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.dt The House of Armour, by Margaret Marshall Saunders
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Transcriber’s Note:
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.bn 001.png
.sp 4
.h1
THE HOUSE OF ARMOUR
.sp 4
.bn 002.png
.bn 003.png
.bn 004.png
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.ca A Section of Halifax and the Harbor—From the Citadel.
.bn 005.png
.nf c
THE HOUSE OF ARMOUR
BY
MARSHALL SAUNDERS
AUTHOR OF
“Beautiful Joe,” “Daisy,” “Charles and His Lamb,”
“For the Other Boy’s Sake,” etc.
.nf-
.sp 4
.il fn=i_title.jpg w=10% ew=10%
.sp 4
.nf c
PHILADELPHIA
A. J. Rowland—1420 Chestnut Street
MDCCCXCVII
.nf-
.bn 006.png
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.nf c
Copyright 1897 by
A. J. Rowland
.nf-
.sp 8
.nf c
From the Press of the
American Baptist Publication Society
.nf-
.sp 4
.ce
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
.bn 007.png
.pn 5
.sp 4
.h2
CONTENTS
.ta r:8 l:50 r:10 bl=n
I. | Scotland the New, | #7#
II. | Mrs. Macartney’s Impressions of Canada, | #16#
III. | Home Again, | #25#
IV. | Mammy Juniper, | #35#
V. | A Conversation with Judy, | #43#
VI. | Mrs. Colonibel Loses Her Temper, | #54#
VII. | In Dr. Camperdown’s Office, | #63#
VIII. | An Interview in the Library, | #76#
IX. | The Pavilion, | #87#
X. | Zeb and a Tea Party, | #101#
XI. | Mrs. Macartney Gets a Fright, | #115#
XII. | Love at First Sight, | #124#
XIII. | Dr. Camperdown Makes a Morning Call, | #141#
XIV. | The Stolen Pocket-book, | #152#
XV. | A Lost Mother, | #168#
XVI. | The Colonial Cottage, | #176#
XVII. | MacDaly’s Dream, | #194#
XVIII. | Warm Friends, | #207#
XIX. | Brother and Sister, | #218#
.bn 008.png
.pn +1
XX. | Chased as a Bird Without Cause, | #236#
XXI. | A Quiet Evening, | #246#
XXII. | Stargarde’s Mother, | #264#
XXIII. | On Market Day, | #281#
XXIV. | An Answered Question, | #302#
XXV. | Zilla’s Rosebud, | #316#
XXVI. | The Misery of the World, | #328#
XXVII. | Not to be Repeated, | #343#
XXVIII. | Miskept Accounts, | #351#
XXIX. | The Micmac Keeps His Charge, | #371#
XXX. | Love will Build His Lily Walls, | #395#
XXXI. | MacDaly’s Lecture, | #408#
XXXII. | He Kissed Her and Promised, | #432#
XXXIII. | A Wayworn Traveler, | #447#
XXXIV. | A Fox Chase, | #456#
XXXV. | Her Wedding Day, | #464#
XXXVI. | Blind, | #477#
XXXVII.| Adieu to Frispi, | #487#
XXXVIII.| The Ghost Flower, | #496#
XXXIX.| At Last, | #515#
XL.| The Fate that Pursues Us, | #521#
XLI.| In Deep Despair, | #534#
XLII.| Across the Sea, | #539#
.ta-
.bn 009.png
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THE HOUSE OF ARMOUR
.hr 20%
.sp 2
.h2
CHAPTER I | SCOTLAND THE NEW
.sp 2
In the southeastern extremity of Canada, jutting
out into the blue waters of the Atlantic, holding
on to the great mainland of North America
only by one narrow arm or isthmus, is the green
and fertile little peninsula called Acadie, land of
abundance, by the French and Indians, and Nova
Scotia, New Scotland, by the baronet Sir William
Alexander, when in 1621 it was ceded to him by
his most worshipful majesty, King James the First
of England.
Projected, pushed out from the mainland as it is,
the province is pre-eminently a child of the sea.
Her wealth comes from it; her traffic is over it; it
keeps her warm in winter; it cools her in summer.
Old Father Atlantic, savage, boisterous old parent
that he is, dashing so often the dead bodies of her
children against her rockbound coasts, is yet her
chief guardian and protector, and the one who
loves her most.
.bn 010.png
.pn +1
He is on all her sides, lapping her grassy shores,
breaking against her frowning cliffs, and running
away up into the land, wide, blue tongues of water,
where foreign ships can ride at anchor and give to
lovely Nova Scotia their fairest merchandise.
Among all the harbors, among all the bays—and
they are long and numerous—can none be found
to eclipse the chief and prince of them all, glorious
old Chebucto, which hundreds of years ago Indians
paddled over and called the greatest of waters. It
lies almost midway between the two ends of the peninsula
and sends up between smiling shores a long,
wide, crystal expanse of water, that is curved like
a slightly bent arm and is six whole miles in
length. Clear and shining it comes in from the
sea, washing around its guardian forts, and with a
strong, full tide floating the most ponderous leviathans
of the deep right up to the wharves of the
capital town of the province, built along its shores.
At all times white-winged ships sail over its
waters. Farther north the bays skim over and harbors
freeze. Here the waters are always blue and
open, and tired ships, bruised and buffeted by the
angry winter winds of the Northern Atlantic, can
always steal in and find a safe and pleasant anchorage.
The shores are gently sloping, the hills are
wooded, only the softest breezes blow here. Boreas
and all his gang must lurk outside the harbor
mouth.
.bn 011.png
.pn +1
It is with one of these ships that we have to do.
Steadily day by day plowing the ocean track
that leads from England to the little maritime
province, a large passenger steamer had come.
Soon she would sight the harbor lights, would make
her way to the desired haven.
The evening was cold and still; the time was
early December. A brilliant moon in a sky of
lovely steely blue was in mid-heaven, staring down
at the lighted, busy town, the silent country, the
glistening line of the harbor, and the crystal sea
beyond.
The hull of the steamer sat on the waters a large,
black mass. Its decks were white and as bright as
day in the moonlight. The captain stood on the
bridge, occasionally speaking, but mostly by signs
and gestures making known his wishes. A few
sailors were hurrying about the decks and officers
were directing preparations made for entering port.
The most of the passengers had gone forward
and stood in a group at the bow of the ship,
eagerly straining their eyes to catch the first
glimpse of the town they were approaching. A
few lingered behind. Among them were two
people, a man of a straight, military figure, and a
young girl with a dark, brilliant face.
The man observed attentively his youthful companion,
making, man of the world that he was,
amused comments on her badly suppressed girlish
.bn 012.png
.pn +1
enthusiasm at being again within sight of her
native land.
It was absolutely necessary for her to talk and it
charmed him to listen to her sweet, half-foreign
voice. At first she had seemed to him to be thoroughly
French. Then he had found grafted on
her extreme Frenchiness manners and ways so
entirely English that she made at the same time
an interesting and an amusing combination to him.
They were still well out at sea when she looked
over her shoulder and made her first salutation.
“There is Thrum Cap,” she exclaimed, “wicked
old Thrum Cap, thrusting his bald, sandy head out
of the water, pretending to look at the moonbeams.
What a tale the old villain could tell!”
and she shook her glove so impatiently at him that
her companion was moved to ask what power the
barren sand dune had to call forth such a display
of emotion.
“There are treacherous ledges beneath his shimmering
waves,” said the girl. “Shall I tell you
the tale of the English frigate ‘La Tribune,’ that
was wrecked there in 1797?”
“If you will be so kind,” he said gravely, giving
her no hint that he was already acquainted with
the story of the disaster.
At the conclusion of her recital he gave her an
inscrutable look, which she did not perceive.
“You seem—ah—to know a vast deal about
.bn 013.png
.pn +1
your native land,” he said meditatively. “How
has all this knowledge been acquired, since you
left here at such an early age?”
“By reading, always reading,” said the girl restlessly.
“And you are fond of your country,” he said.
“Passionately. What else have I to love?
Father, mother—both are gone.”
“Your friends, acquaintances——”
“Ah, there are too many. Life has been change
to me, always change. Imagine me in early youth
a young and tender plant. I throw out my tendrils
and attach myself to this object—it is
snatched away from me; to that one—it too is
snatched away; and finally my tendrils are all gone.
Suppose the most charming object to come within
my reach, I have no tendril to grasp it. Nothing
remains but my country.”
“That will all change some day,” said the man
sententiously.
“In what manner?” she asked.
“You will meet some man in whom everything
will become merged—friends, country, everything.”
“You mean that I shall fall in love?”
“I do.”
“Possibly,” she said with a gay laugh. “Probably
not.”
“Why not?”
“Because, as I have told you, I make few attachments;
.bn 014.png
.pn +1
and if I did I never stay long enough
in one place for one to mature. This winter I
fancied that I was settled in Paris, but you see I am
summoned here.”
“Leaving sorrowing admirers behind you,” said
her companion imperturbably.
“According to me—yes.”
“You would not overstate,” he said hastily;
“you are not like most girls.”
“Did you never see any one like me?” she asked
vivaciously.
“No,” he said quietly; “you are an anomaly. A
Frenchwoman educated among English people and
speaking your own language with a foreign accent—half
of you goes in one direction, half in another.”
“Ah, you understand me, Captain Macartney,”
said the girl with an eager gesture. “You will
know what I mean when I say that at times I seem
to feel in my veins the gay French blood running
beside the sober English.”
“Yes, I understand you,” he said with a smile,
and he fixed his gaze admiringly on her dark eyes
that were wandering restlessly from shore to shore
of the entrance to the beautiful harbor.
“Away down there is the place of wrecks,” she
said, waving her hand toward the western coast.
“Some of my countrymen named it Saint Cendre,
and the careless Nova Scotians corrupted it into
Sambro. Do you hear that, Captain Macartney?”
.bn 015.png
.pn +1
The man’s glance had suddenly dropped to the
sea and he was staring at it as if he were trying
to wrest some secret from it. Now he roused
himself. “Yes, Miss Delavigne, I hear.”
“The old name of the harbor was Chebucto,”
the girl went on; “Chebook-took—chief haven.
The Indian and French names should still remain;
it was unfair in Englishmen to drive them out. Is
not Acadie more charming than Nova Scotia, and
Chebucto than Halifax?”
“Is it not a natural thing that a child should be
named after its father?” asked Captain Macartney.
“After its own father, yes,” said the girl quickly;
“after a stepfather, no. The French owned this
province; the English drove them out.”
“They deserved to go,” said Captain Macartney
with some show of warmth.
“Ah, yes, they did at last,” said the girl sadly.
“But it is a painful subject; do not let us discuss
it.”
“May I ask you one question?” he said eagerly.
“Do you approve of the expulsion of the Acadians?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are the most fair-minded and impartial
Frenchwoman that I ever met.”
“Because I agree with you,” she said. “Ah,
Captain Macartney, you are like the rest of your
sex. Now let us see if we can find the forts lying
.bn 016.png
.pn +1
cunningly concealed among those hills. This is
the most strongly fortified town in Canada, is it
not?”
“Yes,” he replied, with an inward malediction
on her fervor of patriotism. “On that island is a
battery, a military camp, and a rifle range.”
The girl surveyed with a passionate glance the
wooded points of an island they were passing. On
a narrow spit of land running out from it was a
Martello tower lighthouse.
“It is quite as round and quite as much like a
plum pudding as when I left it,” she said merrily;
“and it fixes on me its glittering eye in the same
manner that it did when I, a little child, went down
this harbor to countries that I knew nothing about,
and the fog bell seemed to cry, ‘Adieu, adieu,
another gone from the pleasant land.’”
“But you have returned,” said the man, biting
his lip to hide a smile.
“I have; many have not. You have read of
the ’Cajiens of Louisiana and other places. They
went but did not return; their sore hearts are buried
among strangers.”
“And you,” he said curiously, “are you going
to remain in Canada?”
“Yes,” said the girl softly; “I shall never leave
it again.”
“But your guardians; suppose they——” he
stopped abruptly.
.bn 017.png
.pn +1
“I shall live and die in my native land. They
will not prevent me,” she said calmly.
He maintained a polite, though an unsatisfied
silence.
“We are looking toward the east, we forget the
west,” said the girl turning around. “See, there is
York Redoubt, and Sandwich Point, and Falkland
with its chapel—dear little Falkland, ‘a nest for
fisher people’—and there is the entrance to the
Northwest Arm.”
For the twentieth time that evening Captain
Macartney smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. Her
eyes were turned lovingly toward the narrow strip
of salt water that runs up like an arm behind the
peninsula on which the city of Halifax is built.
At the extremity of the peninsula is one of the
loveliest natural parks in the world. The girl’s
enraptured gaze was turned toward it and she was
just about to launch into an ardent enumeration of
its attractions, when she was interrupted.
.bn 018.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER II | MRS. MACARTNEY’S IMPRESSIONS OF CANADA
.sp 2
A bright-faced lad with dark blue Irish
eyes and glossy hair came hurrying down
the deck, his hands thrust into the pockets of his
long ulster, his whole expression that of one suffering
from extreme cold.
“Are you frostproof,” he exclaimed, “that you
stand here motionless in this stinging air? I am not
surprised at you, Miss Delavigne,” and he made
her a low bow, “as you are a Canadian, but I marvel
at Geoffrey,” and he glanced at his brother, “fresh
from India’s suns as he is. Shall we not have a
last promenade, mademoiselle? The cold is biting
me like a dog.”
Vivienne laughed and placed herself beside him,
while Captain Macartney murmured, “There go
our guns; we are announcing ourselves.”
“Will you not tell me, Miss Delavigne,” said the
boy in a confidential tone of voice, “about this
matter of signaling? I have asked Geoffrey several
times, but he only grunts like an Irish pig, and
gives me no answer.”
“With all my heart, Mr. Patrick,” said the girl
.bn 019.png
.pn +1
with a businesslike air. “From the outposts at
the harbor mouth every vessel is reported to the
citadel.”
“What is the citadel?” he asked.
“It is the fort on the hill in the middle of the
town.”
“What a quarrelsome set you Halifax people
must be,” said the boy, “to require so many fortifications
and such a number of redcoats to keep
you in order.”
“Not for ourselves do we need them, Mr.
Patrick,” she said teasingly, “but for our troublesome
guests from the old country.” Then hastily,
to avoid the wordy warfare that he was eager to
plunge into, she went on. “Up there is an island
that is all fort.”
“Shades of my uncle the general!” he said;
“can that be so? Let us go forward and see it.”
“A French vice-admiral who ran himself through
with his sword is buried on it,” said Vivienne, as
they proceeded slowly along the deck.
“Hush!” said the boy. “What is mamma doing?”
Vivienne smiled broadly. Mrs. Macartney, the
good-hearted, badly educated daughter of a rich
but vulgar Dublin merchant, was a constant source
of amusement to her. Just now she was waddling
down the deck, driving before her a little dapper
Nova Scotian gentleman who had become known
.bn 020.png
.pn +1
to them on the passage as excessively polite, excessively
shy, and, like Vivienne, excessively patriotic.
Hovering over her victim like a great good-natured
bird she separated him from a group of
people standing near, and motioned him into the
shadow of a suspended lifeboat.
“Ducky, ducky, come and be killed,” said
Patrick wickedly. “Do you know what mamma
is going to do, Miss Delavigne?”
“No, I do not.”
“She is going to cross-question that man about
Canada in such a ladylike, inane way that he won’t
know whether he’s on his head or his heels. Come
and listen.”
“Mrs. Macartney may not like it.”
“Yes, she will; the more the merrier. Come
along.”
Vivienne laughed and followed him near the
Irish lady, who was preposterously and outrageously
fat. A living tide was slowly rolling over
her, obliterating all landmarks of a comely person.
Her ankles were effaced; her waist was gone. Her
wrists had disappeared, and her neck had sunk
into her shoulders. Cheeks and chin were a wide
crimson expanse, yet her lazy, handsome blue eyes
looked steadily out, in no wise affrighted by the
oncoming sea of flesh.
“Mamma always does this,” said Patrick gleefully.
.bn 021.png
.pn +1
“She doesn’t know any more about geography
than a tabby cat, and she won’t learn till
she gets to a place. Look at the little man writhing
before her. She has called his dear land Nova
Zembla six times. Listen to him.”
“Madam,” the Nova Scotian was saying, “this
is Nova Scotia. Nova Zembla is situated in the
Arctic regions. It is a land of icebergs and polar
bears. I scarcely think it has any inhabitants.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Macartney,
shaking her portly person with a good-natured
laugh. “The names are so much alike that they
confuse me. I only know that one is a cold place
and the other a warm one, that one is in North
America and the other in South.”
“Madam,” he said desperately, and shifting his
feet about on a coil of rope on which he had taken
refuge, “Nova Zembla is in the north of Europe.
We are in North America.”
“Are we?” she said amiably; “then we haven’t
come to Canada yet?”
“Oh yes, madam, we have. Nova Scotia is in
Canada, in the lower southeastern part—nearest
England you know. It is the last in the line of
provinces that stretch from the Pacific to the Atlantic.”
At the mention of the Pacific, Mrs. Macartney’s
lumbering fancy attempted to take flight to the
coral groves of Oceanica. “I did not know that
.bn 022.png
.pn +1
Canada bordered on the Pacific,” she returned
dubiously. “How near is it?”
“Just three thousand six hundred and sixty-two
miles away, madam. The continent lies between
us.”
“Oh indeed,” with relief; “and Canada you say
extends all the way across.”
“Yes, madam.”
“And it is made up of different provinces?”
“Yes, madam; they have been confederated.”
“And this one is called Nova Scotia?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And how large may it be?” cajolingly; “half
as large as one of our Irish provinces?”
“Madam,” trembling with indignation, “Nova
Scotia, with the island at its northeastern extremity,
has only about ten thousand square miles of area
less than all Ireland with every province in it.”
“Bless me!” she exclaimed in unmitigated surprise.
Then after a long pause, and with less assurance,
“The island, I suppose, is Newfoundland?”
“No, madam,” dejectedly. “Newfoundland is
away to the northeast of us—a two days’ voyage
from here.”
Mrs. Macartney, a trifle abashed, decided to
abandon the somewhat dangerous ground of
Canada’s geographical position, and confine herself
to general remarks. She started out gallantly on
a new career. “This a fine place to live in, I suppose—plenty
.bn 023.png
.pn +1
of sport. You have hunting and
fishing all the year round, don’t you?”
Somewhat mollified he assented unqualifiedly to
this. Following the law of association, she dragged
from some recess in her mind another less pleasing
feature of the hunting world in Canada, which she
had somewhere and at some time heard mentioned.
“Do the Indians cause you very much trouble?”
she asked sympathetically.
“No, madam; our aborigines are a very peaceful
set.”
“How long may it be since your last massacre?”
“I don’t quite catch your meaning, madam.”
“Don’t you have risings and rebellions? I had
some cousins living in Halifax when I was a girl—army
people they were, and they told me that they
used to shoot Indians from their bedroom windows.”
At this point the little man gave tokens of a general
collapse.
“Perhaps they said bears—I really believe they
did,” Mrs. Macartney added hastily, by way of restoring
his suspended animation; “in fact I am
sure they did, and,” confusedly, “I think they
said the bears came in from the forests after dark,
and went about the streets to pick up the scraps
thrown from the houses, and it was quite a common
thing to see a night-capped head at a window
with a gun in its hand——” she stopped delightedly,
.bn 024.png
.pn +1
for the little man was not only himself again, but
was laughing spasmodically.
“Madam,” he gasped at length, “our native
Indians fought vigorously when this province was a
battleground between England and France. Since
the founding of this city they have gradually
calmed down, till now they are meeker than sheep.
We have only a few thousands of them, and they
are scattered all over the province, living in camps
in the woods, or in small settlements. They never
do anybody any harm.”
“It does my heart good to hear that,” said Mrs.
Macartney, with a jovial laugh. “Truth to tell, my
scalp has been feeling a trifle loose on my head since
we came in sight of this country. And if the Indians
don’t worry you now,” insinuatingly, “I daresay
you are able to make quite a civilized town of
Halifax.”
He stifled a laugh. “We try to, madam.”
This answer was too indefinite to suit Mrs. Macartney.
A suspicion was gaining ground in her
mind that Halifax was not the military camp and
collection of log houses that she had thought it to
be.
“How many people are there in the town?”
she inquired guilelessly.
“About forty thousand, madam.”
“In Halifax?” she asked hesitatingly, “or in
the whole province?”
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
“In Halifax, madam. There are over four hundred
and forty thousand in the province.”
Mrs. Macartney was considerably staggered.
“And do you have shops and hotels and churches?”
“All three, madam.”
“I had an idea that Canadians sent to England
for all the necessaries of life.”
“Just turn around, madam,” said the Nova Scotian.
Mrs. Macartney had opened her mouth to make
another remark, but the words died away on her
lips.
Stretching along the western shore a busy, prosperous
town presented itself to her gaze. Like all
other towns it must be somewhat grimy and dirty
in the light of day. At night, with the moon hanging
over it and myriad lights flashing from the tiers
of buildings rising one above another on the slope
of a long hill, it was like a fairy city.
All along the shore were rows of wooden
wharves running out into the harbor where there
were moored ocean steamers, coasting vessels, fishing
boats, ferry steamers, tugboats, and tiny skiffs,
some of which darted gayly in and out among the
wharves. Some of the ships were brightly lighted,
and people could be seen moving about on them.
“Surely, surely,” said Mrs. Macartney, turning
to her companion in unfeigned amazement, “I
have been about Canada. One of its
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
provinces is larger than Ireland, and its chief town,
if you shut your eyes, would make you think that
you were looking at Dublin itself. Sure, I feel like
the Queen of Sheba,” and with a comical twinkle
in her eye, she turned around to see who had laid
a hand on her arm.
Her son Patrick stood before her. “And I
feel like King Solomon,” he exclaimed; “so many
unruly ladies to take care of. Miss Delavigne
won’t come below to look after her traps. Mamma,
will you come and point out yours to me?”
“Indeed, no, my son,” said the lady amiably;
“you weren’t here just now when I wanted you,
and I had to apply to this gentleman,” with a bow
to the Nova Scotian. “I’m going to see further
sights,” and she waddled toward a better place of
observation.
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER III | HOME AGAIN
.sp 2
One of the long wharves was sprinkled with
people watching the “Acadian” come in from
the sea. Custom-house officials were there, wharf
laborers, sailors, loafers, and at the very end of the
wharf was a group of fur-clad individuals who
were laughing, joking, stamping their feet, or
pacing briskly up and down while waiting to
welcome the friends and relatives drawing so near
to them.
