Addie shakes her listless head--she has no wish, no fancy in the matter--wherever Tom wishes; she does not mind--it is all the same to her. He sighs noiselessly; everything is the same to her now, all the life, the vivacity, the eager pretty willfulness that charmed him, are gone. She lies all day with half-closed eyes, silent, torpid, enjoying the good things he heaps upon her with a dumb animal appreciation, taking no interest in any earthly matter, asking no questions or explanations, unmoved by--seemingly unaware of--the yearning anguished eyes that never leave her face, the hot and restless hands that always hover round her, anticipating her lightest want, holding to her lips food and medicine, from which she turns aside with childish distaste.
"But you used to like the sea, don't you remember, Addie?" he pleads wistfully. "Bournemouth is, I believe, a lovely place. I think we'll decide on it."
"Yes," she answers indifferently. "But I hope it is not too far away; I feel so tired still. Are there not primroses in the room? Hold them to my face, Tom. How sweet they are--primroses! Why, it must be spring again, and the grove all yellow with them! And the white lilac too must be coming into bloom outside the school-room window."
"Addie," he says quickly, "would you like me to take you home, my darling?"
"Yes," she answers slowly, drawing a long breath; "I think I should like to spend another spring at home. Yes, take me home."
Home! Is she going home only to die? is the question ever present to the penitent and remorseful husband.
Mr. Armstrong telegraphs to Mrs. Turner, who is still in occupation at Nutsgrove, and the old place is dusted, swept, aired, and garnished. One soft April day Addie comes home again, and walks heavily through the familiar rooms, leaning on her husband's arm. Almost from the first day he notices a change for the better in her appearance and manner; her step gains firmness, her appetite improves; and one night, about a week after their return, when she stands by the drawing-room window, her face buried in a bunch of lilac-blossoms, there comes a radiance to her eyes, an eager softness to her voice that thrills him with wild hope.
"I'm glad we came home; aren't you, Tom?" she whispers, nestling close to him. "Let us never go away again. I'm tired of wandering; and I shall get well here, I know, without going to Madeira or Algiers. I feel to-night that I should like to live. Things are coming back to me again that I once loved--you amongst them, Tom. I am growing fond of you again--oh, yes, life is coming to me with the summer, and even good looks also! Look!" she cries gayly, pulling him to a glass and putting her face close to his swarthy one. "Am I not almost pretty to-night? You'd know me if you met me in the streets now, wouldn't you, Tom? Why, I want only a little red in my cheeks, a few freckles on the bridge of my nose, and some curliness in my fringe to be myself again--quite my old self again!"