But nothing answers her, the problem remains unsolved, all before her is blurred with passion, misty with thunderous clouds that veil the transient gleams of a sunshine sweet and tender which she has dimly felt struggling to reach her path during the most trying fortnight of her life. But they do not touch her now; black night shrouds her everywhere.

"He is too good, too generous, too kind, too—too fond of me!" she wails, not conscious that her grief has found articulate sound. "His care, his affection, his watchfulness stifle me. I am not accustomed to them. It is like being transplanted to a hothouse after living all one's life on the top of a breezy hill. I feel I cannot breathe—that is it; I want breath, I want air. Only a fortnight, only a fortnight, and it must go on—I must keep it up to the end! Oh, it is too much—too much! I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it; it will kill me!"

Her voice sinks into a dry sob; there is a faint sound in the room, as if a door was being softly closed, a sound which rouses her with a start from her absorbed passion. She looks up quickly, and glances at the closed door leading into her husband's dressing-room. A horrible suspicion flashes across her mind, changing the heat of her blood to an icy chill. She passes noiselessly into the dressing-room; but there is no one there.

"An unnecessary alarm, a trick of the imagination!" she breathes with a sigh of relief.

The distraction has the effect of quieting her excited nerves, soothing the storm of her mind. She wipes her eyes briskly, tidies her hair, replaces her wedding-ring.

"I have been a fool! I wonder what set me off like that so suddenly! Such a strange feeling it was—as if I were choking; but I think it has done me good. I feel quite cool, light, and refreshed now, ready for a cup of tea."

She passes into her bedroom to replace her hat and wrap; then, drawing aside the blind, she peers out of the window, which is in the front of the hotel, facing the station.

"What a lovely night! No wonder one is tempted to remain out. Still he ought to be soon in now; it's past eleven some time, and I should like a cup—Oh, great Heaven!"

With a cry she falls back from the window, cowering, for at that moment forth from the gloom of the porch underneath, his brave head hanging low on his breast, her husband moves into the moonlight, where he stands motionless for a moment, then lifts his arms with a weary, bewildered gesture, and stumbles forward heavily toward the sleeping sea.

She knows that her sacrifice has been in vain, that she has blighted the prime of him who has enriched her and hers with his best, who has loved her more than his own life.