With them, yet a little apart from them, stood
a man who did not move from his place and who
seemed indifferent to the extreme cold. He was
wrapped in a black fur coat, and a cap of the
same material—a fine and costly Persian lamb—was
pulled down over his brows.
His pale, cold face was turned toward the “Acadian,”
and his blue eyes scanned without emotion
the people hurrying to and fro on her decks.
When the steamer swung around toward the
wharf, he watched the gangways being thrown out
and the living tide pouring down them and overflowing
in all directions. The air was full of greetings.
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
Mothers and fathers, lovers and friends, were
looking into each others’ eyes, and embracing one
another tenderly. Then the first gush of salutation
over their thoughts reverted to business. In a
mass the passengers precipitated themselves upon
the custom officials and eagerly watched for and
identified their luggage as it was rapidly hoisted
from the hold of the steamer to the wharf.
The man in the fur coat pressed his way through
the throng of people and gained the deck of the
steamer. The Macartneys and Vivienne Delavigne
stood together.
The girl saw him coming, went to meet him, and
putting out her hand said, “How do you do, Mr.
Armour?”
Composed as his face usually was she yet caught
an almost instantly repressed look of repulsion.
Unspeakably chilled by it and the brevity and
stiffness of his greeting, yet too proud and philosophical
to show the slightest sign of disappointment,
she said steadily:
“This is Mrs. Macartney, who has been kind
enough to chaperon me across the Atlantic.”
Mr. Armour bowed politely, his cap in his hand.
Captain Macartney she found to her surprise he
already knew, though he spoke to him almost as
formally as if they had never met before.
Patrick, after a searching glance at Mr. Armour,
turned away muttering, “Iceberg!”
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
When Mr. Armour in a few brief sentences
thanked Mrs. Macartney for her kindness to his
ward, she said cheerfully: “She’s one of the right
sort is Miss Delavigne. She is the only girl I have
ever seen that would have satisfied my old grandmother.
I was the one that never could please
her.” Mr. Armour stared slightly at her as if he
did not understand what she was saying, then turning
to Vivienne he said shortly, “What luggage
have you?”
“Four boxes,” she replied; “black ones with
V. D. on the covers.”
“Will you come with me to find them?” he
said, and after a brief leavetaking of the Macartneys
he preceded her to the gangway.
Vivienne looked regretfully over her shoulders.
Mrs. Macartney waved her hand good-naturedly,
Captain Macartney smiled and lifted his cap, and
Patrick blew a kiss from the tips of his fingers and
exclaimed, "Au revoir, mademoiselle."
However they met again. After a time, borne
to and fro in the surgings of the crowd, they found
themselves in the shed where the luggage had been
taken to be examined. Vivienne was a short distance
from Mrs. Macartney, who had seated herself
on a box that she recognized as her own. Neither
Captain Macartney nor Patrick was in sight and
she was surveying in huge amusement the scene of
civilized confusion so different from the picture of
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
their arrival that her fancy had conjured up—a
few logs thrown out in the water, their descent
thereupon, and welcome by swarms of half-clad
savages dancing around, their tomahawks in hand.
With an amiable interest in the affairs of every
one with whom she came in contact, the Irish lady
gazed attentively at a custom-house official near
her with whom a Halifax maiden was reasoning,
vainly endeavoring to persuade him that there was
nothing dutiable in her half a dozen open trunks,
which looked suspiciously like containing a wedding
trousseau.
Mrs. Macartney at intervals took a hand in the
argument, and looking sympathetically at a heap
of new kid gloves that the officer had just drawn
from some hidden recess, she remarked in a wheedling
voice: “What’s the good of being under the
English flag if one is so particular about bits of
things like that. Come now, officer, let them pass.
I’m sure the duty on them is a mere trifle.”
“Thirty-five per cent,” he said, throwing up his
head to look at her.
Her thoughts reverted to herself and she exclaimed:
“Faith, I’ll be ruined! Have I got to pay
you that for the privilege of covering my hands in
cold weather?”
“Yes’m,” he said smartly, “that is if your gloves
have not been worn.” Then fixing her with his
appraising eye, as if he gathered from her comfortable
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
appearance that she might be one to indulge
in soft raiment and fine linen, he rattled off a list
of articles which she would have done well to have
left behind her.
“We’ve got to protect our merchants, madam.
If you’ve brought any description of silk gloves,
kid gloves, mitts, silk plush, netting used for manufacture
of gloves, we’ll assess you. If you’ve any
silk cords, tassel girdles, silk velvets except church
vestments——”
“That’s a very likely thing for me to have,” she
interrupted indignantly.
“Silk manufactures,” he said, “including gros
grains, satins, sarcenet, Persians, poplins, ribbons,
shawls, ties, scarfs, bows, handkerchiefs, mantillas,——”
and he gabbled on till his breath failed him.
Mrs. Macartney was speechless for the first time
in her life. She turned from him with a shudder,
as if to say, you are a dangerous man, and hailed
an agile young official who was pursuing a comet-like
career over trunks and boxes and leaving a
trail of white chalk marks behind him.
At her signal he bore down upon her box with
bewildering rapidity, opened it, and with long cunning
fingers extracted therefrom every dutiable
article. The new gloves still stitched together, the
silk and linen and dainty trifles still in the wrappers
in which they had come from the Dublin shops,
lay in a heap before him.
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
“Twenty dollars,” he ejaculated, and she had
with his assistance mechanically abstracted from
her purse a sufficient amount of the foreign currency
to pay him, and he had given her box the
pass mark and was away before she realized the
extent of the weakness which she had displayed in
not uttering one word of protest.
With a sigh of dismay she turned and met Vivienne’s
eye. They had had many jokes together
and with a simultaneous impulse they began to
laugh.
“’Tis a country of surprises, me dear girl,” said
Mrs. Macartney wagging her head. “Ah, Geoffrey,
hear a tale of distress,” and looking at Captain
Macartney, who suddenly appeared before them,
she poured her troubles in his always sympathetic
ear.
Vivienne was listening with interest when amid
all the bustle and excitement she felt her guardian’s
cold eye upon her.
“Your boxes are marked,” he said; “will you
come now?”
With a hasty good-bye to her friends the girl
followed him from the building.
A few sleighs and cabs were drawn up in the
shadow of a square warehouse that stood at the
head of the wharf. Before one of these sleighs
Mr. Armour stopped. A coachman in an enormous
fur cape and with his head half hidden in a
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
heavy cap hurried from his seat and went to the
horse’s head.
Mr. Armour assisted Vivienne into the sleigh,
then gathered up the reins in his hands and placed
himself beside her. The coachman sprang to the
back seat and they passed slowly under a black
archway and emerged into long Water Street that
follows closely the line of wharves running from
one end of the old colonial town to the other.
Once upon the street the horse, a beautiful black
creature, impatient from his long time of waiting
and feeling lively in the keen frosty air, struck into
a quicker pace. Smoothly and swiftly they slipped
over the snowy streets, sometimes between rows of
lighted shops whose windows sparkled with frost,
and sometimes by dwelling houses whose partly
closed curtains afforded tantalizing glimpses of
light and good cheer within.
The girl’s heart beat rapidly. Home—home—the
magic word was ringing in her ears. Earnestly
peering out from her wraps to observe what changes
had taken place during her absence, she scarcely
noticed the silence of the man beside her, except
when some eager question leaped to her lips and
was instantly repressed by an upward glance at his
frigid face.
Cold as a statue, dumb as a mummy, he sat.
One might have thought him a dead man but for
his handling of the whip and reins. He seemed
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
to be plunged in a profound and painful reverie,
and did not once break the silence from the time
of their leaving the wharf until their arrival within
sight of his own house.
They had passed beyond the city limits and on
each side of them stretched wide snowy fields
bounded by low stone walls. They were approaching
the shores of the Arm, where many of the
merchants of the town had erected substantial,
comfortable houses for themselves.
When they stopped before a gate and the man
jumped out to open it, Mr. Armour pulled himself
together with an effort and looked down at Vivienne
with a confused, “I beg your pardon.”
“I did not speak,” she said calmly.
“I thought you did,” he replied; then touching
his horse with the whip they again set out on their
way, this time along a winding road bordered by
evergreens.
“It was kind in you to come and meet me,”
said Vivienne when they drew up before a large,
square white house with brilliantly lighted windows.
Mr. Armour murmured some unintelligible reply
that convinced her he had not heard what she said.
“What curious behavior,” she reflected. “He
must be ill.”
Mr. Armour was looking at the closed sleigh
standing before the door.
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
“Who is going out to-night?” he asked of the
man.
“Mrs. Colonibel and Colonel Armour, sir,” said
the coachman touching his cap. “There is a ball
at Government House.”
Mr. Armour turned to Vivienne and extended a
helping hand, then drawing a latchkey from his
pocket he threw open a large inner door.
Vivienne stepped in—stepped from the bitter
cold of a Canadian winter night to the warmth and
comfort of tropical weather. The large square
hall was full of a reddish light. Heavy curtains,
whose prevailing color was red, overhung each
doorway. A group of tall palms stood in one
corner and against them was placed the tinted
statue of a lacrosse player. Pictures of Canadian
scenery hung on the walls and over two of the
doorways hung the heads and branching antlers of
Nova Scotian moose.
Her quiet scrutiny of the hall over she found Mr.
Armour was regarding her with a look of agitation
on his usually impassive face.
“Will you be kind enough to take off your hat?”
he said; “it shades your face.”
The girl looked at him in surprise and removed
the large felt hat that she wore. Somewhat to her
amusement she discovered a huge mirror mounted
on a marble bracket at her elbow. A passing
glance at it showed that her smooth black hair was
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
not dishevelled, but was coiled in the symmetrical
rolls imperiously demanded by Dame Fashion as
she reigned in Paris. Her face beneath was dark
and glowing, her eyes composed as she would have
them, and her resemblance to her dead father was
extraordinary.
She looked expectantly at Mr. Armour. He bit
his lip and without speaking drew aside a velvet
portière with a hand shaking from some strong and
overmastering emotion and signed to her to enter
the drawing room.
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER IV | MAMMY JUNIPER
.sp 2
Vivienne advanced a few paces and looked
into a luxuriously furnished apartment, whose
prevailing glimmer of red caught and held her eye
painfully.
Two gentlemen, the one old, the other young,
were seated in arm-chairs drawn up on each side
of the blazing fire. They were both in evening
dress and both held newspapers in their hands.
The younger man lifted up his eyes, threw a glance
of unmitigated astonishment, first at Mr. Armour
then at Vivienne, and rose hurriedly from his seat.
Vivienne scarcely noticed him. Her attention
was directed to Colonel Armour, who looked for
an instant not the well-preserved man of sixty that
he aspired to be, but the much older man that he
really was.
He started nervously, his face turned a sickly
yellow, and he clutched the arms of his chair as if
unable to raise himself. But it was only for a
brief space of time. He regained his composure
and stood up, towering a whole head above his
sons, who were by no means short men. Leaning
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
one hand heavily on the back of his chair he fixed
his eye-glass in place and staring at his elder son
said with emphasis: “One of your pleasant surprises,
eh, Stanton? Will you introduce me to this
young lady?”
The pleading, almost agonized expression with
which Mr. Armour had regarded his father died
away.
“Do you not know her?” he said in a harsh,
sad voice.
“H’m—judging from a faint resemblance” (and
here the suspicion of a sneer passed over Colonel
Armour’s features), “I should say that she might
be related to a young man once in my employ.”
Vivienne watched the two men with breathless
interest. At last she stood face to face with her
guardians, and to Colonel Armour, as head of the
house, some acknowledgment was due. Therefore
when Mr. Armour turned to her with the words,
“Allow me to present to you, Miss Delavigne, my
father, Colonel Armour, and my brother Valentine,”
she made them each a pretty salutation and
said gracefully that she was rejoiced to have the
opportunity of thanking them for their kindness to
her through so many years.
Colonel Armour stared at her through his gold-rimmed
glass and Mr. Valentine, after making her
a profound bow, stood bolt upright and confided to
his moustache: “No raw schoolgirl this; a most
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
self-possessed young person. What will Flora say?
Merciful heaven, here she is!”
A portly, golden-headed woman, whose beauty
was beginning to wane, stood motionless in the
doorway. One hand was clutched in the shining
satin folds of her dress, while with the other she held
up an ostrich fan, over which her large blue eyes
peered wrathfully at the girl’s slim, graceful figure.
“Flora!” ejaculated Mr. Armour warningly.
The lady started, dropped her fan to her side,
and burst into an hysterical laugh. “How you
startled me! I did not know that there was a
stranger present. Who is this young lady?”
“You know who she is,” said Mr. Armour
severely, while Mr. Valentine muttered wickedly,
“Ananias and Sapphira.”
“It is Miss Delavigne, I suppose,” she replied
peevishly; “but why did you not let us know that
she was coming by this steamer? I was unprepared.
How do you do?” and she extended her
finger tips to Vivienne. “Did you have a good
passage? You must have some tea. I will speak
to the servants,” and she disappeared.
In a few minutes she returned, a shining, sparkling
vision, and quite mistress of herself. “I have
spoken to the table maid; she will see that you
are attended to. Will you excuse us if we leave
you? We have an engagement for this evening,
and I have to pick up a friend on the way.”
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
“I should be sorry to keep you,” said Vivienne
calmly; “and I am tired and would like to go to
bed.”
“A room is being made ready for you,” said
Mrs. Colonibel graciously. “I hope that you may
sleep well. Come Uncle and Valentine, we are
late.”
Colonel Armour and Mr. Valentine came from
the room, drew on fur topcoats, and with a polite
good-night to Mr. Armour and Vivienne left them
standing in the hall.
At their departure Mr. Armour fell into a kind of
reverie that lasted some minutes. Then he pulled
himself together, apologetically ushered Vivienne
into the dining room, and bowed himself away.
Vivienne sat at the table drinking tea and eating
bread and butter and wondering languidly what
Mrs. Colonibel had said to the fat maid-servant, who
was waiting on her in great curiosity and some
slight disrespect.
“I have finished,” she said at length, fixing her
large, dark eyes on the woman who was trotting
aimlessly between the table and the sideboard.
“Will you show me to my room?”
“Yes, miss,” said the woman shortly, and gathering
together Vivienne’s wraps she conducted her
up a broad, easy staircase to a second square hall,
also luxuriously furnished and having a circular
opening which looked down on the one below it.
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
“The pink room’s been got ready for you, miss,”
said the woman, throwing open the door of a
chamber blazing with rose color.
Vivienne half shut her dazzled eyes and walked
into it.
“The coachman’s going to bring up your boxes
when he comes from the stable,” said the maid.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thank you,” said Vivienne; “you may
bring me some hot water in the morning.”
“It’s here,” said the woman briefly, and walking
behind a screen she pointed to a basin with shining
faucets.
“That is nice, to have hot water pipes in one’s
room,” said Vivienne.
“It’s all over the house,” said the woman, and
after hanging Vivienne’s cloak in a closet she withdrew.
The girl walked to the window and looked out at
the snow-laden trees. “It seems I wasn’t expected,”
she murmured sadly. “It seems to me
I’m lonely,” she continued, and putting up her
hands to her eyes she tried to check the tears falling
from them.
A few hours later she was sleeping a light,
unhappy sleep in her huge pink bed, her mother’s
portrait pressed to her breast. Suddenly the portrait
seemed to turn to a tombstone, that was
crushing her to death.
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
She awoke, gasping for breath, and lifting her
heavy eyelids saw that some one was standing over
her and that a heavy hand was laid on her breast.
She pushed the hand aside and sat up.
Such an ugly, grotesque figure of a black woman
as stood over her; her face like midnight, her features
large and protruding, a white nightcap perched
on the top of her grizzled tufts of hair, bunches of
white cotton wool sticking out of her ears, a padded
dressing-gown enveloping her shaky limbs, her
trembling fingers shading her candle.
“You are dropping wax on my bed,” said the
girl coolly.
The old woman’s face contracted with rage, and
drawing back she looked as if she were about to
hurl her brass candlestick at the occupant of the
bed.
“You cannot frighten me,” said Vivienne
proudly; “do not try it.”
The black woman burst into a series of revilings
and imprecations mixed with references to fire and
brimstone, coffins, murderers, fiery chariots, and
burning in torment, to which Vivienne listened with
curled lip.
“You are a capital hater, Mammy Jupiter,” she
said ironically, “and I suppose the vials of your
wrath have been filling up all these years. But I
really wish you would not disturb me in the middle
of the night.”
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
The colored woman glared at her. Then depositing
her candlestick on the floor she knelt on a
small rug and began to sway and groan, bending
herself almost double in her paroxysm of wrath.
“Poor soul,” said Vivienne, turning her head
aside, “her attention has wandered from me. I
suppose it is a shock to her to find the daughter of
Étienne Delavigne in one of the beds of the
sacred house of Armour. But I must be firm.”
Mammy Juniper was apostrophizing some absent
person under the name of Ephraim. In spite of
the coldness of the room where Vivienne had
thrown open the window, the perspiration streamed
down her face. In a fierce, low voice and with a
wildly swaying body she chanted dismally, “O
Ephraim, thou art oppressed and broken in judgment.
Because Ephraim hath made many altars to
sin altars shall be unto him to sin. Thy glory shall
fly away like a bird. Ephraim shall receive shame—shall
receive shame.”
“I wonder who Ephraim is?” murmured Vivienne.
Mammy Juniper was wringing her hands with an
appearance of the greatest agony. “Though they
bring up their children, yet will I bereave them,
that there shall not be a man left. Ephraim shall
bring forth his children to the murderer—to the
murderer! oh, my God!” Her voice sank to
a husky whisper. She fell forward and pressed for
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
an instant the knotted veins of her throbbing forehead
to the cold floor.
Then she sprang to her feet, and extending her
clasped hands and in a voice rising to the tones of
passionate entreaty exclaimed, “Take with you
words and turn to the Lord. He shall grow as the
lily and cast forth his roots like as Lebanon; his
beauty shall be as the olive tree. Ephraim shall
say, ‘What have I to do any more with idols?’”
“Mammy Juniper,” said Vivienne, “this is
enough. If you want to recite any more passages
from the Bible go to your own room.”
The old woman paid no attention to her.
“Go!” said Vivienne, springing from the bed
and pointing to the candlestick.
Mammy Juniper mowed horribly at her, yet like
a person fascinated by a hated object, she stretched
out her hand, took the light, and began to retreat
backward from the room.
Vivienne gazed steadily at her. “See, I shall
not lock my door,” she said nonchalantly, “and I
shall be asleep in ten minutes; but don’t you come
back again. Do you hear?”
The old woman made an inarticulate sound of
rage.
“You understand me,” said Vivienne. “Now
go to bed,” and waving the disturber of her peace
over the threshold she noiselessly closed the door.
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER V | A CONVERSATION WITH JUDY
.sp 2
All of Vivienne’s unhappiness passed away
with her night’s sleep. On waking up to
the bright, still beauty of a clear December morning
her naturally high spirits rose again.
“The Armours have really little power to afflict
me,” she said, getting out of bed with a gay laugh.
“My attachment to them is altogether a thing of
duty, not affection. If they do not care for me I
will leave them. That is a simple matter,” and
going to the window she drew in a long breath of
the fresh morning air and noted with delight the
blueness of the sky, the whiteness of the snow, and
the darkness of the sombre evergreens before the
house, where a number of solemn crows sat cawing
harshly as if asking for some breakfast.
“Ah, it is cold,” she exclaimed, drawing her
gown about her, “and I am late. I must hurry.”
When she at last left her room the breakfast bell
had long since rung. She speedily made her way
down the staircase, glancing critically through open
doors as she passed them.
“The furnishings are too gorgeous, too tropical,”
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
she murmured; “and flaming colors are everywhere.
Evidently the person who furnished this
house had a barbaric fondness for bright shades.”
On arriving in the lower hall she paused before
the dining-room door. She could hear the tinkling
of china and murmur of voices within. Then
with a composure not assumed but real she drew
aside the curtain and entered the room.
Mrs. Colonibel, handsome and imposing in a
bright blue morning gown, sat behind the silver
coffee urn at the head of the table. She knew
that Vivienne had entered yet she took up a cream
jug and gazed as steadfastly into its depths as
though she expected to find a treasure there.
The corners of Vivienne’s lips drooped mischievously.
“For all exquisite torture to which
one can be subjected,” she reflected, “commend
me to that inflicted on woman number two who
enters the house of woman number one who does
not want her.”
Beside Mrs. Colonibel sat her daughter—a small
misshapen girl, with peering black eyes and elfish
locks that straggled down each side of her little
wizened face and that she kept tossing back in a
vain endeavor to make them hide the lump on her
deformed back.
“What a contrast,” thought Vivienne with a
shudder, “between that poor child and her blonde
prosperous-looking mother.”
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
Colonel Armour, tall and stately, but looking
not quite so young as he had in the lamplight of
the night before, sat—as if in compensation for not
occupying the seat at the foot of the table—on
Mrs. Colonibel’s right hand. Holding himself bolt
upright and stirring his coffee gently, he was
addressing some suave and gracious remarks to the
table in general.
Stanton Armour, who sat opposite Mrs. Colonibel,
made no pretense of listening to him. Plunged in
deep reflection he seemed to be eating and drinking
whatever came to hand.
Valentine, gay and careless, alternately listened
to his father and tried to balance a piece of toast
on the edge of a fork.
“A happy family party,” murmured Vivienne;
“what a pity to disturb it!”
The table maid, who was slipping noiselessly
around the room, saw her but said nothing. Mr.
Valentine raising his eyes caught the maid’s curious
glances and turned around. Then he hurriedly got
up.
“Good-morning. Flora, where is Miss Delavigne
to sit?”
In some confusion she ejaculated: “I do not
know; Jane bring another chair.”
“Is there no place for Miss Delavigne?” said
Mr. Armour in cold displeasure. “Put the things
beside me,” and he turned to the maid, who with
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
the greatest alacrity was bringing from the cupboard
plates, knives, and forks, enough for two or
three people.
“What may I give you?” he went on when
Vivienne was seated. “Porridge? We all eat that.
No, not any? Shall I give you some steak?
Flora, Miss Delavigne will have some coffee.”
Vivienne sat calmly—Mr. Armour on one side
of her, his father on the other—taking her breakfast
almost in silence. A few remarks were addressed
to her—they evidently did not wish her to
feel slighted—to which she replied sweetly, but
with so much brevity that no one was encouraged
to keep up a conversation with her.
There was apparently nothing in the well-bred
composure of the people about her to suggest antipathy,
yet her sensitiveness on being thrown into
a hostile atmosphere was such that she could credit
each one with just the degree of enmity that was
felt toward her.
After all, what did it matter? She would soon be
away; and her dark face flushed and her eyes shone,
till the surreptitious observation of her that all the
other people at the table—except Mr. Armour—had
been carrying on bade fair to become open
and unguarded.
Mrs. Colonibel’s heart stirred with rage and uneasiness
within her. She hated the girl for her
youth and distinction, and with bitter jealousy she
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
noted her daughter’s admiring glances in Vivienne’s
direction.
“Judy,” she said, when breakfast was over and
the different members of the family were separating,
“will you do something for me in my
room?”
“No, mamma,” said the girl coolly, and taking
up the crutch beside her chair she limped to Vivienne’s
side. “Are you going to unpack your
boxes, Miss Delavigne?”
“Yes, I am.”
“May I go with you? I love to see pretty
things.”
“Certainly,” murmured Vivienne; and suiting
her pace to that of the lame girl she went upstairs
beside her.
“Bah,” said Judy, halting at the door of the
pink room, “they have put you in this atrocious
rose-bed.”
“Pink is a charming color,” said Vivienne.
“Yes, in moderation. Come upstairs and see
my rooms,” and she slowly ascended another staircase.
Vivienne followed her to the story above, and
through a third square hall to a long narrow apartment
running the whole length of the northern side
of the house.
Judy threw open the door. “Here,” she said,
with a flourish of her hand, “having everything
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
against me, I yet managed to arrange a sitting
room where one is not in danger of being struck
blind by some audacious blue or purple or red.
What do you think of it?”
Vivienne glanced about the exquisitely furnished
room. “It is charming.”
“Come in,” said Judy, hospitably pulling up a
little white chair before the blazing fire. “We’ll
have a talk.”
“Do you know,” she went on, seating herself
beside Vivienne, “this used to be a lumber room?
I got Stanton to come up one day and look at it—he
is as artistic in his tastes as mamma is inartistic—and
he suggested all this. We cleared out
the old furniture and put in those yellow panes of
glass to simulate sunshine, and got this satin paper
because it would light up well, and he had the
white and gold furniture made for me. The cream
rugs were a present from Uncle Colonel. Here is
my bedroom,” and she hobbled to a door at the
western end of the room and threw it open for a
full view of the room beyond.
“What a dainty place!” said Vivienne.
“An idea strikes me,” exclaimed Judy, hurrying
to the other end of the apartment. “Look here,”
and she opened a second door.
Vivienne surveyed a small empty room.
“Wouldn’t you like this for a bedroom?” said
Judy excitedly. “We can share this big room in
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
common. You can read and work here, for I am
sure you and I would pull well together, and like
me you will just hate sitting downstairs all the
time.”
Vivienne smiled at her. “I should disturb you—and
besides I have been put in the room below.”
“You needn’t mind leaving it,” said Judy.
“Mamma will be delighted to get you out of it;
it is one of the guest rooms.”
“Oh, in that case,” said Vivienne, “I will accept
your invitation. You will speak to Mrs. Colonibel?”
“I will go now,” said Judy, hurrying from the
room. Vivienne sat down by the fire and dropped
her head upon her hands. “I am not likely to be
here long,” she said, “so it doesn’t matter.”
“Mamma is delighted,” she heard presently in
a shrill voice. “I knew she would be. There is
some furniture that can be put in the room, and
when the servants finish their work below they will
come up and arrange it. What fun we shall
have——”
Vivienne looked kindly at the little cynical face.
“’Till our first row,” said Judy, letting her crutch
slip to the floor. “I suppose I shall hate you as I
do every other body who has a straight back.”
Vivienne did not reply to her, and she went on
peering restlessly into her face. “Well, what do
you think of us?”
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
“This is not my first acquaintance with the Armours,”
said Vivienne evasively.
“Ah, you were once here as a little child; but
you don’t remember much about them, do you?”
“I remember Mammy Juniper,” said Vivienne,
with a laugh, “and that she hated me and my father’s
memory. I see that she still keeps up her
old-womanish habit of prowling about the house at
night.”
“Yes,” said Judy peevishly; “and if we forget
to lock our doors we find her praying over us at
unearthly hours.”
“She has been a faithful servant to the family,
hasn’t she?” said Vivienne.
“And she has a diabolical temper,” said Judy.
“Don’t you think that she is crazy?”
“A little perhaps, though I think that she pretends
to be more so to cover her inconsistencies.
She belongs to the Armours, body and soul, and
prides herself on being a model Christian. I say
the two things don’t go together. The Armours
haven’t been famed for devotion to the cause of religion
for some years.”
“She talks about Ephraim,” said Vivienne; “who
is he?”
“Ephraim is Uncle Colonel,” said Judy, with a
chuckle. “Did she mention his having made a
covenant with the Egyptians?”
“No.”
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
“He has; and the Assyrians are the people of
Halifax. If you can get her started on that you’ll
be entertained,” and Judy began a low, intensely
amused laugh, which waxed louder till Vivienne at
last joined her in it.
“It’s too funny,” said Judy, wiping the tears
from her eyes. “I can even make Stanton laugh
telling him about it, and he’s about the glummest
man I know.”
“Is he always as, as——”
“As hateful?” suggested Judy cheerfully.
“As reserved,” went on Vivienne, “as he is
now?”
“Always for the last few years. He gets too
much of his own way and he worries over things. I
asked him the other day if he had committed a
murder. My, how he glowered at me! He’s the
worst-tempered man I know.”
“He looks as if he had plenty of self-control,”
said Vivienne.
“Wait till you see him in one of his rages—not
a black one, but a white, silent Armour rage. He’s
master absolute here, and if any one opposes him—well,
it’s a bad thing for the family. You know, I
suppose, that he has pushed Uncle Colonel out of
the business?”
“Has he?” said Vivienne. “I didn’t know it.”
“Didn’t he write you while you were away?”
“Business letters only,” said the girl, “and they
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
were always written by Mr. Stanton, even when I
first went.”
“Well, Uncle Colonel is out,” said Judy.
“Stanton won’t even let him live in the house.”
“Why he was here last evening and this morning.”
“Oh yes, he gets his meals here. He and Val
live down in the cottage; look, down there among
the trees,” and she pointed to the gabled roof of a
handsome colonial building some distance below
the house.
Vivienne got up and went to the window.
“It’s a great surprise to us all to have you come
home so unexpectedly,” said Judy; “to mamma,
especially, though she has always dreaded it. Did
you know you were coming?”
“No,” said Vivienne, in a low voice.
“I thought that you were to be kept abroad now
that you have grown up. I don’t know why Stanton
brought you back. Does he mean to keep you
here?”
“I do not know.”
“It would be a great deal pleasanter for you to
live abroad,” said Judy, “and for us too. Your
coming is sure to revive unpleasant memories.”
Vivienne turned around swiftly. “What do you
mean by unpleasant memories?”
Judy stared at her. “Don’t you know all about
yourself—about your father?”
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
“I know that my father was obliged to work for
his living,” said Vivienne proudly, “and that he
served Colonel Armour long and faithfully. I see
nothing unpleasant about that.”
“No, that is not unpleasant,” said Judy. “But
on your word of honor, do you know nothing
more?”
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,”
said Vivienne coldly.
“And you will continue at a loss,” replied her
new friend doggedly, “for I shall tell you nothing
further. I am usually fond of gossip; now I shall
hold my tongue.”
Vivienne looked into the little, shrewd, not unkindly
face and smiled. “You are an odd girl.
How old are you?”
“Sixteen when I’m not sixty,” said the younger
girl wearily. “I hate to live and I hate to die;
and I hate everything and everybody.”
“Why do you talk like that?” asked Vivienne
caressingly.
“Suppose instead of being straight and tall and
distinguished-looking, you were an ugly little toad
like me—how would you talk?”
“You have beautiful eyes,” said Vivienne, touching
Judy’s cheek softly with her fingers.
“Don’t you pity me,” said Judy threateningly.
“Don’t you pity me or I shall cry,” and slipping on
her knees beside Vivienne she burst into tears.
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VI | MRS. COLONIBEL LOSES HER TEMPER
.sp 2
Early in the afternoon Vivienne was on her
knees before her boxes when a housemaid
knocked at her door and announced to her that
there was a “person” downstairs who wished to see
her.
Quickly descending the staircase she found Mrs.
Macartney looking longingly at those chairs in the
hall that were most comfortably upholstered. As
soon as she caught sight of Vivienne she sank into
a Turkish arm-chair that was all cushions and padding.
“I’m glad to see you, me child,” she said in a
hearty, boisterous way. “Sure”—with a mischievous
twinkle in her eye—"your friends must be
a disreputable set, for when I mentioned your
name the domestic looked as if she’d like to shut
the door in me face, and there’s another watching
me from behind those curtains, so I thought to myself
I’ll not sit down, for fear of complications, till
me dear girl arrives."
Vivienne suppressed a smile as she glanced over
the somewhat fantastic attire with which Mrs.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
Macartney bade defiance to the Canadian cold and
said, “Will you come into the drawing room?”
“Yes, me dear,” said Mrs. Macartney amiably,
getting up and waddling across the hall, “if you’ll
kindly keep an eye on me and see that I don’t put
any of the bric-a-brac in my pocket. And how do
you find yourself after the voyage? Could you
help me out of this jacket, me dear? I’m hot with
the cold. Just like bakers’ ovens are the houses
here, and if I had a fan I’d be grateful indeed.”
Vivienne got her a fan, then they entered upon a
a long, cozy chat, which consisted largely, to Vivienne’s
amusement, of Mrs. Macartney’s impressions
of Halifax.
“Such a dirty town, me dear. Troth, your
houses are brown and your streets are brown, and
I’d like to get at them with soap and water; and
such tinder boxes of houses—wood, wood—you’ll all
burn up some day if the few brick and stone ones
aren’t the salvation of ye; and your lovely surroundings,
me dear; the drives and the views,
they’re magnificent, just howling with beauty—but
what is this?” in a tragic tone and staring open-mouthed
before her.
There was the rustle of a silk gown, and looking
up Vivienne saw Mrs. Colonibel standing before
them, and remembered that she had heard her say
that it was her day at home.
Her face was pale and her manner plainly said,
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
“How dare you invite a guest of yours into the
sacred precincts of my drawing room?” Then
sweeping her long train after her she passed on.
The drawing room was a long apartment having
an archway in the middle, from which hung heavy
velvet curtains, that however did not keep from
Vivienne’s ears and those of her guest, the impatient
rustling of Mrs. Colonibel’s gown as she
fidgeted to and fro.
Vivienne was deeply annoyed, yet Mrs. Macartney’s
face was so ludicrous that she had difficulty
in concealing a smile as she murmured: “Would
you feel more comfortable in another room?”
“Faith, no, me dear; sit it out. You’ve as good
right to be here as she has. Just hear her now;
she isn’t mad, is she?” This last remark was in a
stage whisper, which, judging from subsequent
jerkings and sweepings to and fro, was perfectly
audible to the occupant of the other part of the
room.
“No, no,” said Vivienne hurriedly; and she
plunged into a series of questions where Mrs. Macartney
quite lost breath in trying to follow her.
The girl congratulated herself upon the fact that
the Irish woman was as good natured as she was
happy-go-lucky. An incident that would have
sent another woman flying from the house shortened
her stay not at all. She lingered on chatting
enjoyably about Captain Macartney, who was engaged
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
in some military duties, and Patrick, who
was heartbroken because he had an appointment to
keep which made it impossible for him to call upon
mademoiselle that day, throwing meanwhile curious
glances at the curtain which divided them from
Mrs. Colonibel.
For nearly two hours Mrs. Colonibel had a succession
of visitors. Their voices were distinctly
audible to the two people sitting in the front part
of the room, and they could plainly hear a great
deal of the cheerful afternoon gossip and the occasional
tinkling of teacups.
About five o’clock, interesting as was her conversation
with Vivienne, Mrs. Macartney began to
show signs of weariness. Her nostrils dilated
slowly as if she were inhaling the fragrance of her
favorite Bohea, and her countenance said plainly,
“I smell hot cakes.”
“What shall I do?” thought Vivienne; “hospitality
says, Get a cup of tea for your guest. Prudence
says, You had better not try, lest you fail.
However, I will; she shall have some if I make it
myself,” and excusing herself, she got up and
quietly went out through the hall to the back
drawing room.
Mrs. Colonibel sat a little removed from the fire
beside a tiny, prettily equipped tea-table. Two
ladies only, Vivienne was thankful to see, were in the
room—genuine Canadian women, looking rosy and
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
comfortable in their winter furs. Vivienne went
up to the table and stood in quiet gracefulness.
“Mrs. Colonibel, will you give me a cup of tea?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the lady, with alacrity;
“won’t you have some cake too?”
“Thank you,” murmured Vivienne, and with a
quiet bow she proceeded carefully through the hall.
“What a charming girl,” she heard one of the
ladies exclaim; “is she staying with you?”
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Colonibel; “she is a poor
young girl whom Mr. Armour has educated. She
won’t be here long, I fancy. For various reasons
we are obliged to keep her in the background.”
Vivienne stopped for an instant. “For various
reasons,” she repeated angrily. Then with an
effort she became calm and went on to be saluted
by Mrs. Macartney with the remark that she was a
jewel.
Vivienne watched the Irish lady gratefully drinking
her tea, then she helped her on with her wraps
and saw her depart.
Mrs. Colonibel had yet to have her brush with
Vivienne, and the opportunity came at the dinner
table. She seized the moment when the three men
were engaged in a political discussion, and leaning
over, said in a low voice: “Who was that fat, vulgar
looking woman that was calling on you this afternoon?”
Vivienne held up her head and looked her well
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
in the eyes. “Oh, you mean the lady for whom I
got the tea; Mrs. Macartney is her name.”
“Mrs. Macartney—where did you meet her?”
“In Paris.”
“She is Irish, I judge by her brogue.”
“Oh yes,” said Vivienne mischievously; “one
would know by her tongue that she is Irish, just as
one would know by yours that you are Canadian.”
Mrs. Colonibel cast down her eyes. Vivienne
had noticed her affected manner of speech, and realized
that she shared in the ambition of many of
her women friends in Halifax who strove to catch
the accent of the English within their gates in order
that they too might be taken for English people
rather than Canadians.
Presently she went on with a slight sneer. “Mrs.
Macartney—an Irish woman—no relation I suppose
to Captain Macartney, of the Ninetieth, who
was stationed here five years ago?”
“She is his stepmother.”
“His stepmother!” and Mrs. Colonibel raised
her voice to such a pitch that Colonel Armour and
his sons broke off their discussion, and Judy exclaimed
in peevish surprise, “What is the matter
with you, mamma?”
Mrs. Colonibel paid no attention to any of them
but Vivienne. “His stepmother, did you say?”
she repeated, fixing the girl with angry eyes.
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
“I did,” replied Vivienne calmly.
“Why did you not tell me so? how is it that
you—You did it on purpose!”
Mrs. Colonibel was in a temper. Sitting at the
head of her own table, apparently at peace with
herself and all mankind, she had flown into a fit of
wrath about something which no one in the least
understood.
Vivienne disdained to reply to her.
Mrs. Colonibel half rose from the table, her face
crimson, her whole frame shaking. “Stanton,” she
cried, “she”—pointing a trembling finger at Vivienne—"has
deliberately insulted me in your house;
I will not endure it," and bursting into a flood of
tears she hurried from the room.
An extremely awkward silence followed Mrs.
Colonibel’s departure, which was broken at last by
a laugh from Judy.
“Don’t be shocked, Miss Delavigne,” she said;
“mamma has been known to do that before. She
is tired I think. What is the trouble, anyway?
Fortunately the servants have left the room. Pass
me the nuts, Val.”
Vivienne’s black eyes were resting on her plate,
and she did not speak until she found that every
one at the table was waiting for her answer.
“Mrs. Macartney called on me to-day,” she said,
addressing Mr. Armour. “I sat with her in the
front drawing room. Mrs. Colonibel passed us,
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
but so quickly that I did not introduce her. Later
on she gave me a cup of tea for Mrs. Macartney.
That is all,” and Vivienne half shrugged her shoulders
and closed her lips.
“Macartney, did you say?” exclaimed Mr.
Valentine. “Not Geoffrey Macartney’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What a joke!” said the young man. “Macartney
used to be a frequent visitor here. Indeed, he
once spent two months with us when he broke his
leg while tobogganing down our slide with Mrs.
Colonibel. She was a great friend of his in those
days—a great friend. Naturally she would have
liked to meet his mother. Did not Mrs. Macartney
mention all this to you?”
“She does not know it,” said Vivienne; “of that
I am sure. Captain Macartney is a reticent man.
By the way,” she went on vivaciously, “you saw
Captain Macartney on the steamer last evening,
Mr. Armour; why did you not tell Mrs. Colonibel
that his mother had chaperoned me?”
Mr. Valentine burst into low, rippling, and intensely
amused laughter. “Ha, ha! old man,
there is one for you. We shall see that you are
the one to be blamed.”
“I never thought of it,” said Mr. Armour
heavily, and with the ghost of a smile.
“You might have told us,” went on Mr. Valentine
complainingly. “You know we all liked Macartney.
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
I thought he was in India. Poor Flora!
It’s a lucky thing for you, Miss Delavigne, that you
kept that bit of information till she got out of the
room. What is he doing here?”
“He has exchanged into another regiment,” said
Vivienne. “His young brother is with him too.”
“Indeed, we must call; and now cannot we
leave the table? I want to go to town.”
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VII | IN DR. CAMPERDOWN’S OFFICE
.sp 2
The principal hotels of the town of Halifax are
situated on Hollis Street, and Hollis Street
is next Water Street, and Water Street is next the
harbor.
On a dull, windless morning, when the snow
clouds hung low in the air, Captain Macartney,
encased in a dark uniform and looking exceedingly
trim and soldierlike, stepped out of one of
these hotels, where he had been to see his stepmother
and brother, and walking slowly along the
street looked up at the high buildings on each side
of him, attentively scrutinizing doorplates and signs
as he did so.
There at last was the name he wanted, on the
door of a large building that looked rusty and
shabby between its smart brick and stone neighbors—Dr.
Camperdown, Surgeon. He repeated
the words with a satisfied air, then making his way
up a dark staircase, pushed open a door that had
the polite invitation “Walk in” on it in staring
letters. He found himself in a large, bare room,
with a row of chairs set about its walls. Unfortunately
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
for him, he was not the first on the field.
Six of the chairs were occupied. Three old women,
two young ones, and an old man, all poorly
dressed and looking in their shabby clothes only
half protected from the cold, eyed with small approval
the smartly dressed officer who might prove
to be a first claimant of the doctor’s attention. To
their joy he took a seat at the back of the room,
thereby giving notice that he was prepared to wait
his turn.
They all looked up when the door of an inner
apartment was opened. An ugly, sandy head appeared,
and a sharp “Next” was flung into the
room. One of the old women meekly prepared to
enter, stripping off some outer wrap which she
dropped on the chair behind her.
“Take your cloud with you,” said one of the
younger women kindly; “he’ll let you out by another
door into the hall.”
After what seemed to Captain Macartney an unconscionably
long time, the door was again opened,
and another “Next” was ejaculated. His jaws
ached with efforts to suppress his yawns. He
longed in vain for a paper.
Finally, after long, weary waiting and much internal
grumbling, all his fellow-sufferers had one by
one disappeared, and he had the room to himself.
The last to go, the old man, stayed in the inner
office a longer time than all the others combined,
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
and Captain Macartney, fretting and chafing with
impatience, sprang to his feet, and walking up and
down the room, stared at everything in it, singly
and collectively. He found out how many chairs
were there. He counted the cobwebs, big and little,
high up in the corners. He discovered that
one leg of the largest press was gone, and that a
block of wood had been stuck in its place, thereby
rendering it exceedingly shaky and unsteady. He
speculated on the number of weeks that had elapsed
since the windows had been washed. He wondered
why they should be so dirty and the floor so
clean, when suddenly, to his immense relief, the
door opened and Dr. Camperdown stood before
him.
His hair was shaggy and unkempt, his sharp gray
eyes, hiding under the huge eyebrows, were fixed
piercingly on the military figure which he came
slowly toward, the more closely to examine. His
long arms, almost as long as those of the redoubtable
Rob Roy—who, Sir Walter Scott tells us,
could, without stooping, tie the garters of his Highland
hose placed two inches below the knee—were
pressed against his sides, and his hands were
rammed down into the pockets of an old coffee-colored,
office coat, on which a solitary button lingered.
“Macartney, is it you,” he said doubtfully, “or
your double?”
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
“Myself,” said the officer with a smile and extending
his hand.
“Come in, come in,” said Dr. Camperdown,
passing into the other room. “Sit down,” dragging
forward a leather chair on which the dust lay
half an inch thick. “Afraid of the dust? Finicky
as ever. Wait, I’ll clean it for you—where’s my
handkerchief? Gave it to that old woman. Stop a
bit—here’s a towel. Now for a talk.” Sprawled
out across two chairs, and biting and gnawing at
his moustache as if he would uproot it, he gazed
with interest at his visitor. “What are you doing
in Halifax? Are you in the new regiment?”
“Yes; I arrived three days ago in the ‘Acadian.’”
“Same hot-headed Irishman as ever?”
“No; I have cooled considerably since the old
subaltern days. India and fevers and accidents
have taken the life out of me. How are you getting
on? You have a number of charity patients I
see.”
“Oh Lord, yes; the leeches!”
“Why don’t you shake them off?”
Camperdown grunted disapprovingly.
“You encourage them, I fancy,” said the officer
in his smooth, polished tones. “They would not
come if you did not do so. I hope you have
others, rich ones, to counterbalance them.”
“Yes,” gruffly, “I have.”
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
“And you bleed them to make up for the losses
you sustain through penniless patients. Ha, ha,
Camperdown,” and Captain Macartney laughed the
pleasant, mellifluous laugh of a man of culture and
fashion.
Camperdown looked benevolently at him.
“Never mind me. Talk about yourself. What
are you making of your life? You’re getting
older. Have you married?”
“No, but I am thinking of it,” gravely and with
the faintest shade of conceit. “My stepmother
urges me to it, and the advice is agreeable, for I
have fallen in love.”
“Does she reciprocate?” and Dr. Camperdown
bit his moustache more savagely than ever in order
to restrain a smile.
“Not entirely; but—you remember the time I
broke my leg, Camperdown, five years ago?”
“Yes, a compound fracture.”
“The time,” scornfully, “that I was fool enough
to let Flora Colonibel twist me ’round her little
finger.”
“Exactly.”
“I was taken to the Armours’ house you remember,
and was fussed over and petted till I loathed
the sight of her.”
“Yes,” dryly, “as much as you had previously
admired it.”
“By Jove, yes,” said the other with a note of
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
lazy contempt in his voice; “and but for that
broken leg, Flora Colonibel would have been Flora
Macartney now.”
“Very likely,” said Camperdown grimly; “but
what are you harking back to that old story for?”
“It is an odd thing,” went on Captain Macartney
with some show of warmth, “that, tame cat as I
became out at Pinewood, and bored to death as I
was with confidences and family secrets, from the
old colonial days down, that one thing only was
never revealed to me.”
“What was that?”
“The fact that the family possessed a kind of
ward or adopted daughter, who was being educated
abroad.”
“So—they did not tell you that?”
“Not a syllable of it,” and Captain Macartney
eyed keenly the uncommunicative face before him.
“Why should they have told you?” said Dr.
Camperdown.
“Why—why,” echoed his visitor in some confusion,
his face growing furiously red, “for the very
good reason that that is the girl with whom I have
chosen to fall in love.”
Camperdown shrugged his huge shoulders. “How
did they know you’d fall in love with the daughter
of their poor devil of a bookkeeper?”
Captain Macartney half rose from his seat.
“Camperdown,” he said haughtily, “in the old
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
days we were friends; you and your father before
you were deep in the secrets of the house of
Armour. I come to you for information which I
am not willing to seek at the club or in the hotels.
Who is Miss Vivienne Delavigne?”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Camperdown surlily
and impatiently. “Scratch a Russian and you’ll
find a Tartar, and scratch an Irishman and you’ll
find a fire-eater, and every sensible man is a fool
when he falls in love. What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“You love the girl—isn’t that everything?”
“No.”
“You didn’t propose to her?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her about her family?”
“I did not,” loftily.
“You wish to know what her station in life is,
and whether she can with propriety be taken into
the aristocratic family of the Macartneys?”
“Yes,” shortly; “if you will be so kind as to tell
me.”
“Here’s the matter in a nutshell then. Her
father was French, mother ditto, grandfathers and
grandmothers the same—all poorest of the poor,
and tillers of the soil. Her father got out of the
peasant ring, became confidential man for Colonel
Armour, and when he reached years of discretion,
which was before I did, I believe that he embezzled
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
largely, burnt the Armours’ warehouse, and not
being arrested, decamped—the whole thing to the
tune of some thousands of dollars. That is her
father’s record.”
Captain Macartney was visibly disturbed. “How
long ago did this take place?”
“Twenty years.”
“Is it well known—much talked of?”
“No, you know how things are dropped in a
town. The story’s known, but no one speaks of it.
Now the girl has come back, I suppose Dame
Rumor will set it flying again.”
Captain Macartney relapsed into a chagrined
silence. Camperdown sucking in both his cheeks
till he was a marvel of ugliness, watched him
sharply, and with wicked enjoyment. “You’ll have
to give her up, Macartney.”
“By Jove, I will,” said the officer angrily. “My
uncle would cut me off with a ha’penny.”
“Bah!” said his companion contemptuously. “I
would not give her up for all the uncles in Christendom.”
“You know nothing about the duty of renunciation,”
said the other sarcastically. “I’ve not drunk
a glass of wine for a twelve-month.”
“What’s wrong?” said the physician with professional
curiosity.
“Indigestion,” shortly. Then slowly, “Suppose
I married the girl—she could not live on air.”
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
“Your pay.”
“Is not enough for myself.”
“You hoped to find her a rich girl,” said Dr.
Camperdown sharply.
“I will not deny that I had some such expectation,”
said the other raising his head, and looking
at him coolly, but with honest eyes. “Her dress
and appearance—her whole entourage is that of a
person occupying a higher station in life than she
does.”
“Fiddle-de-dee, what does it matter? She’s a
lady. What do you care about her ancestors?”
“We don’t look upon things on the other side of
the Atlantic as you do here,” said Captain Macartney
half regretfully. “And it is not that alone.
It is the disgrace connected with her name that
makes the thing impossible.”
“Bosh—give her an honest name. You’re not
half a man, Macartney.”
The officer sprang from his seat. His Irish blood
was “up.” Camperdown chuckled wickedly to
himself as he watched him pacing up and down the
narrow apartment, holding up his sword with one
hand and clasping the other firmly behind his back.
From time to time he threw a wrathful glance in
the surgeon’s direction and after he had succeeded
in controlling himself, he said doggedly: “I shall
not marry her, but I will do what I can for her;
she ought to be got out of that house.”
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
“Why?” said his friend inanely.
“Beg pardon, Camperdown, but your questions
infuriate me,” said his companion in a low voice.
“You know that is no place for a young, innocent
girl to be happy. Begin with the head of the
house, Colonel Armour. I’ll sketch his career for
you in six words; young devil, middle-aged devil,
old devil. Flora Colonibel is a painted peacock.
Stanton an iceberg. Judy an elf, imp, tigress, anything
you will. Valentine a brainless fop. If you’re
a man, you’ll help me get her out of it.”
“You can’t do anything now,” said Dr. Camperdown
pointedly.
“Yes I can—I’m her friend.”
“You’re her lover, as long as you dangle about
her.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Captain Macartney
peevishly and resuming his seat. “She isn’t in
love with me.”
Dr. Camperdown burst into a roar of laughter.
“She doesn’t smile upon you; then why all this
agony?”
“It’s easily seen that you’ve not proposed to
many women,” said Captain Macartney coolly.
“They never say yes, at first.”
The shaft went home. His ugly vis-à-vis
shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.
“We had a saying about Flora Colonibel in the
past,” said Captain Macartney earnestly, “that she
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
feared neither saint, angel, nor demon, but that she
stood in mortal dread of Brian Camperdown. She
will persecute that girl to a dead certainty. Can’t
you hold her in check? My stepmother will stand
by you. She would even take her for a trip somewhere,
or have her visit her.”
“I’ll look after her,” briefly. “By the way, where
did you meet her?”
“In Paris, with the French lady who has been
traveling with her since she left school, and who
asked my stepmother to take charge of her on the
journey here.”
“Her arrival was a surprise,” said Dr. Camperdown.
“Armour didn’t tell me that she was
coming.”
Captain Macartney surveyed him with some jealousy.
“So you too have an eye to her movements?”
“Yes,” said Camperdown impishly. “I don’t
care for her antecedents.”
“Oh, indeed; I am glad that you do not,” said
the officer, drawing on his gloves with a smile.
“Of course you do not. You have no right to do
so. How is that lady with the charming name?”
“She is well.”
“Is she still in her old quarters?”
“Yes.”
“I must do myself the pleasure of calling on
her. She is as remarkable as ever I suppose?”
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
“More so.”
“I can well believe it. Now I must leave you.
I am due at the South Barracks at twelve,” and he
rose to go.
“Stop, Macartney; there are mitigating circumstances
connected with this affair. I told you that
Miss Delavigne’s immediate ancestry was poor. It
is also noble on her mother’s side—formerly rich.
You have heard of the French family the Lacy
d’Entrevilles?”
“I have.”
“Ever hear that they sprang from the stock of a
prince royal of France?”
“No, I have not.”
“They say they did; one of them, a Marquis
Réné Théodore something or other was a colonel
in Louis the Fourteenth’s body-guards—came out
to Quebec in command of a regiment there, then
to Acadie and founded this branch of the family;
it is too long a story to tell. I dare say mademoiselle
is as proud as the rest of them.”
“She is,” said his hearer with a short laugh.
“Born aristocrats—and years of noses to the
grindstone can’t take it out of them, and the Delavignes,
though hewers of wood and drawers of
water, as compared with the aristocratic Lacy
d’Entrevilles, were all high strung and full of honesty.
Seriously, Macartney, I think her father was
a monomaniac. A quiet man immersed in his
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
business wouldn’t start out all at once on a career
of dishonesty after an unblemished record.”
“I am glad to hear this,” said Captain Macartney,
“and I am exceedingly obliged to you. Some
other time I shall ask you to favor me with the
whole story,” and he went thoughtfully away.
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VIII | AN INTERVIEW IN THE LIBRARY
.sp 2
At ten o’clock on the evening of the day that
Captain Macartney made his call on Dr.
Camperdown Judy was restlessly hitching herself
up and down the big front hall at Pinewood.
“Oh, that crutch!” ejaculated Mrs. Colonibel,
who was playing cards with Valentine in the drawing
room; “how I hate to hear it.”
“Don’t you like to hear your offspring taking a
little exercise?” he asked tantalizingly.
“Not when she’s waiting for that detestable
French girl,” said Mrs. Colonibel. “I do wish
Stanton would send her away.”
“Everything comes to her who waits,” said Valentine.
“The trouble is with you women that you
won’t wait. Play, cousin.”
“Here she is,” exclaimed Judy, and she flung
open the door with a joyful, “Welcome home.”
Vivienne was just getting out of a sleigh. “Ah,
Judy, how kind of you to wait for me,” she said.
“Did you get my note?”
“Yes; but nobody asked where you were except
mamma.”
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
Vivienne’s face clouded slightly, then it brightened
again. “Where is Mr. Armour?”
“In the library; he always spends his evenings
there.”
“I wish to speak to him. Do you think I could
go in.”
“Yes; what do you want to say?”
“I will tell you afterward,” and with a smile
Vivienne let her cloak slip from her shoulders and
knocked at a near door.
Judy with her head on one side like a little cat
listened to the brief “Come in,” then as Vivienne
disappeared from view she spun round and round
the hall in a kind of dance.
“What is the matter with you?” asked her
mother, coming from the drawing room.
Judy stopped. “I have a pain in my mind.”
“What kind of a pain, Judy?” asked Valentine,
looking over Mrs. Colonibel’s shoulder.
“A joyful pain.”
“Miss Delavigne has gone upstairs, has she?”
asked Mrs. Colonibel.
“Yes, she came in,” said Judy evasively.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” continued her
mother.
“Because I choose to stay here and read,” and
Judy seizing a book flung herself on a divan.
“Well, I am going,” said Mrs. Colonibel; “goodnight,”
and she turned toward the
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
Valentine tossed a cap on his black head and
opening a door leading to a veranda ran swiftly
down a snowy path to the cottage.
When Vivienne entered the library Mr. Armour
looked up in some surprise and with a faint trace
of annoyance.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” she said politely.
“Not at all,” and he turned his back on the table
bestrewn with papers and invited her by a wave of
the hand to sit down.
He stood himself leaning one elbow on the
mantel, and looked curiously down at her as she sat
glancing about at the book-cases and the rose and
ashen hangings of his handsome room.
What a strangely self-possessed girl she was.
Could he think of another who would come boldly
into his presence and demand an interview with his
own dignified self? No, he could not. Well, she
was a foreigner. How he hated the type; the
smooth black bands of hair, the level heavy eyebrows,
the burning eyes. What havoc a face like
this had already wrought in his family, and he
shaded his eyes with his hand and averted them
from her as she ejaculated:
“I beg your pardon for keeping you. I will say
what I wish very shortly. I have just come from
dining with the Macartneys.”
“At their hotel?”
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
“Yes.”
“I wish that you had consulted me,” he said in
his most chilling manner. “Hotels are public
places for young girls.”
“Not when they are under proper chaperonage,”
she said gently; “and really I did not suppose that
you took any interest in my movements.”
He glanced suspiciously at her, but saw that there
was no hint of fault-finding in her manner.
“I have come in this evening to tell you something
that I know will please you,” she said.
Something to please him—he wondered in a dull
way what it was.
“Captain Macartney wishes to marry me,” she
said.
He stared incredulously at her. “Captain
Macartney!”
“Yes; he asked me this evening.”
He pondered over the news for some instants in
silence, then he said, “Why do you say that this
will please me?”
Vivienne looked steadily at him. “Mr. Armour,
you cannot conceal the fact from me that I am a
great burden to you.”
“A great burden,” he repeated frigidly. “Surely
you forget yourself, Miss Delavigne.”
“No, no,” she replied with animation. “Do not
be vexed with me, Mr. Armour; I am just beginning
to understand things. You know that I have
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
no father and mother. When I was a little girl
away across the sea, and the other children went
home for their holidays, I used to cry to think that
I had no home. When I got older I found out
from your letters that you did not wish me to come.
I was surprised that you at last sent for me, but
yet delighted, for I thought, even if the Armours do
not care for me I shall be in my native land, I
shall never leave it; yet, yet——”
She paused for an instant and seemed to be
struggling with some emotion. Mr. Armour raised
his heavy eyelids just long enough to glance at
her, then dropped them again. His eyes carried
the picture to the reddish-brown tiles of the hearth—the
pretty graceful figure of the half girl, half
woman, before him, her little foreign gestures, the
alluring softness of her dark eyes. Yet the picture
possessed no attraction for him. It only appealed
slightly to his half-deadened sensibilities. He was
doing wrong to dislike her so intensely. He must
keep his feelings under better control.
“Well,” he said less coldly, “you were going to
say something else.”
“I was going to say,” remarked Vivienne, a bright
impatient color coming and going in her cheeks,
“that one cannot live on patriotism. I thought
that I would not miss my friends—the people who
have been good to me. I find that I do. In this
house I feel that I am an intruder——”
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
“And the Macartneys adore you,” he said, a
steely gleam of amusement coming into his eyes,
“and consequently you wish to be with them.”
“That is a slight exaggeration,” said Vivienne
composedly; “yet we will let it pass. With your
permission I will marry Captain Macartney.”
“Suppose I withhold my permission.”
Vivienne glanced keenly at him. Was this man
of marble capable of a jest? Yes, he was. “If
you do,” she said coolly, “I will run away.” Then
she laughed with the ease and gayety of girlhood
and Mr. Armour watching her smiled gravely.
“I suppose the Macartneys have been much
touched by your stories of our cruel treatment of
you,” he said sarcastically.
Vivienne tapped her foot impatiently on the floor.
Did he really think that she was a tell-tale?
“Ah yes,” she said nonchalantly; “I have told
them that you detest me and allow me only bread
and water, that I sleep in a garret, and your father
and Mrs. Colonibel run away whenever they see
me, small Judy being my only friend in the house.”
Mr. Armour smiled more broadly. How quick
she was to follow his lead! “Does my father really
avoid you?” he asked.
There was some complacency in his tone and
Vivienne holding her head a trifle higher responded:
“I make no complaint of members of your family
to you or to any other person, Mr. Armour.”
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
He frowned irritably and with one of the peremptory
hand gestures that Vivienne so much disliked
he went on: “Why did not Macartney speak
to me himself about this affair?”
“He will do so to-morrow. I wished to see you
first.”
“Why?”
“Will you be kind enough to excuse me from
telling you?”
“No,” said Mr. Armour unexpectedly; “I wish
to know.”
Vivienne shook her head in an accession of
girlish independence that was highly distasteful to
him.
“I cannot endure a mystery,” he said sternly.
“Nor I,” said Vivienne demurely; “but really,
Mr. Armour, I do not wish to tell you.”
“Those Irish people are spoiling her,” he reflected.
Vivienne was watching him and after a
time she said relentingly:
“However, it is a slight thing—you may think
it worse than it is if I do not tell you. I”—proudly—"did
not wish Captain Macartney to be the first
to tell you lest, lest——"
“Lest what?”
“Lest you should seem too glad to get rid of
me,” she concluded.
“What do you mean?” he asked haughtily.
Vivienne pushed back her chair and stepped a
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
little farther away from him. “You may think
that because I am young, Mr. Armour, I have no
pride; I have. I bitterly, bitterly resent your
treatment of me. I have tried to please you;
never a word of praise have you given me all these
years. I come back to you to be treated like an
outcast. My father was a gentleman, if he was
poor, and of a family superior to that of the Armours.
You will be glad, glad, glad to throw me
off——”
She stopped to dash away an angry tear from
her cheek while Mr. Armour surveyed her in the
utmost astonishment.
“You think because I am a girl I do not care,”
she went on, her fine small nostrils dilating with
anger. “Girls care as well as men.”
“How old are you?” ejaculated Mr. Armour
stupidly.
“You do not even know my age,” she retorted,
“you—my guardian,” and with a glance of sublime
displeasure she tried to put her hand on the door
handle.
“Stop a moment,” said Mr. Armour confusedly.
“I have talked long enough to you,” she responded.
“You have made me lose my temper;
a thing I seldom do,” and with this parting shaft
she left the room.
Mr. Armour stood holding the door open for
some time after she left him. Then he stooped
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
down and picked a crumpled handkerchief from the
floor.
“What irrepressibility!” he muttered; “a most
irritating girl. I shall be glad to have her taken
off my hands, and she is angry about it. Well, it
cannot be helped,” and he seated himself in a quiet,
dull fashion by the fire. Worry, annoyance, dread,
and unutterable weariness oppressed him, yet
through it all his face preserved its expression of
icy calm. A stranger looking into the room would
have said: “A quiet, handsome man meditating in
the solitude of his library;” not by any means, a
poor, weary pilgrim to whom life was indeed no
joyous thing but a grievous, irksome burden that
he longed to, yet dared not, lay down.
Vivienne went slowly upstairs resting one hand
on the railing as she did so.
“Well, my dear,” said Judy, meeting her halfway,
“what makes your face so red? Have you
had an exhibition of Grand-Turkism?”
“Judy,” said Vivienne, stopping short, “I knew
before I went to that room to-night that Mr. Armour
likes to have his own way.”
“You are a match for him,” said Judy dryly;
“now tell me what you wanted to say to him.”
“I wished to announce my engagement to Captain
Macartney.”
“Oh, you bad, bad girl,” exclaimed Judy; “oh,
you bad girl!”
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
“A bad girl!” exclaimed Vivienne.
“Come along,” said Judy, dragging her upstairs.
“Come to our room. Oh, I am so disappointed! I
had other plans for you.”
“Indeed—what were they?”
“I don’t know. I must forget them, I suppose.
But don’t be too hard on Stanton, Vivienne.”
“What do you mean by being too hard? You
have never heard me say a word against him.”
“No, but you look things with those big eyes
of yours. He has a detestable time with Uncle
Colonel and Val.”
“In what way?” asked Vivienne feebly.
“Because they are demons; regular dissipated
demons, and he is their keeper. They lead him a
life; that’s why he’s so solemn. What did he say
about your engagement?”
“I fancy that it meets with his approbation.”
“Approbation—fiddlesticks! Do you love your
fiancé, Vivienne?”
“No, certainly not. He is a gentleman; I like
him, and he is very good to his stepmother.”
“What an excellent reason for marrying him,”
said Judy sarcastically; “he is good to his stepmother.”
“Therefore he will be good to me.”
“Well, you’re about half right. Let us go to
bed. I don’t feel like discussing this engagement
of yours.”
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
Vivienne looked wistfully after the little elfish
figure limping away from her. “Judy,” she said,
“Judy.”
The girl stopped.
“Don’t you think it is nauseating to hear some
girls gushing about their dear darling lovers?”
“Yes, perfectly so.”
“So many of those terrible enthusiastic marriages
turn out badly.”
“A great many; I must get Stargarde to talk to
you about the marriage question.”
“Who is Stargarde?” asked Vivienne curiously.
“Stargarde is Stargarde,” said Judy enigmatically;
“wait till you see her. Good-night.”
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER IX | THE PAVILION
.sp 2
Dr. Camperdown lived in a large, bare
stone house a few blocks distant from his
office. Late one afternoon he stood at one of the
back windows from which he commanded a magnificent
view of the harbor.
“Bah! it’s going to be cold to-night,” he said,
suddenly banging down the window; “the snow
clouds have blown away.”
He looked about his lonely room, where the furniture
was ugly and scanty and the general aspect
of things cheerless. “Desolate, eh,” he muttered
thoughtfully fixing his eyes on the expiring embers
of the fire. “I’ll go and see Stargarde. How long
since I’ve seen the——?” and some endearing epithet
lost itself between his lips and his moustache.
“It is twelve days—nearly a fortnight,” he went
on after a pause. “Time for another spree,” and
with grim cheerfulness he lighted the gas and seizing
a brush and comb began briskly to smooth his
towzled head.
After his refractory locks were in order he went
to his wardrobe where with many head shakings he
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
turned over his whole stock of coats before he could
find one to suit him."
“I guess this will do,” he said at last, shaking out
one which was minus one button only. “She’ll be
sure to spy that vacant spot,” he went on dubiously.
“Where’s that old beldame to sew it on?
Hannah! fairy, sylph, beauty, come up here!”
There was no sound from the rooms below.
With a quick ejaculation he threw the coat over
his arm and went down the staircase two steps at a
time. Opening the doors of a dull dining room
and a still more dull and comfortless drawing room
he looked in to find them tenantless.
“Must be in her lowest den,” he said, vaulting
like a boy down a narrower flight of stairs leading
to a kitchen. There indeed he found an old woman
groveling over a fire.
“Hannah,” he shouted, holding his coat toward
her. “There’s a button gone, will you sew on
another?”
“Eh, what’s that ye said, Mr. Brian?” queried
the old woman. “A button? Yes indeed, ye shall
have it; just ye wait till I get my workbasket,” and
she started to leave the kitchen, but he restrained
her with an impatient, “Where is it?”
“In the right top-hand corner of my second
drawer, me boy, if ye’ll be so kind. Hannah’s limbs
is gettin’ old.”
He shook off the affectionate hand she laid on
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
his shoulder and leaped upstairs again. When he
returned with her basket the old woman slowly
lifted the cover. “Did ye no bring the thimble?”
she asked in surprise.
“No—confound the thimble! Why don’t you
keep it in your basket?”
“Because I always keeps it in the left-hand corner
of the window,” she answered mildly, “behind
the picture of your sainted father——” but Dr.
Camperdown was gone, springing up the steps again
in a state of desperate hurry.
“If you don’t sew that button on in five minutes,”
he vociferated in her ear when he came
back, “I’ll turn you out of the house to-morrow.”
“Sure, Mr. Brian, ye know ye’d do no such
thing,” said the old woman throwing him a remonstrating
glance. “Ye’d go yourself first.”
He laughed shortly, then exclaimed: “Oh, sew
it on—sew it on and don’t talk. I’ll give you a
dollar if you’ll have it on in two minutes.”
At this the old woman’s fingers flew, and in a
short time the button was in place, the coat on Dr.
Camperdown’s back, and with a hasty “I’ll not be
back to dinner,” he had hurried out of the kitchen
to the floor above, where he rapidly donned a cap
and coat and went out into the street.
The air was keen and frosty and he drew great
breaths of it into his capacious lungs.
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
“I could walk twenty miles,” he muttered as he
swung himself along by lighted shops and houses.
As he went on the streets became more and
more shabby. The gutters about him were dirty
and many of the houses were mere wooden shells
and a most insufficient protection against the winter
winds.
Midway on the dirtiest and least respectable of
the streets he stopped in front of a long, clean brick
building erected by the charitable people of the
town for the better housing of the poor. To the
street it presented high walls pierced by windows
of good size. Inside was a large yard overlooked
by a double row of verandas that ran along the
building. Passing through an archway he entered
this yard, looked across it at the washhouses, storerooms,
and a little eating house with gayly flaunting
lights, then turning to his left stepped on a veranda
and knocked lightly at a door.
“Come in,” said a voice like a bell, and softly
turning the handle he entered a little plainly furnished
room where a bright fire blazed merrily.
There was one elegant bit of furniture in the
room, an elaborately carved davenport, where sat
a tall, magnificently proportioned woman with a
white, firm, smooth skin like a baby’s, a pair of deep
blue eyes, and a crown of pale golden hair that
lay in coils on the top of her head and waved down
in little ringlets and circlets over her neck.
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
Ah, that neck—he would give worlds to touch
it; and Brian Camperdown stood trembling like a
boy as he looked at it. The woman had her back
to him and was writing busily. Presently the pen
stopped running over the paper and she thoughtfully
leaned her head on a shapely white hand.
“It is cold,” she said suddenly. “Close the
door, my friend—ah, Brian, is it you?” turning
around and giving him a hand over the back of her
chair. “I thought it was one of the people. Wait
an instant, won’t you, till I finish my letter? It is
so important,” and with an angelic smile and a
womanly dimple she turned back to her desk.
“I’m in no hurry,” he said composedly, taking
off his coat and hanging it behind the door on a
hook with whose location he seemed to be quite
well acquainted. Then he arranged his huge limbs
in an arm-chair and stared at her.
Though the time was December she had on a
cotton gown that had large loose sleeves fitting
tightly around her wrists. About her neck and over
her breast it was laid in folds that outlined her beautiful
form. At her waist it was drawn in by a ribbon,
and hung from that downward in a graceful
fullness utterly at variance with the sheath-like fit
of the prevailing style of dress. Though the gown
was cotton there was a bit of fine lace in the neck.
“Some one must have given it to her,” muttered
Dr. Camperdown, whose eagle eye soon espied its
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
quality. “She would never buy it. Flora probably,
if”—with a sneer—"she could make up her
mind to part with it." Then he said aloud and
very humbly, “Can’t you talk to me yet?”
“Yes, yes, Brian,” and the woman laughed in her
clear, bell-like tones. “I have finished,” and she
stood up to put her letter on the mantelpiece.
When she was standing one saw what a superb
creature she was. A goddess come down from her
pedestal would not be more unlike the average
woman in appearance than she. Her draperies being
almost as loose and unconfined as those of the
ancient Greek and Roman women she was untrammeled,
and being untrammeled she was graceful
in spite of her great height and comely proportions.
She was like a big, beautiful child with her innocent,
charming manners and blue unworldly eyes, and yet
there was something about her that showed she
had lived and suffered. She was a woman and into
her life had been crowded the experiences of the
lives of a dozen ordinary women.
“It is some time since I have seen you, Brian,”
she said in a fresh, joyous voice.
“Yes,” he articulated, “I have been trying to
keep away. Had to come now. I want to talk to
you about the Delavigne child. She has arrived.
Stanton has brought her here.”
“Has he?” and Stargarde clasped her hands.
“When did she come?”
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
“A few days ago.”
“Have you been out to see her?”
“No, I have been busy.”
“And I have been away; but I will go as soon
as I can,” and the woman absently let her eyes
meet those of her guest till he was obliged to shut
his own to get rid of their dazzle and glitter.
Unfortunately for him she noticed what he
was doing. “Brian Camperdown,” she exclaimed,
“open your eyes. I won’t talk to you if you sit
there half asleep,” and she burst into a merry peal
of laughter that a baby might have envied.
“I’m not sleepy,” he said hastily; “I was thinking,”
and he surveyed her in unwinking attention.
“Well, do not think; listen to me. That little
French girl is so often in my thoughts, and lately in
particular I have not been able to get her out of
my head.”
“I daresay,” he growled. “There are more
people than the Delavigne child in your head—a
whole colony of them. I wonder they don’t worry
you to death.”
“I hope she will let me be kind to her,” said
Stargarde earnestly.
“You needn’t worry,” said Dr. Camperdown.
“She’s going to be well looked after. I don’t see
why every one comes rushing to me. My father
began it when he died with his admonition to do
something for the Delavigne child if I had a chance.
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
You have always been at me, and yesterday Macartney
cornered me.”
“Macartney! not the Irish officer who used to
admire Flora!”
“The same.”
“What does he want you to do?”
“To look after her in a general way. He’s in
love with her.”
“Oh, Brian!”
“I suppose I’m a simpleton for telling you,” he
said eyeing her reluctantly. “You women have
men just like wax in your hands. You twist everything
out of us.”
“I do not think you mean that,” she said
He scrambled from his chair and before she
knew his intention had her shapely hands in his and
was mumbling over them: “Darling, darling, I
would trust you with my soul.”
She looked down at him sadly as he passionately
kissed her fingers and returned them to her lap.
Then she leaned over and stroked softly his tumbled
head, and murmuring, “Poor boy!” pointed to the
clock.
“I was going to ask you to stay to tea,” she said,
“but——”
“I will be good—I will be good,” he ejaculated
lifting his flushed face to hers and hurrying back
into his chair. “It was a moment of madness;
it won’t happen again.”
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
“That is what you always say, Brian.”
“I will keep my promise this time. I really
will.” Then forcing his hands deep down into his
pockets, he said insinuatingly: “You can so easily
stop my display of devotion, it is a strange thing
that you don’t do it.”
“How can I do so?” she asked with an eagerness
that was not pleasing to him.
“By marrying me.”
“Marry you to get rid of you,” she said with
incredulity. “Ah, Brian, I know you better than
that. You will be a good husband to the woman
you marry. I can imagine myself married to you,”
she went on pensively; “we should be what is almost
better than lovers, and that is companions. You
would be with me as constantly as Mascerene there,”
and she pointed to a huge, black dog lying with
watchful head on his paws behind her davenport.
“You will marry me some day,” said the man
doggedly. “If I thought you would not, I would
tie a stone around my neck and drop into the harbor
to-morrow. No, I would not,” he added bitterly.
“We don’t do that sort of thing nowadays. I’d
have the stone in my heart instead of around my
neck and I’d live on, a sour, ugly old man, till God
saw fit to rid the world of me. Do you know what
love, even hopeless love, does for a man, Stargarde?
what my love for you does for me? What have I
to remember of my childhood? Painful visions;
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
my father and mother each side of the fire like this
sorrowing at the wickedness of the world. Then I
met you, a bonny, light-hearted girl. I loved you
the first time I saw you. You have been in my
thoughts every minute of the time since. In the
morning, at night in my dreams. With you I am
still an ugly, cross-grained man; without you I
should be a devil.”
The woman listened attentively to what he said,
shading her eyes from the firelight with her hand,
and looking at him compassionately. “Poor old
Brian, poor old Brian,” she said when he sank
back into his chair and closed his mouth with a
snap. “I am so sorry for you. I should never
have the heart to marry another man when you
love me so much. If I ever marry it will be you.
Still, you know how it is. My heart is in my work.
It is not with you.”
“If you felt it going out toward me would you
stop it?” he said eagerly.
“No, a thousand times no,” she said warmly.
“I believe that the noblest and best thing a man
or woman can do is to marry. God intended us to
do so. If a man loves a woman and she loves him,
they should marry if there are no obstacles in the
way. Is not that what I am always glorifying,
Brian, the family, the family—the noblest of all institutions
upon the earth? The one upon which
the special blessing of our Creator rests. But,” in a
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
lower voice and looking earnestly at him, “I should
never be guilty of that crime of crimes, namely,
marrying a man whom I do not love.”
“I know you would not,” he said uneasily.
“You would not wish me to, Brian,” she continued.
“You are an honest, God-fearing man.
If I could put my hand in yours now and say,
‘Here I am, but I do not love you,’ you would
spurn such a gift, would you not? You would
say, ‘I prefer to wait till you can give me your
whole self, not the least worthy part of yourself.’”
He stirred about restlessly in his chair when she
paused as if expecting some answer from him. “I
do not know,” he murmured at last. “If you gave
me the chance, I think I would embrace it. I
think, Stargarde, that if you would come out of
this and live with me, you would get to like me.”
“Oh, vain and stupid fallacy,” she exclaimed
despairingly; “can you not see it?”
He did not answer, and there was a long silence
between them, till she began to speak again, regarding
him with a lovely smile of pity and affection.
“You see what a terrible responsibility has
been laid upon women, Brian. Men, by their long
habit of indulging themselves in every impulse and
giving freer rein to passion than women do, cannot
so well control themselves. The woman must
stand firm. I, by reason of your great affection for
me, which I accept with all gratitude and humility,
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
feel that I have a charge over you. I wish with all
my heart that you could transfer your love to some
other woman. If you do not and cannot, and I
ever have the happiness to regard you with the
same affection that you regard me, you may be
sure that I shall marry you.”
The light of hope that played over his rugged
features almost made them handsome, till Stargarde
went on warningly: “But that day I fear will never
come. Looking upon you as a dear brother, and
having lived to the age of thirty years without falling
in love with any man, I fear that I shall never
do so.”
“Is that true?” he gasped with the famished
eagerness of a dog that snatches for a whole joint
and only gets a bone. “Have you never fancied
any of the men that have fancied you?”
“Never,” she said with a smile and a shake of
her head.
“How many proposals have you had?”
“I forget; about twenty, I think.”
His mouth worked viciously as if he would like
to devour her quondam lovers.
“What a long way we have wandered from
Vivienne Delavigne,” said Stargarde. “You were
saying that Captain Macartney is in love with her.
Does she love him?”
“No, though it will probably end in that. He’s
very much in earnest, for he vowed to me that he
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
couldn’t marry. When a man does that you may
be sure he’s just about to throw everything overboard
for some woman.”
“Does he know all about her?”
“Yes; but his stepmother stands behind egging
him on. She’s probably promised a generous settlement
on ma’m’selle if he marries her. The disgrace
was the black beast in the way; but I imagine
he’ll make up his mind to hang on to the old marquis
and ignore the embezzlement. A decent fellow,
Macartney, as those military men go,” he
added in the condescending tone in which a civilian
in Halifax will allow a few virtues to the military
sojourners in the city.
“I like him,” said Stargarde emphatically, “yet
Vivienne Delavigne may not. I wish, Brian, that
she was a little older, and you a little fickle.”
“Why do you wish that?”
“Because, what a charming wife she would make
for you. I am sure she is good and gentle, and
she is alone in the world.”
“And you?” he said coolly.
“Oh, I have enough here,” she said, stretching
out her arms lovingly as if she could take in her
embrace the whole of the large brick building.
“My work is my husband.”
He was about to reply to her but was interrupted
by a knock at the door.
“Brian,” said Stargarde hurriedly, “I forgot to
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
say that I have other company to tea. I hope you
won’t object, and do try not to notice her. She is
one of my charges, and oftentimes a troublesome
one.” Then turning toward the door she said:
“Come in; come in, dear.”
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER X | ZEB AND A TEA PARTY.
.sp 2
The door swung slowly open and a small, miserably
thin child stood narrowly inspecting
them through black, curly wisps of hair that hung
down over her forehead and made her look like a
terrier. She had on a ragged, dirty frock, and a
dingy plaid shawl covered her shoulders.
“I am glad to see you, dear child,” said Stargarde,
going to meet her and taking her warmly by
the hand. “Come into the bedroom and take off
your things.”
The child picked off the back of her black head
a tiny boy’s cap that lay there like an ugly patch,
and plucking impatiently at her shawl to draw it
from her shoulders, flashed Stargarde an adoring
glance and followed her into an inner room.
“Will you wash your face, dear?” said Stargarde,
pouring some water from a ewer to a little
basin that she placed on a chair. “Here is a clean
towel and some of the nicest soap. Just smell it.
Somebody sent it to me from Paris.”
The girl tossed back her hair from her dirty face
and dabbled her hands in the water. “Who’s that
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
cove out there?” she said with an ugly scowl and
jerking her head in the direction of the other
room.
“A friend of mine, Dr. Camperdown. He is a
nice man, Zeb. I hope you will like him.”
“Them dirty swells, I hate ’em,” returned the
child.
Stargarde was silent. To try at the outset to reform
the vocabulary of a child of the gutter was,
she knew, a mistake. The girl had been brought
up in an evil atmosphere, and her little perverted
mind was crammed with bitter prejudices against
all who were better off in regard to this world’s
goods than she was herself. Stargarde watched
pityingly the sullen face bending over the basin.
“He wants yer,” said the child suddenly, and
with an acute spasm of jealousy contracting her
brows. “I seed it in him. He’ll take yer away
from the Pav.”
Stargarde blushed a little. Just for one instant
she was tempted by a natural disinclination not to
discuss her love affairs with such an uncongenial
being as the one before her. Then she remembered
her invariable maxim, “No prevarication.
Perfect frankness in my dealings with my fellow-men,”
and said gently: “I am not willing to go,
Zeb, I shall stay here.”
“Not if he coaxes yer?” said the child eagerly.
“No, Zeb.”
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
The little renegade scrubbed vigorously at her
face without making reply. Then polishing her
hands with a towel she approached Stargarde.
“Will yer kiss me now?” she said humbly.
“Yes, darling,” and the beautiful woman took
the dirty child to her breast in a warm embrace.
The child’s clothes were not clean. In fact
months had passed over her head since her dress
had made acquaintance with the wash tub. “Zeb,”
said Stargarde hesitatingly, “I have a little cotton
frock here”—the child frowned angrily and regarded
her with a glance as proud as Lucifer’s. “It
is just like mine,” went on Stargarde. “Look, Zeb.”
She took a small garment from a closet and
showed the child the coquettish frills adorning the
skirt and neck. “Seeing it’s you,” said the child
graciously, “I’ll take it. But we’s no beggars,
mind that! Mam and pap’ll kill me, likely, but I
don’t care,” and with a fine assumption of indifference
she pulled off her ragged gown, kicked it
contemptuously aside, and allowed Stargarde to
slip over her head the new and pretty dress which
tortures would not have forced her to don, if it had
not been for the fortunate occurrence that it was
made from a similar piece of material to that clothing
the woman she so passionately admired.
“I will speak to your mother about it,” said
Stargarde reassuringly, as she buttoned her visitor
up. “I don’t think she will mind.” Zeb thrust a
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
hand into hers without speaking and walked silently
out to Dr. Camperdown with her. When Stargarde
introduced her to him she put out her tongue, stuck
up her shoulder at him, and half turning her back
drew up a little footstool to the grate, to which she
sat so close that Stargarde was in momentary fear
lest she should catch fire.
“Now, what shall we have for tea?” said Stargarde
cheerily. “Let every one choose what he
would like. What are you for, Brian?”
“Anything you choose to give me,” he said
agreeably, “provided there is enough of it. I’m
as hungry as a hunter this evening. Good breakfast,
but patients were dogging me all lunch time,
and I haven’t broken my fast yet.”
“Well, we’ll give you something substantial,”
replied his hostess. “What will you have, Zeb?”
“Something in the line o’ birds,” said the child,
a hard and hungry look coming into her eyes. “I
sees ’em hangin’ up in the shops, I smells ’em and
sees the dogs lickin’ the bones, but never a taste
gets I. Say turkey, missis, or goose.”
“They have some turkeys over at the restaurant,
I saw them to-day,” said Stargarde clapping her
hands like a child. “We’ll have one, and stuffing,
Zeb, and hot potato. Come, let us go and get it.”
The child sprang up, and clasping her hand Stargarde
hurried out of the room and across the yard
to the gay little eating house, going with the utmost
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
speed so that they might not take cold. Breathless
and laughing they pulled up outside the door, and
opening it, walked soberly in. The child squeezed
her patron’s hand with delight. The large, bright
room before her, with its light walls adorned with
pictures and its floor covered with little tables where
people were eating and drinking, was like a glimpse
of heaven to her. Stargarde went up to the counter.
“Good-evening, Mary,” she said to a pretty
young girl there; “can you let me have a basket
to put some purchases in? Ah, that is just what I
want,” as the girl, diving behind the counter brought
up one of the light flexible things made by the Indians
of Nova Scotia. “Now first of all we want
a turkey, a small one—no, a large one,” in response
to a warning pressure from Zeb’s fingers. “See,
there is one coming from the kitchen on a platter.
Isn’t he a monster! Put him in a covered dish,
Mary, and pop him into the basket with a dish of
potatoes and—what vegetables have you?”
“Turnips, beets, parsnips, carrots, squash——”
“Well, give us some of each, but we’ll have to get
the boy to help us carry them. We never can take
all these things. And cranberry sauce, don’t forget
that. Pickles, Zeb? Do you want some of them?
Very good, we’ll have a bottle. Have you made
your mince pies yet? No. Well, we’ll have a
lemon one and a strawberry tart and some fruit.
Will you have grapes or oranges, Zeb?”
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
“Dates, and figs, and nuts,” gurgled the child in
almost speechless delight.
Stargarde stifled a laugh. “So be it Mary, and
cheese and crackers for Dr. Camperdown. Now
Zeb let us take this basket and run home and Mary
will send the rest.”
Camperdown looked up in amazement as the two
burst into the room. “What’s the excitement?”
he said, getting up and standing with his back to
the fire. “Here, let me put your basket on the
table. What’s all this?”
“Dear Brian,” said Stargarde breathlessly, “you
must not talk. Only help us. Set all these dishes
on the hearth to keep hot. I should have set my
table before we went to the restaurant. Alas, I am
a poor housekeeper. Zeb dear, here is the cloth;
spread it on the table; and Brian do help her to
put the knives and forks and plates around. I will
make the tea or coffee—which would you rather
have?”
“Coffee for me, if it’s dinner,” said Camperdown.
“I smell meat, don’t I? What do you call this
meal, anyway?”
“I call it anything,” said Stargarde, “only it must
be eaten hot. Cold things are detestable.”
“Tea for me,” piped up Zeb shrilly; “I hates
coffee.”
Stargarde uncomplainingly searched in her cupboard
for two vessels instead of one—brought out
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
a small earthenware teapot and a tin coffeepot,
and set them on a trivet which she fastened to the
grate. Then finding a small kettle, she filled it
with water and put it on the glowing coals.
“I call this pleasant!” exclaimed Dr. Camperdown
a few minutes later. The dishes were all
nicely arranged on a cloth as white as snow. He
had a spotlessly clean but coarse serviette spread
across his knees, and was flashing glances of admiration
across the mammoth turkey before him at
Stargarde, seated at the other end of the board.
“I call this pleasant!” he repeated, picking up his
knife and fork, “and a woman who serves a dinner
smoking hot deserves a medal. My old dame
thinks it a crime to put things before me more than
lukewarm. I hear her coming up stairs with my
dinner. Tramp, tramp—down on a step to rest.
Tramp, hobble, up again—down on another, just to
aggravate me—bah, I’ll dismiss her to-morrow!”
Stargarde looked at him without a shadow on her
resplendent face. “You are like the dogs, Brian,”
she said gayly; “your bark is worse than your bite.
You love that old woman, you know you do.”
“I don’t love any one,” he growled. “You’re
not eating anything there. Stop fanning yourself
and attend to your plate—have some more turkey.
This is a beauty. Where did he come from?
The country, I’ll wager. This isn’t city flesh on his
bones.”
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
“Cornwallis,” said Stargarde thoughtfully. “Unfortunate
creature—I wish we did not have to eat
him.”
“Now Stargarde,” said the man warmly, “for one
meal, no hobbies. Let the S. P. C. and the G. H.
A. and the L. M. S. alone for once. Talk nonsense
to me and this young lady here,” turning politely
to his fellow-guest.
His term was inadvisedly chosen, and Zeb flashed
him a wicked glance over the bone that her little,
sharp teeth were gnawing. Stargarde to her dismay
saw that there was a smouldering fire of distrust
and dislike between her two guests, that at any
moment might break into open flame. Zeb was
jealous of Dr. Camperdown. With ready, quick
suspicion, she divined the fact that his sympathies
were not with her kind. He would take away from
her and her fellow-paupers the beautiful woman
who at present lived only for them, and she hated
him accordingly.
She had only recently come to Halifax. She had
experienced different and worse degrees of misery
in other cities, and now that a new, bright world
was dawning upon her, it was not pleasant to know
that her benefactor might be snatched at any moment
from her. So she hated him, and he almost
hated her as a representative of a class that absorbed
the attention of the only woman in the world that
he cared for, and who, but for them, would, he
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
knew, devote herself to the endeavor of making
more human and more happy his present aching,
lonely, miserable heart.
Aware of all this, Stargarde kept the conversation
flowing smoothly in channels apart from personal
concerns. She talked continuously herself, and
laughed like a girl full of glee when the moment
for changing the plates having arrived, Dr. Camperdown
and Zeb politely rising to assist her, left the
table deserted.
When they reseated themselves she drew Zeb’s
chair closer to her own, for she saw that the child
had satisfied her hunger and at any moment might
commence hostilities.
“Will you have some tart, Zeb?” she asked
kindly.
“Oh, land, no!” said the child; “I’m stuffed.
Give it to piggy there. He’s good for an hour
yet,” and she pointed a disdainful finger to the
other end of the table.
Dr. Camperdown had a large appetite—an appetite
that was, in fact, immense, but he did not like
to be reminded of it, and looked with considerable
animosity at the small child.
“Do not pay any attention to her, Brian,” said
Stargarde rapidly in German, then she turned to
Zeb. “Dr. Camperdown had no dinner. He is
hungry. Won’t you go and look at those picture
books till we finish?”
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
“I don’t want ter,” said the child, as she nestled
closer to her, “I likes to be with yer.”
What could Stargarde do in the face of such
devotion? She left Dr. Camperdown to his own
devices, and cracking nuts for the child searched
diligently for a philopena. Having found one she
shared it with her, related the pretty German custom
concerning it, and promised Zeb a present if
she would first surprise her the next day.
Zeb listened in fascinated attention, only throwing
Dr. Camperdown a glance occasionally, as much
as to say, “You see, she is giving me her undivided
attention now.”
And he was foolish enough to be restive. “If
he would only be sensible—two children together,”
murmured Stargarde, as she got up to pour him
out his coffee. As a student of human nature, she
was amused at the attitude of the professional man
toward the outcast; as a philanthropist, she was fearful
lest there should be driven away from her the
little bit of vicious childhood that she had charmed
to her side.
“If he would only be sensible and think of something
else!” she went on to herself. “They’ll
come to an open rupture soon. I must try to restrain
Zeb, for she, alas, is capable of anything. I
won’t look at him as I give him his coffee.”
Unfortunately she was obliged to do so, for as she
set it before him, he said childishly, “Do you put
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
the sugar in,” thereby obliging her to give him a
remonstrating glance.
Zeb saw the blue eyes meet the admiring gray
ones and immediately issued an order in her shrill
voice, “Gimme a cupper tea.”
Stargarde could not scold people. She was a
born mother—loving and patient and humoring
weaknesses perhaps to a greater degree than was
always wise. She patiently waited upon her second
troublesome guest, and sat down beside her without
saying a word, but in an unlucky instant when
she was obliged to go to the cupboard for an additional
supply of cream, the war broke out—the
arrived.
Zeb, filling her mouth with tea, adroitly squirted
a thin stream of it the whole length of the table
across Camperdown’s shoulder.
He saw it coming, and uttering a wrathful exclamation,
jumped up from his seat. Stargarde heard
him, and turned around hastily just in time to hear
Zeb say contemptuously, “Oh, shut up—you’ll get
it in the mouth next time.”
When Camperdown at Stargarde’s request explained
what had happened, her lovely face became
troubled and she looked as if she were going to
cry.
“Zeb,” she said with trembling lips, “you must
go away. I cannot have you here any longer if you
do such things.”
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
The child sprang to her. “Don’t ye, don’t ye do
that. I’ll slick up. Gimme a lickin’, only let me
stay. I’ll not look at him—the devil!” with a
furious glance at Camperdown. “I’ll turn round
face to the wall, only, only don’t send me out in
the cold.”
What could Stargarde do? Pardon, pardon, always
pardon, that was the secret of her marvelous
hold on the members of her enormous family. She
drew up the little footstool to a corner, placed the
child on it, and shaking her head at Dr. Camperdown,
sat down opposite him. “Take people for
what they are—not for what they ought to be,” she
said to him in German.
“You are a good woman, Stargarde,” he returned
softly in the same language. “I can give
you no higher praise. And I have had a good
dinner,” he continued, drawing back from the table.
“What are you going to do with those dishes?
Mayn’t I help you wash them?”
“No, thank you. Zeb will assist me when you
have gone.”
He smiled at her hint to withdraw, and placing
the rocking-chair by the fire for her, said wistfully:
“Do you really wish me to go?”
“Well, you may stay for half an hour longer,”
she replied, as indulgent with him as she was with
the child.
As soon as the words left her lips, he ensconced
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
himself comfortably in the arm-chair, and gazing
into the fire listened dreamily to the low-murmured
sentences Stargarde was addressing to the child,
who had crept into her arms begging to be rocked.
“I wish I could smoke,” he said presently; “I
think you don’t object to the smell of tobacco, Stargarde?”
“No,” she said quietly, “not the smell of it.”
“But the waste, the hurtfulness of the habit, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take the responsibility of that, if you let
me have one pipe, Stargarde, only one.”
“One then let it be,” she replied.
With eyes fixed on her, he felt for his tobacco
pouch and pipe, which he blindly filled, only looking
at it when the time for lighting came. Then in
a state of utter beatification he leaned back, smoking
quietly and listening to her clear voice, as she
swung slowly to and fro, talking to the child.
After a time Zeb fell asleep and Stargarde’s voice
died away.
Camperdown rose slowly to his feet. He knew
that it was time for him to be gone and that it was
better for him to call attention to it himself than to
wait for an ignominious dismissal as soon as Stargarde
should come out of the reverie into which she
had fallen.
“Good-bye,” he said in startling fashion. “Take
notice that I’m going of my own accord for once,
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
and don’t put me out any more. I’m trying to
deserve my good fortune, you see.”
“Good-night, Brian,” she said gently.
He seized his cap and coat, flashed her a look
of inexpressible affection from his deep-set eyes,
and was gone.
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XI | MRS. MACARTNEY GETS A FRIGHT
.sp 2
Vivienne and Judy were in their sitting room
reading by the light of a lamp on the table
between them when the younger girl suddenly
pricked up her ears.
“There’s a puffing, panting sound on the staircase,”
she said, “as if a steam-tug were approaching.
It must be your Irish friend. I’ll decamp, for I
don’t want to see her.” She picked up her crutch
and was about to flee to her bedroom when she
was arrested by a succession of squeals.
“Holy powers save us,” moaned Mrs. Macartney
bursting into the room. “There’s something
odd about this house when the devil lives in the top
story of it.”
“Thank you,” said Judy smartly; “perhaps you
don’t know that these are my apartments.”
Mrs. Macartney did not hear her. Holding
Vivienne’s hands, and half laughing, half crying,
she was rocking herself to and fro.
“He had on a nightcap and a woman’s gown,
and he goggled at me from an open door; and, me
dear, his face was like a coal——”
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
“It’s Mammy Juniper that you’ve seen, dear
Mrs. Macartney,” exclaimed Vivienne.
“And who is Mammy Juniper?” inquired her
visitor, stopping short to stare at her.
“She’s an old family servant; sit down here and
I’ll tell you about her.”
“Ah me; ah me,” wailed the Irish lady dropping
on a sofa; “we don’t have people of her color
in my peaceful home. Sure, I thought me last hour
had come.”
“She is very black,” said Vivienne gravely;
“and she despises the other colored people here.
Mammy is a Maroon. Have you ever heard of
that race?”
“Never, me dear; I didn’t want to.”
“They were a fierce and lawless people living in
Jamaica,” said Vivienne; “and they fought the
English and would not submit till they heard that
they were to be hunted with dogs. Then they gave
in and were transported here. They disliked Nova
Scotia because they said there were no yams nor
cocoanuts and bananas growing here, and no wild
hogs to hunt; and the men couldn’t have as many
wives as they chose, nor have cock-fighting; so the
government sent them all to Africa; all but the parents
of Mammy Juniper, and when they died she
became a servant in this family.”
“A fearsome body for a servant,” said her
hearer; “aren’t you terrified of her, me dear?”
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
“No,” said Vivienne; “she is more afraid of me
than I am of her. I am sorry for her.”
“Don’t talk about her, me child,” said Mrs. Macartney
with a shudder. “Talk about yourself.
Aren’t you shamming ill with that rosy face?”
“I’m not ill,” said Vivienne lightly. “This is
only a feverish cold; but Dr. Camperdown won’t
let me go downstairs.”
“I was determined to see you,” said Mrs. Macartney,
pulling Vivienne beside her to the sofa.
“I thickened the air with hints that I’d like to
come up, but Mrs. Colonibel tried to frighten me
with tales of the badness of your cold.”
“She doesn’t like me to have callers up here,
for some reason,” said Vivienne.
“She likes to be contrary, me dear. ’Tis the
breath of life to her, and maybe she’s jealous of
your handsome room”—looking admiringly about
her—"which is the most elegant of the house. Your
whites and golds don’t slap me in the face like the
colors downstairs. That’s the lady of the mansion’s
good pleasure, I suppose. Ah, but she is a fine
woman!"
The inimitable toss of her head as she pronounced
this praise of Mrs. Colonibel and the waggish
roll of her eyes to the ceiling made Vivienne
press her handkerchief to her lips to keep from
laughter that she feared might reach Judy’s ears.
“I wish you could have seen her ladyship yesterday
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
when she came to invite us to this dinner, me
dear,” said Mrs. Macartney with a twisting of her
mouth. “The boy at the hotel brought up her card—Mrs.
Colonibel. ‘That’s the Lady Proudface,’
said I, and I went to the drawing room; and there
she stood, and rushed at me like this——” and
Mrs. Macartney rising from the sofa charged heavily
across the room at an unoffending table which
staggered on its legs at her onset.
Vivienne half started from her seat then fell back
again laughing spasmodically. “Me dear,” said
Mrs. Macartney looking over her shoulder at her,
“she thought to make up by the warmth of her
second greeting for the coldness of her first. She
said she wanted us all to come and dine en famille,
to celebrate the engagement, so I thought I’d tease
her and talk French too; so I said, ‘Wouldn’t we be
de trop? and you mustn’t suppose we belonged to
the élite of the world, for we were plain people and
didn’t care a rap for the opinion of the beau monde.’
You should have seen her face! And then I took
pity on her and said we’d come. And come we
did; and I’d give a kingdom if you could see
Patrick and Geoffrey. They’re sitting beside Mrs.
Colonibel, bowing and smirking at everything she
says, and she’s thinking she’s mighty entertaining,
and when we get home they’ll both growl and say
they were bored to death, and why didn’t I tell
them you weren’t to be present. Me dear, I didn’t
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
dare to,” in a stage whisper, and looking over her
shoulder. “They’d never have come.”
“Is Mrs. Colonibel not at all embarrassed with
you?” said Vivienne. “She was not polite to you
the other day, though of course it was on my account,
not on yours.”
“Embarrassed, did you say, me dear?” replied
Mrs. Macartney gayly. “Faith, there’s no such
word in society. You must keep a bold front, whatever
you do, or you’ll get the gossips after you.
Dip your tongue in honey or gall, whichever you
like, and hold your head high, and there’s no such
thing as quailing before the face of mortal man or
woman. Drop your head on your breast and go
through the world, and you’ll have the fingers
pointed at you. Me Lady Proudface is the woman
to get on. If you’d seen the way she took the
news of your engagement you’d have fallen at her
feet in admiration.”
“She suppressed her disapproval,” said Vivienne.
“Disapproval, me child. ’Twas like salt to her
eyeballs; but she never winked. Hasn’t she said
anything to you about it?”
“No; we rarely have any conversations.”
“Ah, she’d have but a limited supply of compliments
left after her flowery words to me. By the
way, did you get the grand bouquet that Geoffrey
sent to you?”
“Yes; it is over there by the window.”
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
“He’s desolated not to see you, as the French
people say; but hist, me dear, there’s some one at
the door. Maybe it’s her ladyship. I’ll go into
this adjacent room.”
“No, no; stay here,” exclaimed Vivienne with an
apprehensive glance at the narrow doorway leading
to her sleeping apartment. “It does not matter
who comes.”
“It’s only I,” said a meek voice, and Dr. Camperdown’s
sandy head appeared, shortly followed by
the rest of his body.
Mrs. Macartney, not heeding Vivienne’s advice,
had tried to enter the next room, and had become
firmly wedged in the doorway. Dr. Camperdown
was obliged to go to her assistance, and when he
succeeded in releasing her she looked at him with
such a variety of amusing expressions chasing themselves
over her face that he grinned broadly and
turned away.
“Who is this gentleman?” said Mrs. Macartney
at last breathlessly, with gratitude, and yet with a
certain repugnance to the physician on account of
his ugly looks.
Vivienne performed the necessary introduction,
and Mrs. Macartney ejaculated, “Ah, your doctor.
Perhaps,” jocularly, “I may offer myself to him as
a patient.” Then as Dr. Camperdown took Vivienne’s
wrist in his hand she bent over him with an
interested air and said, “It’s me flesh, doctor. I
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
don’t know what to do about it. The heavens
seem to rain it down upon me—flake upon flake,
layer upon layer. I’ve been rubbed and tubbed,
and grilled and stewed, and done Banting, and
taken Anti-fats, and yet it goes on increasing.
Every morning there’s more of it, and every evening
it grows upon me. I have to swing and tumble
and surge about me bed to get impetus enough
to roll out; it’s awful, doctor!”
Vivienne listened to her in some surprise, for up
to this she had not imagined that Mrs. Macartney
felt the slightest uneasiness in regard to her encumbrance
of flesh. But there was real anxiety in her
tones now, and Vivienne listened with interest for
the doctor’s reply.
“What do you eat?” he said abruptly, and with
a swift glance at her smooth, fair expanse of cheek
and chin.
“Three fairish meals a day,” she said, “and a
supper at night.”
“How much do you walk?”
“Sure, I never walk at all if I can get a carriage.”
He laughed shortly, and said nothing.
“What do you think about it, doctor—is it a dangerous
case?” said Mrs. Macartney, twisting her
head so that she could look at his face as he bent
over his work. Vivienne saw that she was immensely
impressed by his oracular manner of delivering
himself.
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
“Do you want me to prescribe for you?” he
asked, straightening himself with a suddenness that
made his prospective patient start nervously.
“Ah, yes, doctor, please,” she said.
“Begin then by dropping the supper, avoid fats,
sweets, anything starchy. Walk till you are ready
to drop; heart’s all right is it?”
“Ah, yes,” pathetically, and with a flicker of her
customary waggishness, “my heart’s always been
my strong point, doctor.”
“Report to me at my office,” he went on; “come
in a week.”
She shuffled to her feet, her face considerably
brighter. “You’ve laid me under an obligation,
doctor. If you’ll make me a shadow smaller, I’ll
pray for the peace of your soul. And now I must
go, me dear,” she said, looking at Vivienne, “or
I’ll be missed from the drawing room. I crept away
you know.”
Vivienne smiled. Mrs. Colonibel had probably
watched her climbing the staircase.
“I must go too,” said Dr. Camperdown, rising
as Mrs. Macartney left the room. “You’ll be all
right in a day or two, Miss Delavigne. Mind, we’re
to be friends.”
Vivienne looked up gratefully into his sharp gray
eyes. “You are very good to come and see me.”
“Armour asked me to,” he said shortly.
“Judy told him that I was ill,” said Vivienne.
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
“I scolded her a little, because I did not think I
really needed a doctor.”
“You are a proud little thing,” he remarked
abruptly.
Vivienne’s black eyes sought his face in some surprise.
“You can’t get on in this world without help,”
he continued. “Be kind to other people and let
others be kind to you. How do you and Mrs.
Colonibel agree?”
“Passably.”
“Don’t give in to her too much,” he said. “A
snub does some people more good than a sermon.
Good-night,” and he disappeared abruptly.
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XII | LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
.sp 2
Vivienne and Judy were having afternoon
tea in their room, when the lame girl, who
was amusing herself by twirling round and round
on the piano stool while she ate her bread and
butter, burst into a cackling laugh. “Oh, Vivienne,
mamma said such a hateful thing about you—so
hateful that I must tell you.”
Vivienne laid her head on her chair back and
calmly looked at her.
“She said,” went on Judy with a chuckle, “she
said, ‘Throw a handkerchief over her head and
you will see the peasant.’”
Vivienne’s eyes glittered as they went back to the
fire, and Judy continued, “It was such a detestable
thing to say, because she knows that you are more
like a princess than a peasant. Fancy comparing
you to one of the Frenchwomen that one sees down
in the market.”
Vivienne made no reply to her, and Judy went
on talking and grumbling to herself until she heard
footsteps in the hall outside.
“Who is that coming up here?” she said, peering
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
through the half-open door. “As I am a miserable
gossip, it’s Stargarde at last, the mysterious Stargarde,
about whom your serene highness is so
curious.”
Vivienne rose and gazed straight before her in
polite fascination. Mr. Armour stood in the doorway,
and behind him was a magnificently developed
woman who might be any age between twenty-five
and thirty. She held her cap in her hand, and the
little curls in her masses of golden hair shone round
about her head like an aureole. A mantle muffled
the upper part of her figure, but Vivienne caught
a glimpse of a neck like marble and exquisitely
molded hands.
The girl as she stood criticising her visitor did not
know that there was anything wistful in her attitude,
she had not the remotest idea of bidding for
sympathy; therefore it was with the utmost surprise
that she saw Stargarde’s arms outstretched, and the
mantle spreading out like a cloud and descending
upon her.
“Poor little girl—shut up in the house this lovely
weather,” and other compassionate sentences she
heard as she went into the cloud and was enveloped
by it.
When she emerged, shaking her head and putting
up her hands to her coils of black hair to feel that
they were not disarranged, Stargarde was smiling
at her.
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
“Did I startle you? Forgive me, I was too demonstrative;
but do you know, I fell in love with you
before I saw you?”
“Did you?” responded Vivienne, then turning to
Mr. Armour, who was loitering about the door as if
uncertain whether to come in or not, she invited
him to sit down.
“Is your cold any better?” he asked stiffly as
he came in.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied. “Dr. Camperdown
is driving it away.”
“Stanton,” exclaimed Vivienne’s beautiful visitor,
flashing a smile at him, “why don’t you introduce
me?”
“I thought it scarcely necessary,” he said, his
glance brightening as he turned from Vivienne to
her, “after the warmth of your greeting. Yet, if
you wish it—this, Miss Delavigne, is our friend
Miss Stargarde Turner——”
“Of Rockland Street,” she added gravely.
Vivienne tried to hide her astonishment. This
woman looked like an aristocrat. Could it be that
she lived in one of the worst streets of the city?
Stargarde smiled as if reading her thoughts. “It
isn’t so bad as you think,” she said consolingly.
“Wait till you see it.” Then she turned to reply
to a sharply interjected question by Judy.
While her attention was distracted from her,
Vivienne’s glance wandered in quiet appreciation
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
over the classic profile and statuesque figure of her
guest as she sat slightly bent forward with hands
clasped over her knees, her loose draperies encircling
her and making her look like one of the Greek
statues, rows and rows of which the girl had seen
in foreign art galleries.
Who was she? What was she? And how did it
happen that she had the extraordinary strength of
mind to dress and comport herself so differently
from the ordinary woman of the world? There
was about her also a radiance that she had never
before seen in the face of any human being. She
did not understand then as she did later on that it
was the spirit of love that glorified Stargarde Turner’s
face. Her great heart beat only for others.
She was so permeated and suffused with a sweet
charity toward all men that it shone constantly out
of every line of her beautiful countenance.
Vivienne’s eyes went from Stargarde to Mr.
Armour. He had a wonderful amount of self-control,
yet he could not hide the fact that he admired
this charming woman, that he listened intently
to every word that fell from her lips.
“I am glad that there is some one he is interested
in,” thought Vivienne. “Usually he seems like a
man of stone, not of flesh and blood.”
It occurred to her that he had brought Miss
Turner up to her room that he might have a chance
to listen, without interruption, to the clear, sweet
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
tones of her voice. She imagined that he was in
love with her and that his family threw obstacles in
the way of their meeting. In this she made a mistake
as she soon found out. Stanton Armour was
at liberty to pay Miss Turner all the attention he
chose, and the whole family welcomed her as an
honored guest.
“You and I are going to be friends,” said Stargarde
turning to her suddenly. “I feel it.”
“I hope so,” murmured Vivienne.
“Will you have some tea, Israelitess without
guile?” asked Judy abruptly flinging an arm over
Stargarde’s shoulder.
“Yes, dear,” and Stargarde turned her face toward
her. “Why don’t you come to see me?”
“Oh, you worry me with your goodness and perfections,”
was the impatient retort. “You’re too
faultless for ordinary purposes. I get on better
with that young lady there, who is good but human.”
“Have you found some faults in Miss Delavigne
already?” asked Stargarde gleefully.
“Yes, plenty of them,” said Judy reaching down
to the hearth for the teapot.
“What are they?” asked Mr. Armour
“I haven’t time to tell you all now,” said Judy.
“Come up some day when I’m alone and I’ll go
over them. You needn’t smile, Vivienne, I will.
What have you been doing with yourself lately,
Stargarde? We haven’t seen you for an age.”
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
“I’ve been in the country finding homes for some
of my ”
“This young person hasn’t the good fortune to
be married,” said Judy to Vivienne; “and by children
she means orphans and starvelings that she
amuses herself by picking out of gutters.”
“I hope that you will be interested in my work,”
said Stargarde enthusiastically to Vivienne.
“No, she won’t,” said Judy. “That sort of thing
isn’t in her line.”
“Judy,” said Mr. Armour, “it seems to me that
you are monopolizing the conversation. Suppose
you come over to this window seat and talk to me
for a while?”
She followed him obediently, and after they were
seated burst out with a brisk, “Thank heaven for
family privileges! You wouldn’t have dared say
that to a stranger.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t suppose I would.”
“You’re pretty plain-spoken though with everybody,”
said Judy critically; “that is, when you
want your own way. When you don’t you let
people alone. Why are you in such a good temper
to-day? Have you been making some money?”
“A little.”
“That’s all you care for, isn’t it?” pursued the
girl.
“What do you mean?” he asked, a slight cloud
on his face.
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
“Money is your god,” she said coolly.
He made no reply to her and she went on, “What
a pity that you have never married like other men.
You’re almost forty, aren’t you?”
“Almost.”
“Just Camperdown’s age; only there is
this difference between you, he would get married
if he could, and you could if you would. I know
some one that would have made a nice, proud wife
for you.”
“Judy,” he exclaimed, holding himself a little
straighter than he usually did, “what are you talking
about?”
“Something that you might have done if you had
been as sensible as some people.”
“You are impertinent,” he said angrily.
“This is a long room, and we are some distance
from the fireplace,” said Judy in velvet tones, “yet
if you raise your voice our two darlings yonder will
hear what you are saying.”
Mr. Armour gave her an annoyed glance.
“It isn’t worth your while to quarrel with me,”
said Judy smoothly, “the only person in the house
that can get on with you. And what have I done?
Merely hinted that a charming girl of twenty-one
would have done a pretty thing to sacrifice herself
to an old bachelor of forty. You ought to feel
flattered.”
“I don’t,” he returned sullenly.
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
“No; because you are a—a—because you are
foolish. You ought to feel willing to pay six thousand
dollars a year to some one who would make
you laugh.”
“What has that to do with Miss Delavigne?”
he said.
“Why she amuses you—can’t you see it?—you,
a regular grum-growdy of a man, with care sitting
forever on your brow.”
“Judy,” he said, “your chatter wearies me.”
“I daresay,” she replied; “it shows you ought
to have more of it. You’ll probably go mad some
day from business worries.”
Mr. Armour picked up a book that he found on
the window seat and began to read it, while Judy
turned her back on him and stared out at the peaceful
waters of the Arm.
Stargarde was looking earnestly into Vivienne’s
face. “You dear child! if I had known you were
ill I would have come to you sooner.”
“I have not suffered extremely,” said Vivienne
gratefully, yet with dignity.
Stargarde shook her head gently. “Do you care
to tell me how you get on with Mrs. Colonibel?”
“We rarely come in contact,” said Vivienne;
“we have nothing in common.”
“You do not like her,” said Stargarde sadly; “I
know you do not; yet have patience with her, my
child. There is a woman who has lived half her
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
life and has not learned its lesson yet. She cannot
bear to be contra—opposed; she will have her own
way.”
Some hidden emotion caused Stargarde’s face to
contract painfully, and Vivienne seeing it said generously,
“Let us make some excuse for her. She
has reigned here for some years, has she not?”
“Yes; ever since her husband died.”
“And she is jealous of all interference?”
“Yes; and she looks upon you as a usurper. Be
as patient as you can with her, dear child, for she
thinks that Stanton’s object in bringing you here is
to make you mistress over her head.”
“Do you mean that I should become the housekeeper
here?”
“Yes; I do.”
Vivienne started. “Oh, I am only here for a
short time; I could not think of remaining.”
Stargarde looked at her affectionately and with
some curiosity, and seeing this the girl went on
hastily, “Mrs. Colonibel’s husband is dead, is he
not?”
“Yes; he was much older than she was.”
“And her stay here depends upon her cousin,
Mr. Armour?”
“Yes; he gives her a handsome salary.”
“It is rather surprising then that she does not try
to please him in every respect.”
Stargarde’s eyes lighted up with brilliant indignation.
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
“You bring me to one of my hobbies,”
she exclaimed. “I think that if there is one class
of people on whom the wrath of God rests more
heavily than on others, it is on the good Christian
people who, wrapped around in their own virtues,
bring up their children in an atmosphere of pagan
idolatry. In not one single particle is the child
taught to control itself. The very moon and stars
would be plucked from the sky if the parent had
the power to gratify the child in that way. Nothing,
nothing is denied it. And what happens?
The parent dies, the child with its shameless disregard
of the rights of others is let loose in the
world. With what disastrous results we see in the
case of Flora Colonibel. Oh, pity her, pity her,
my child,” and Stargarde gazed imploringly at
Vivienne, her blue eyes dimmed with tears.
Vivienne witnessed Stargarde’s emotion with a
kind of awe, and by a gentle glance essayed to
comfort her. The woman smiled through her tears,
held up her golden head bravely, like a child that
has accomplished its season of mourning and is
willing to be cheerful, and said steadily: “I rarely
discuss Flora—it is too painful a subject—but you
are gentle and good; I wish to enlist your sympathies
in her favor. You understand?”
“I will try to like her,” said Vivienne with great
simplicity, “for your sake.”
“Dear child,” murmured Stargarde, “to do something
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
for others is the way to forget one’s own
trouble.”
Vivienne assented to this remark by a smile, and
Stargarde fixing her eyes on the fire fell into a
brown study. After a time she turned her head
with one of her swift, graceful movements, and
reading Vivienne’s thoughts with a readiness that
rather disconcerted her, said: “You wish to know
something about me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said the girl frankly.
“Good, as Dr. Camperdown says,” replied Stargarde.
“I will tell you all that I can. First, I
spent the first twelve years of my life as the eldest
daughter of a poor parson and his wife. What do
you think of that?”
“It is easy to imagine that your descent might
be clerical,” said Vivienne innocently.
Stargarde laughed at this with such suppressed
amusement that Vivienne knew she must have some
arrière pensée. “They were not my real parents,”
said her new friend at last.
“Indeed,” said Vivienne, measuring her with a
glance so pitying that Stargarde hastened to say,
“What does it matter? They loved me better
I think for being a waif. The Lord knows all
about it, so it is all right. You want to know who
my parents are, don’t you?”
“Yes; but do not tell me unless you care to do
so.”
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
“I can’t tell you, child,” said Stargarde, gently
pinching her cheek. “I will not say that I do not
know; I will simply say that I prefer not to tell
anything I may know. Would it make any difference
to you if I were to tell you that my father had
been—well, say a public executioner?”
“I do not know; I cannot tell,” said Vivienne
in bewilderment. “I could never imagine that you
would spring from such a source as that.”
“Suppose I did; you would not punish the
child for the father’s dreadful calling, would you?”
“Most persons would.”
“Yes, they would,” said Stargarde. “We punish
the children for the sins of the fathers, and we
are always pointing our fingers at our neighbors
and saying, ‘I am better than thou,’ as regards lineage.
And yet, in the beginning we were all alike.
.pm start_poem
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?’”
.pm end_poem
“That was years ago,” said Vivienne in amusement;
“blood trickling through the veins of generations
has become blue.”
“My dear, we go up and down. The aristocrats
of to-day are the paupers of to-morrow, except in
rare instances. I do not think any the more of you
for a possible existence in your veins of a diluted
drop of the blood royal of France. I can understand
your sentiment in regard to it, if you say, ‘I
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
must never commit a mean action because I come
of a line of distinguished ancestry’; though I think a
better sentiment is, ‘Here I stand as noble in the
sight of God as any creature of earth; I owe it to
him and to myself to keep my record clean.’”
An alarming suspicion crept into Vivienne’s
mind. “Are you an anarchist?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, no, no,” laughed Stargarde; “a socialist
if you will, in the broad sense of the term, a Christian
socialist; but an anarchist never.”
“Are you a loyal subject to the Queen?”
Stargarde bent her beautiful head. “I am, God
bless her! Not loyalty alone do I give her, but
tender love and reverence. May all her descendants
rule as wisely as she has done.”
Stargarde when she spoke used as many gestures
as Vivienne herself. Then she was brimful of personal
magnetism, catching her hearers by the electric
brilliance of her bright blue eyes and holding
them by the pure and silvery tones of her voice.
Vivienne felt her blood stir in her veins as she listened
to her. She was loth to have her visitor go,
and as she saw her glance at the clock she said
hurriedly, “We have wandered from the subject of
your up-bringing.”
“Come and see me in my rooms,” said Stargarde
rising, “and I will tell you all about myself and
how I went to live with the Camperdowns when I
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
was twelve. They are all gone now but Brian,”
and she sighed. “How I miss them! Family life
is such an exquisite thing. You, poor child, know
little of it as yet. Some day you will marry and
have a home of your own. You have a lover now,
little girl, haven’t you?” and she tilted back Vivienne’s
head and looked searchingly into her eyes.
“Yes,” said Vivienne gently.
Stargarde smiled. “Before he takes you away I
wish you would come and stay with me for a long
time. Now I must fly, I have an appointment at
six.”
“Good-bye, Miss Turner,” murmured Vivienne,
as her caller took her by the hand.
“Good-bye, Stargarde,” corrected her friend.
“Stargarde—it is a beautiful name,” said the girl.
“It is a great worry to people; they ask me why
I was so named, and I never can tell them. I only
know that it is German, and is occasionally used in
Russia.”
“Are you going? are you going?” called Judy,
limping briskly from the other end of the room.
“Wait a minute. I want to show you some clothes
that I will give you for your poor children.”
“I haven’t time, I fear.”
“I will send you home in a sleigh,” said Mr.
Armour, strolling toward them.
“Oh, in that case I can give you a few minutes,”
said Stargarde.
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
“This is what we might call a case of love at first
sight, isn’t it?” said Judy, fluttering like a kindly
disposed blackbird between Vivienne and Stargarde.
Stargarde laughed merrily as she went into the
bedroom.
Vivienne was left behind with Mr. Armour. Ever
since her interview in the library with him he had
regarded her with some friendliness and with decided
curiosity. Now he asked with interest,
“Did you ever see any one like Miss Turner?”
“No,” said Vivienne warmly, “never; she is
so devoted, so enthusiastic; her protégés must love
her.”
“They do,” he said dryly.
“It is not my way to plunge into sudden intimacies,”
said Vivienne with a little proud movement
of her neck; “yet with Miss Turner I fancy all
rules are set aside.”
“She is certainly unconventional,” said Mr.
Armour.
“I wish I were like that,” said Vivienne. “I
wish that I had it in me to live for others.”
“You have a different mission in life,” he said.
“You are cut out for a leader in society rather than
a religious or philanthropic enthusiast. By the way,
Macartney wants your marriage to take place as
soon as possible. Of course you concur in his
opinion.”
“Yes,” said Vivienne absently, “I will agree to
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
anything that he arranges. As I told you the
other day,” she went on with some embarrassment,
“I think it is advisable for me to leave here as soon
as possible. However, I spoke too abruptly to you.
I have been wishing for an opportunity to tell you
so.”
“Have you?” he said, twisting the corners of his
moustache and trying not to smile at the lofty
manner in which she delivered her apology. “It
really did not matter.”
“No, I dare say not,” she replied with a quick
glance at him; “but I was not polite.”
“I mean it did not matter about me,” he said.
“A business man must get used to knocks of various
kinds.”
How conceited he was, how proud of his business
ability! Vivienne shrugged her shoulders and
said nothing.
“About this engagement of yours,” he went on;
“if you please we will allow its length to remain
undetermined for a time. I may as well confess
that I brought you here for a purpose. What that
purpose is I do not care to tell, and I beg that you
will not speculate about it. Do you think that you
can make up your mind to remain under my roof
for a few weeks longer?”
“I wounded his self-love so deeply that he will
never recover from it,” said the girl to herself.
Then she went on aloud in a constrained voice.
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
“It is scarcely necessary for you to ask me that
question. To stay here for as long a time as you
choose is a small favor for me to grant when you
have been kind enough to take care of me for so
many years.”
“Ah thank you,” said Mr. Armour aloud. To
himself he added, “Proud, passionate, restless girl.
She will never forgive me for not liking her. She
has her father’s face and her mother’s disposition.”
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIII | DR. CAMPERDOWN MAKES A MORNING CALL
.sp 2
Old Polypharmacy, Dr. Camperdown’s horse,
attached to a sleigh, was pegging slowly out
one of the Arm roads on the day after his master’s
visit to Vivienne.
The afternoon was fine and brilliantly sunny, and
Polypharmacy unharried by a check-rein, and almost
happy for once that he had blinders on, kept his
head down and his eyes half shut, on account of the
dazzling glare of the sun on the white fields of snow.
If Polypharmacy was half asleep, his master was
certainly very wide awake. He sat in a stooping
attitude, his body responding to the bumps and
jerks of the little open sleigh bobbing over the
hillocks of snow, and his keen, bright eyes going
like an eagle’s over in the direction of Pinewood.
When they reached the sullen, dark semicircle of
evergreen surrounding it, he slapped the reins
smartly over the back of his lazy quadruped, and
ejaculated: “Hie on, Polypharmacy, and hear my
programme—to have my delayed conversation with
my lady and get back to town by five. Now comport
yourself accordingly.”
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
Polypharmacy, with a disapproving toss of his
head at his master’s haste, yet thought it better to
quicken his pace and was soon trotting through the
lodge gateway and up the drive to the house.
Arrived in front of the hall door, Camperdown
sprang out of the sleigh and attaching a weight to
the head of his horse rang a smart peal on the bell
that brought a maid tripping to the door.
“I want to see Mrs. Colonibel,” he said in his
usual lordly fashion and striding past her into the
house. “Is she at home?”
The girl clung to the door handle. “No, sir,
she isn’t at home—that is, she doesn’t want to see
any one.”
“She’ll see me,” he said. “Take me to her.”
Mrs. Colonibel unaware of the visit in store for
her, had after lunch donned a dressing-gown of her
favorite shade of red, had put on a pair of bedroom
slippers and had made her way to the smoking-room,
an apartment that was unoccupied at that
time of day.
It was a constant source of chagrin to her that
she had neither a maid of her own nor a boudoir.
A number of times she had hinted to her cousin
Stanton the desirability of bestowing on her these
privileges, but so far he had listened in unresponsive
silence. Of the delight that would fill her
soul could she but speak of “my maid” and “my
boudoir” while engaging in conversation with her
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
friends, that unsympathetic man had not the slightest
idea.
With brows drawn together she looked discontentedly
about the little room, which however, had
a certain gaudy comfort of its own. A wood fire
was burning merrily in the grate, a big easy-chair
by the window held out inviting arms toward her.
She had been at a sleighing party the evening
before and was tired, and she had a novel and a
box of sweets with which to console herself; so at
last she sighed contentedly and subsiding among
soft cushions was soon deep in a tale of love and
sorrow.
At one of the most harrowing passages in the
story, where the heroine involved in a hundred embarrassments
sees no chance of escape and where
her sad condition compelled Mrs. Colonibel to apply
her handkerchief to her eyes, she was startled by
hearing in a deep voice,
“But Black Donald sat in his coffin and ate oat
cake.”
Dropping her book she saw Dr. Camperdown
hugging himself like a huge bear before the fire.
“Good afternoon,” he said; “I met that new domestic
of yours in the hall and asked her name.
She said it was Gregory. Every letter of that name
is full of blood to Shall I tell you why?”
“If you like,” said Mrs. Colonibel with an unamiability
that affected him not in the least.
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
“When I was a boy I used to visit at my uncle’s
in Yarmouth county. A man called Black Donald
Gregory murdered his sister and cousin in a quarrel,
and the whole country rang with the story. The
sheriff took Black Donald to Yarmouth town to be
hanged. On the road the sheriff would say,
‘Black Donald, you have only twelve hours to live’;
and Black Donald would sit in his coffin eating oat
cake and saying nothing. The sheriff would say
further, ‘Black Donald you have only eleven hours
to live.’ But Black Donald sat in his coffin eating
oat cake all the way to Yarmouth town. The sheriff
warned him every hour, but Black Donald ate oat
cake to the last, cramming a bit in his mouth as he
mounted the scaffold. Queer story, isn’t it? It
used to make my blood run cold. Don’t mind it
now.”
Flora shuddered, and without answering him
picked up her book as a hint to him to be gone.
To her secret dismay he appeared to be just in the
humor for a gossip, and as he warmed his back at
the fire said agreeably,
“What’s that book you’re in such a hurry to get
back to?”
Mrs. Colonibel reluctantly mentioned the name
of the story.
“Been crying over it, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Wasting tears over a silly jade that never existed,
and over a nice girl that does exist and does suffer
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
you’ll bestow not a word of sympathy. You women
are queer creatures.”
“Not a bit queerer than men,” said Mrs. Colonibel,
goaded into a response.
“Yes, you are,” he retorted. “For double-twistedness
and mixed motives and general incomprehensibility,
commend me to women; and you’re
unbusinesslike, the most of you. You, Flora Colonibel,
are now acting dead against your own interests.
What makes you so hateful to that little
French girl?”
Mrs. Colonibel moved uneasily about on her
cushions. “She isn’t little,” she said; “she is as
tall as I am.”
“What makes you so hateful to her?” he said
relentlessly.
“You should not talk in that way to me, Brian,”
said Mrs. Colonibel in an aggrieved tone of voice.
“I’m not hateful to her.”
“Yes, you are; you know you are,—hateful and
spiteful in little feminine ways. You think people
don’t notice it; they do.”
Mrs. Colonibel was a little frightened. “What
do you mean, Brian?”
“Simply this. You have a young and fascinating
girl under your roof. You suppress her in spite
of the fact that she will soon be a married woman
and in a position to lord it over you. People are
talking about it already.”
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
“That wretched Irish woman!” exclaimed Mrs.
Colonibel; “I wish that she had been born without
a tongue.”
“Don’t be abusive and vulgar, Flora. Once you
get that reputation there isn’t a man in Halifax that
will marry you. You know your ambition is to get
a husband; but you’re playing a very bad game
just now, a very bad one.”
At this bit of information, of which his victim
was only too well assured by her own inner consciousness,
she began to shed tears of anger and
mortification.
“Don’t cry,” said Camperdown soothingly, drawing
up a chair and sitting astride it within easy
reach of the box of sweetmeats on her lap, “and
don’t bite your handkerchief.”
She would have given the world to be alone, but
she was obliged to sit still, answering his questions
and watching him coolly eat her sweets.
“Confide in me, Flora,” he said kindly; “I’m the
best friend you have. Tell me just how you feel
toward Miss Delavigne.”
“I hate her,” she said, striking her teeth together
and tearing her handkerchief to shreds. “You’ve
no idea how I hate her, Brian,” and she burst into
violent sobbing.
She had thrown off all disguise, as indeed she
was often in the habit of doing with him, for he understood
her so well that she never could deceive
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
him and knew that she gained nothing by attempting
to do so.
“That’s right,” he said, stripping the paper off
a caramel and transferring it to his cheek. “Unburden
your conscience; you’ll feel better. We’ll
start from that. You hate her. People will hate
each other; you can’t help it. Now let us consider
the subject without any appeal to higher motives,
which would only be an embarrassment in
your case, Flora. You can’t help hating her; do
you hate yourself?”
“No,” indignantly, “you know I don’t.”
“No,” he repeated in accents of blandishment;
“out of all the world the person set up for your love
and adoration is Flora Colonibel. Now in hating
Miss Delavigne, and in showing that you hate her,
are you doing Flora Colonibel good service?”
He would not proceed till she answered him, so
at last she vouchsafed him a sulky, “No.”
“You’re working right against Flora Colonibel,”
he said. “You’re blasting her prospects for
worldly advancement; you’re preparing her for an
old age spent in a garret.”
Mrs. Colonibel shivered at the prospect held out
before her, but said nothing.
“What’s your income apart from what Stanton
gives you?” he asked.
“Five hundred dollars a year,” reluctantly.
“Five hundred to a woman of your expensive
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
tastes! How much was that embroidered toga you
have on?”
“Thirty dollars.”
“And your sandals, or whatever they are?”
“Three.”
“And the book?”
“Fifty cents.”
“The ring on your finger?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“That is eighty-three dollars and fifty cents.
And you and Judy expect to live on five hundred.”
Throwing the empty confectionery box into the
fire, he rose as if, in intense disapproval of her plans
for the future, he could no longer stay with her.
Mrs. Colonibel was in a state bordering on hysterics.
“What shall I do, Brian?” she gasped,
holding him convulsively.
“Mend your ways and increase your graces,”
succinctly. “Stop nagging Stanton, or he’ll turn
you out of the house before you’re a twelvemonth
older. Treat ma’m’selle decently, and follow Stanton’s
lead in everything. He is your employer.
He doesn’t love you overmuch, but he’ll not be a
hard one. Good-bye.” And gently pulling his
coat from her quivering hand, he sauntered from
the room, muttering to himself, “Medicine’s bitter,
but it’s better for her to take it.”
Going on his way down the staircase he crossed
the lower hall and looked into the drawing room.
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
Its only occupant was Valentine, who lay stretched
out at length on a sofa reading a book which he
closed when he saw Camperdown.
“Beastly cold day, isn’t it?” he asked, putting
his hands under his handsome, graceless head to
prop it still higher.
“Depends upon your standpoint,” said Camperdown
drily. “Where’s Stanton?”
“In town—in his office, I suppose.”
“Why aren’t you there?”
“Oh, I’ve about cut the office. Stanton doesn’t
make me very welcome when I do go.”
“You’re of no use to him, probably.”
“Well, I don’t adore bookkeeping,” frankly;
“and Stanton lets me take no responsibility in
buying or selling.”
“Suppose he should die, also your father, do you
think you could carry on the business?”
“Couldn’t I!” said Valentine, with all of a young
man’s sublime confidence in his own capabilities.
“I’d like to see you do it,” grimly. “Things
would go ‘ker-smash,’ as old Hannah says. What
are you improving you mind with on this glorious
day? A literary family, forsooth.”
Valentine Armour, who with all his faults was as
sunny-tempered as a child, refused to tell him, and
from mischievous motives solely, tried to roll over
on his book. He succeeded in getting it under
him, and lay on it laughing convulsively. He was
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
slight and tall of figure, but his strength was as
nothing against the prodigious power that lay in
Camperdown’s limbs when he chose to exert himself.
Shaking Valentine like a rat, he lifted him with
one hand by the waistband, and dropped him on
the hearth rug, where the young man sat nursing
his crossed legs, and convulsed with laughter at the
various expressions of disgust chasing themselves
over the physician’s plain-featured countenance.
“Too steep for you, eh, Brian?” he said teasingly.
“Erotic trash!” was the reply. “‘He crushed
her in his arms’—reading from the book—‘and
smothered her with kisses, till terrified at his passion
she was——’ Bah! I’ll read no more. You young
men read this amatory rubbish and say, ‘That
sounds lively,’ and look around for some one to
practise on. Why don’t you fill your mind with
something solid while you’re young. Do you think
you are going to limp around into driveling old age
looking for some one to crush to your breast? If
you cram your mind with this stuff now, it’s all
you’ll have when your gray hairs come. You’re a
fool, Valentine. Work is the main business of life—making
love an incident. I’ve had my eye on
you for some time. You have things reversed.”
“Thank you,” gayly. “Don’t you ever read
novels?”
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
“Of course I do. Good novels have a mission.
Many a one preaches a sermon to people
that never listen to a minister; but this trash”—scornfully—"into
the fire with it!" and he tossed
the book among the coals in the grate.
“Peace to its ashes,” said Valentine, stifling a
yawn. “It was a slow thing, anyway.”
“Come drive to town with me,” said Camperdown.
“Can’t; I’m tired. I was skating all the morning.
I think I’ll go and ask Judy for a cup of tea.”
“Is ma’m’selle civil to you?” asked Camperdown.
“Pretty much so. I’m trying to get up a flirtation
with her, but she’s too high and mighty to flirt,
though she could very well do it if she tried.”
“I’m glad there’s one girl that doesn’t worship
your doll face.”
“That she won’t flirt with me is no sign that
she doesn’t,” said Valentine saucily. "Go to your
patients, Camperdown, and leave the girls to me.
.pm start_poem
“His pills as thick as hand grenades flew,
And where they fell as certainly they slew.”
.pm end_poem
Camperdown threw a sofa cushion at him, but
Valentine dodged it, and placing himself comfortably
by the fire watched lazily through the window
the energetic manner in which the friend of his
family jumped into his sleigh and drove away.
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIV | THE STOLEN POCKET-BOOK
.sp 2
Early one evening Stargarde was sitting sewing
in her room when she heard on the
veranda the blustering noise that usually accompanied
Dr. Camperdown’s arrival. She smiled and
glanced apprehensively at Zeb, who had been
spending the day with her, and who now lay on
the sofa apparently asleep.
Then she dropped her work and turned to greet
the newcomer.
“No, thank you, I can’t sit down,” he said. “I
came to bring you some money that Mr. Warner
handed me for your poor people. Here it is,” and
taking out his pocket-book he handed her a check.
“You’d better spend some of it on that little mudlark
of yours,” with a nod of his head in the direction
of the sofa.
Zeb, who was only pretending to be asleep, heard
the half-contemptuous half-good-natured epithet,
and like a flash she was off the sofa and clinging to
his arm, scratching, snarling, and biting at him like
an enraged cat.
Stargarde was intensely distressed, and Dr. Camperdown
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
was electrified. Around and around the
table he went, trying to shake the child off without
hurting her, and yet becoming more and more disturbed
as he heard the ripping of cloth.
“Stop, stop—you little fury,” he exclaimed.
“Let go! I’ll have to hurt you, I see,” and bending
back the child’s fingers in his powerful hands he
dropped her on the floor gently, but as hastily as if
she were a rat, and snatching at his hat hurried to
the door.
He flung it open and rushed out, none too soon,
however, for the child was at his heels. Across the
veranda and out under the archway they dashed,
and Stargarde, hastening to watch them, heard their
hurrying footsteps echoing down the frosty street.
Used to surprising scenes of all kinds she was not
unduly alarmed, and thoughtfully smoothing out
the check and murmuring, “Poor little Zeb,” she
sat down to write a note of thanks.
After some time there was a cautious knock at
the door, then a head was thrust slowly in, which,
to her surprise, she saw belonged to Dr. Camperdown.
“Are you alone?” he said. “Has that—that
little witch come back? If she has I won’t come
in.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
Camperdown advanced into the room making a
wry face. “I have been robbed.”
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
“Brian!”
“Yes; that small darling of yours has made off
with my pocket-book.”
“Impossible, Brian!” exclaimed Stargarde clasping
her hands.
“Not so,” he retorted coolly. “She has it. I
was on my way to the police station, but changed
my mind and thought I’d come here first.”
“Brian, I cannot have her arrested.”
“Very well; then get my property from her.
There are papers in that book worth a large sum
to me. I’ve traveled half over the world and carried
a pocket full of notes here, there, and everywhere,
and never was robbed before.”
Stargarde suddenly became calm. “Sit down
and let us talk it over.”
He gave utterance to his favorite exclamation,
“Good—there’s considerable of the detective about
you, Stargarde, and you’ve had experience with
people of this stripe. Now what shall we do?”
She smiled feebly at him. “Where did you keep
your pocket-book, Brian?”
He displayed a well of a pocket in his inside coat
situated immediately over his brawny chest. “Impossible
to fall out you see. Put your hand in.”
“Oh, I can see; do you always keep it there?”
“Always.”
“When did you have it last?”
“When I took it out to give you the check. I
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
had the book half-way back into my pocket when
the young lamb sprang upon me. You remember
how she grabbed and dived at me—wanted to
tear her way to my heart, I think. Probably she
snatched the book and concealed it among her rags.”
had no rags to conceal it among," said Stargarde
reproachfully; “she had on a decent frock.”
“Well, what is your theory?” he said impatiently.
“She was angry and thought only of punishing
you. The book must have fallen from your coat
as you ran and she picked it up and is keeping it
to tease you.”
“I will tease her,” grimly, “if she doesn’t give it
up. Come, what shall we do? Get a policeman?”
“No, Brian, I will get it for you,” and she left
him and went into her bedroom and put her hand
to her head with a swift ejaculation, “O Lord, give
me wisdom. They are terrible people—her parents.
If they find the book on her they will not
give it up.”
She looked around the room as if for inspiration.
“I have it,” she said, snatching a little box from
her dressing table. “Thank God for putting it into
the hearts of kind friends to send me the wherewithal
to do good.” Then taking a hat and cloak
from a drawer, and rolling Zeb’s cap and shawl in a
parcel, she went out to Dr. Camperdown and said
quietly, “I am ready.”
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
He held open the door for her, and looked down
approvingly at the large black dog that went silently
out with his nose against her skirts.
They went up a street leading to the Citadel
Hill, which crouched in the midst of the city like
some huge animal turned stiff in the cold, its flanks
covered with yellow, tufted, frozen grass, the great
crown of the fort resting solidly on its brow. A few
lights flashed at the top of the signal staff but the
grim fortification sunk in the ground was outwardly
dark and gloomy, though within they knew there
were lights and fires and soldiers keeping ceaseless
watch.
Near the Citadel was a tenement house, inhabited
by nearly twenty persons. Stargarde knew them
all, knew just which rooms they occupied, and on
arriving in front of the building, she refused to
allow Camperdown to accompany her within.
Very unwillingly he consented to stay outside, a
little comforted to see that the dog slunk in after
her like her shadow. Stargarde had requested him
not to linger by the door, so he walked up and
down the opposite side of the street, where there
were no houses, surveying moodily sometimes the
frozen glacis on one side of him, and sometimes
the gaudy windows of the little eating and drinking
shops on the other. A few soldiers in greatcoats
passed at intervals up and down the street,
but always across from him, and occasionally a man
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
or a gayly dressed girl would swing open a shop
door and let a stream of music and a smell of cooking
food out on the night air.
While he waited, he mourned angrily and bitterly,
as he had done a thousand times before, the
passion, or credulity, or madness, or whatever it was,
that took his pure, white lily into such houses as
these. “Those people are well enough off,” he
muttered angrily; “why can’t she let them alone?
They live their life, we live ours. She thinks she
can raise them up. Pah! as easily as rats from a
gutter.”
He grumbled on mercifully unconscious of the
fact that could he have seen Stargarde at the time
his uneasiness would not have been allayed.
The old tenement house was one of the worst in
the city, and when Stargarde entered it, she knew
she must step cautiously. Passing through the
doorway she found herself in a narrow, unlighted
hall, not evil-smelling, for the door had been partly
ajar, but as cold as the outer world, and with an
uneven floorway, almost covered by an accumulation
of ice and snow brought in during many days
by many feet, and that would linger till a thaw
came to melt it.
At the back of the hall was a sound of running
water, where the occupants of the house, with a
glorious disregard of the waste, kept their tap running
to save it from freezing. Beyond the tap Stargarde
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
knew she must not go, for there was a large
hole in the floor utilized as a receptacle for the refuse
and garbage of the house, which were thrown
through it into the cellar. As for the cellar itself,
it was entirely open to the winter winds. The windows
had been torn away, part of the foundation
wall was crumbling, and over the rickety floor she
could hear the rats scampering merrily, busy with
their evening feast.
Stargarde avoided the icy sink, the running water,
and the crazy steps that led to the cellar, and guiding
herself along the hall by touching the wall with
the tips of her outstretched fingers, put her foot
on the lowest step of the staircase. Carefully she
crept up one flight of stairs after another, past walls
flecked with ugly sores, where the plaster had fallen
off in patches, past empty sockets of windows staring
out at the night with glass and sash both gone,
and past the snowdrifts lying curled beneath on
the floor.
On two flats she passed by doors where threads
of light streamed out and lay across the rotten
boards, while a sound of laughter and rough merrymaking
was heard within.
In the third, the top flat, there was no noise
at all. “Foreigners they are, and queer in their
ways,” ejaculated Stargarde; and pausing an instant
to listen for some sign of life, she lifted up her face
to the crazy, moldy roof overhead, where some of
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
the shingles were gone, affording easy ingress to
snow and rain, which kept the floor beneath her feet
in a state of perpetual dampness.
“Iniquitous!” she murmured; “judgment falls
on the city that neglects its poor.” Then bringing
down her glance to the doors before her, she sighed
heavily and proceeded a little farther along the hall.
There were three rooms in this story, and Zeb’s
parents lived in the front one. Their door had
been broken in some quarrel between the people
of the house, and one whole panel was gone.
There was a garment clumsily tacked over it, and
Stargarde might have pulled it aside if she had been
so minded; but she had not come to spy upon her
protégés, and contented herself with knocking gently.
The very slight, almost inaudible, sound of voices
that she had been able to hear within the room instantly
ceased; after a short interval a voice asked
her in excellent English who she was and what she
wanted.
“Miss Turner,” she replied good-humoredly,
“and I should like to see Zeb for a few minutes.”
The door was opened part way, and she was sullenly
motioned to enter by a tall woman, who slipped
behind it so as to be partly unobserved, giving her
visitor as she did so a look which certainly would
have attracted Stargarde’s attention could she have
seen it, so blended with a curious variety of emotions
was it.
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
They were having a quiet carousal Stargarde saw,
when she found herself in the room. There was
a tearing fire in the stove, and on its red-hot top
foamed and bubbled a kettle of boiling water. The
windows were tightly closed and draped with dirty
garments; a small table, having on it candles, a pack
of cards, and a jug of steaming liquor, stood at one
side of the room, and beside it sat two men, both
foreigners, judging by their swarthy faces and plentiful
supply of silky, black hair.
They were very drunk, but the woman was only
partly so. The men eyed Stargarde in insulting,
brutish curiosity, hurling interjections, remarks, and
questions at her in a gibberish which she fortunately
could not understand.
She paid little attention to them. Her eyes leaped
beyond to the dirty bed on the floor, and held a pair
of glittering orbs that she knew belonged to the child
of whom she had come in search. She did not wish
Zeb to have one instant to herself in which to secrete
the pocket-book. The child had pulled about
her some of the rags with which she was surrounded,
and was sitting up, looking like a wild
animal disturbed in its lair.
Stargarde crossed the room quickly and knelt
down beside her. “You ran away from me this
evening,” she whispered; “see, darling,” and opening
a box she showed the child a layer of sweetmeats
daintily wrapped in colored paper.
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
“Take one, Zeb,” she said, and the child silently
submitted to have one put in her mouth. “Now I
must go,” said Stargarde; “you keep this pretty
box, and will you come and see me to-morrow?”
“Mebbe,” said the child sullenly, and taking
another sweetmeat.
Stargarde’s heart beat fast. The girl was an
enigma to her in her moody self-possession. Perhaps
she had not taken the pocket-book. “Goodbye,
Zeb,” she murmured, making as though she
would rise from the floor. “Have you no present
for me? I thought you might have.”
Zeb flashed her a look, half cunning, half admiring.
“You’re a quaint one,” she observed in Italian
patois; then she displayed her sharp, white
teeth in a mirthless smile: “If you’ll give me a
kiss.”
Stargarde leaned over and took the child in a
capacious embrace, and as she did so, felt something
flat slipped into the bosom of her dress. “Is
it all there?” she murmured in Zeb’s ear; “you
haven’t taken anything out?”
“Pas si bête,” returned the child. “Not I.
Think I want to cool my heels in the little saint?
I was goin’ to fetch it in the mornin’; but you take
the curlyhead back his sacred. I don’t want it.
It danced out of his pocket. Some day,” coolly,
“I’ll pick him. He’s a——I’d like to see his grape
jam running,” with an oath and sudden darkening
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
of face. Stargarde was familiar with some of the
slang of recidivists collected together in large cities,
but she had never before the advent of Zeb’s parents
heard it in the small city of Halifax. With a sensation
of poignant and intense grief she looked at
the child who, whether it was due to her environment
or not, was talking more of it this evening
than she had ever heard from her before.
“Curlyhead,” Stargarde knew, meant Jew; “little
saint,” prison; “sacred,” purse; and “grape
jam” was blood. Oh, to get the child away from
here, from the choking, stifling atmosphere of poverty
and vice that was ruining her!
Zeb, as if aware of her distress, had curled herself
up sullenly among the rags, and Stargarde rose
to her feet and turned to speak to her mother.
In a corner of the room she found an extraordinary
scene being enacted. Unknown to her, while
she bent over Zeb, the younger of the two men
had managed to stagger quietly from his seat and
stand behind her, divided between an admiration
for her magnificent physique, such a contrast to his
own puny strength, and an endeavor to keep on his
tottering legs.
The gravely watchful dog that had walked into
the room behind his mistress, and lay curled on the
floor beside her, saw nothing hostile in the man’s
attitude, and beyond keeping an observing eye
upon him took no measures to make him retreat.
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
Not so sensible was the woman behind the door.
For some reason or other she was highly displeased
with the proceeding of the young man. Springing
upon him as silently and as stealthily as a wild
beast of the cat tribe would have done, she hissed
in his ear, “Not for you to look at, Camaro; back!
back!” and she motioned him to his seat.
He had reached the obstinate stage of drunkenness,
and though a little fear of her shone out of
his black and beady eyes, he shrugged his shoulders
carelessly, and said in Italian, “Presently, presently,
my lady.”
“Not presently, but now,” said the woman in
pure and correct English, and having taken enough
of the fiery liquor to be thoroughly quarrelsome,
she threw herself upon him, dragged him to a corner
where, when Stargarde turned around, she was
quietly and persistently beating him with a stick of
wood that she had caught from beside the stove.
Her husband sat stupidly watching her from the
table, his hand going more and more frequently to
the jug; and her victim, making not the slightest
effort to withstand her, lay taking his beating as a
submissive child might resign itself to deserved punishment
from a parent.
“Stop, stop!” exclaimed Stargarde, hurrying to
her side. “That’s enough, Zeb’s mother”—and
throwing her cloak back over her shoulders she laid
her hand on the woman’s club.
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
“He insulted you,” exclaimed the woman in
maudlin fury, “I shall punish him.”
Stargarde towered above her, strong and firm
and beautiful, and would not release her. “Who
are you?” she said in surprise. “You speak Italian
and French, and now good English; I thought you
were Zeb’s mother.”
“So I be,” said the woman sulkily, relapsing
into inelegant language, and pulling her hair over
her eyes so that Stargarde could not see her features
distinctly. “Here, give me that stick,” and
seeing that Stargarde would not obey her, she
began beating the man with her fists.
“Oh, this is dreadful,” gasped Stargarde, holding
her back and gazing around the room, half choked
by the heat, which was bringing out and developing
a dozen different odors, each fouler than the last.
“How can I leave Zeb here? Give me the child,
won’t you?” she said pleadingly to the woman.
“No, no,” and a stream of foreign ejaculations
and asseverations poured from the woman’s lips, in
which the man at the table, comprehending dully
what was said, hastened to add his quota.
Stargarde turned to look at him, and found that
he was fondling tenderly a little monkey that had
crept to his bosom. She remembered hearing Zeb
say that her father loved his monkey and would
feed it if they all had to go hungry.
“Sweet, Pedro, thou art beautiful,” he murmured,
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
and Stargarde seeing that he cared nothing
for the friend whom his wife was so unmercifully
beating, knew that she must not relax in her protection
of the unfortunate one, or there might be
broken bones, and possibly loss of life before morning.
“You were kind to want to protect me,” she
said, catching the woman’s wrists in her hands and
holding them firmly; “but you should not beat the
man. He would not have hurt me. I am never
afraid of drunken people. See, I will take him
away from you,” and sliding her hand under the
little man’s shirt collar she slipped him swiftly over
the floor to the doorway. Strong and muscular,
and a trained athlete though she was a woman, she
did easily in cool blood what the other woman had
only been able to do in her rage.
Zeb’s mother precipitating herself upon her, hindered
her from opening the door, till Zeb sprang
from the bed and addressed her unreasoning parent
in an eager jargon, in which Stargarde knew she
plainly told her of the evil consequences which
would arise from the indulgence of her wrath.
The woman, not too far gone to be amenable to
reason, came so quickly to her daughter’s view of
the matter that she even gave the now insensible
man several helping kicks to assist Stargarde in
dragging him out into the hall. Stargarde going
ahead, slid him down the few steps to the next landing,
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
where she laid his head on a bed of snow, and
bound her handkerchief around an ugly cut on his
wrist.
Before she finished, the woman exclaimed at the
cold wind sweeping through the hall, and went
into the room; but Zeb remained, watching and
shivering, though she had on all the clothes she
had worn through the day.
“Zeb,” exclaimed Stargarde passionately, looking
up at her, “how can I leave you here? I shall
not sleep to-night for thinking of you.”
The child shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing.
“Will you not come with me, darling?” said
Stargarde. “I think your mother would give you
up.”
“Yer’ll marry that——” Zeb scorned to bestow
a name upon him; “then where’ll I find myself?”
“My present plan is to live always in the Pavilion,”
said Stargarde firmly; “and Zeb, I want you
with me.”
Zeb relented a little. “I’ll see yer to-morrer,”
she observed at length. “I’m tired o’ this kind o’
thing,” pointing contemptuously at the prostrate
man.
“And Zeb,” continued Stargarde, as the girl
showed signs of leaving her, “do open a window
in there; the air is stifling.”
Zeb chuckled. “So I does, every night. In an
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
hour them,” with a jerk of her finger over her
shoulder, “will be sound off. Then I jumps up and
opens both winders, ’cause I likes fresh air. Goodnight
to ye,” and with a farewell glance at Stargarde
she slammed the crazy door behind her and
went into the room.
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XV | A LOST MOTHER
.sp 2
Stargarde, lifting up her eyes and seeing
that she was alone, hurried down the steps
to the next floor, to a room belonging to a boys’
club.
“Password,” muttered a sepulchral voice when
she tapped lightly on the door panels.
“Good boys,” she returned with a laugh. It
was not the password. “Death to the traitor,” was
the signal for the night; but they knew her voice,
and a boy opened the door and slipped out.
“How do you do, Mike?” she said cheerfully;
“can’t you let me in?” He hesitated and she
went on, “I want to see how your club room
looks. Don’t you want a new stove, and some
chairs and pictures? I know where you could get
some, if you do.”
The boy’s pale face brightened. “Hold on,”
he ejaculated; “I’ll tell ’em.”
He insinuated himself back into the room
through the very narrowest possible space; there
was a sound of shuffling of furniture, and quickly
moving feet, then he told her she might enter.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
The atmosphere of the room was thick with smoke;
they could not clear that away, though a window
had been hastily opened, and the pure, cold air
streamed in through the dusky atmosphere.
Boys’ heads shone out of the cloud—not big
boys, but half-grown ones, boys who drove small
coal carts about the city—all noticeable by their
universal blackness of hair and whiteness of faces
recently washed. There was a good fire in the
stove; poor people will go hungry before they will
go cold, she knew that. Of books, games, anything
to amuse the lads, she saw nothing. A few
empty boxes for seats were set about the stove.
On one of them a forgotten knave of clubs lay on
his back ruefully staring in the direction his fellows
had gone, marked by a suspicious bulge in the
pocket of one of the oldest lads present.
“Good-evening, Harry, Jim, Joe, Will,” said
Stargarde, nodding gayly, and mentioning all of
the boys in the room by name. “What about the
act respecting the use of tobacco by minors?” and
she began to quote in a lugubrious tone of voice,
“‘Any person who either directly or indirectly sells
or gives or furnishes to a minor under eighteen
years of age, cigarettes, cigars, or tobacco in any
form, shall in summary conviction thereof be subject
to a penalty of not less than ten dollars.’” She
broke off there, for the boys were all smiling at
her.
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
“Aren’t you glad I’m not a policeman?” she
said. “Come now, boys, let us make a bargain.
Pipes in the fire, and I’ll furnish the room. I was
just speaking to Mike about it.”
The president, a lad rather more respectably
dressed than the others, stepped forward. “Will
you give us your terms in writing?” he said.
Stargarde smiled. “Too much red-tapeism,”
laying her hand on his shoulder. “You all hear,
boys; I’ll make this the nicest boys’ club in Halifax
if you’ll throw away your tobacco, pipes, cigars,
etc.”
“For how long?” asked the president cautiously.
“Say for a year. Then if you’re not healthier,
happier boys, I’ll be greatly mistaken. Try it for
a year, and if you are worse off without tobacco
than with it, go back to it by all means.”
“A year isn’t long,” he replied, turning to his associates.
“What is the opinion of the club?”
“Hurrah for Miss Turner!” said a lad, pressing
forward enthusiastically.
“Make me an honorary member, Mike,” said
Stargarde so quickly in the ear of the boy who let
her in that he thought it was his own suggestion,
and immediately proposed her. There was a show
of hands, and the thing was done.
Stargarde thanked them, promised a supply of
books and papers, then said earnestly: “There’s a
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
little matter I wish to mention, boys. In the hall
out here lies a man with some bruises that want attending
to. Can some of you look after him for a
few days? Keep him here and come to me for
whatever you want, and take good care of him, for
he’s a friend of mine.”
She had scarcely finished when two lads were
detailed for duty and were stealing up the steps.
Her friends were pretty well known, and when she
had one in trouble, others of her friends were always
willing to assist her.
When the boys found that the man was a foreigner
and unknown to them, they were filled with
an important sense of mystery. A course of blood-and-thunder
novel reading had prepared them for
just such an event as this, and for some days they
took turns in guarding the unfortunate man, who
had received even a worse pounding than Stargarde
had imagined, nursing him secretly, and feasting
him on the daintiest morsels that the Pavilion restaurant
afforded.
“Oh, how good the poor are to each other; how
good they are!” murmured Stargarde, as she languidly
descended from the club room and rejoined
her patient lover. “Yes, I am tired, Brian,” she
said wearily, as she slipped her hand through his
arm; “tired, but not with bodily fatigue. I am
tired of the temptations to sin. It seems as if the
Evil One is perpetually casting a net about our
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
feet. No one is exempt. But the poor! oh, the
poor! it is hardest for them. How can they be
good when they are ground down by the perpetual
struggle for bread in miserable surroundings, and
worse than that, worse than that,” and her voice
sank to a low wail, “the temptation that is always
before them—nay, forced upon them—to drink
deep and forget their misery.”
They were passing the old Clock Tower, situated
on the Citadel Hill. Camperdown looked up
at its impenetrable face. “Sin and misery have
been in the world ever since it began,” he said
hopelessly; “always will be till it ends.”
“Ah, but what a grand thing to put a stop to a
little of the sin and iniquity!” exclaimed the woman,
turning up to the stars her bright and eager face.
“That is one’s only consolation.”
“I wish you would not walk along the street
with your face turned up in that way,” was Camperdown’s
unexpected and jealous reply. They
had just passed two soldiers who stared curiously at
the beautiful woman on his arm, and just as he
spoke a girl standing in a near doorway with an
apron flung over her head made a saucy remark
with regard to Stargarde to a broad-shouldered
workman standing by her.
“Hist,” said the man angrily; “you’re new
here, or you’d know who that is,” and he took off
his cap as Stargarde passed by. “There’s hands
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
as’ll be raised to slap your mouth, woman as you
be,” he continued half apologetically to the girl as
the two people went by, “if you dares to pass a
word agin her. She’s the poor man’s friend. She’s
always with ’em, sick an’ dyin’ and dead. She put
my old mother in a handsome coffin——” and he
broke off abruptly.
Camperdown and Stargarde were walking slowly
so that they heard every word that had been said.
“Brian,” she said passionately, “do you hear that?
and can you still want me to live only for pleasure
and society? Oh, how dare you? how can you?
Shame to you, Brian!” and the very stars seemed to
have got tangled in the glitter and radiance and
unearthly beauty of the eyes that she turned upon
him.
He looked at her, growled something in a low,
happy voice that she could not hear, then said
dryly, “Hadn’t you better give me my pocketbook?”
She stopped short. “How stupid I am; pray
forgive me. Here it is,” and she handed it to him.
“How did you know that I had it?”
“By your face,” he said shortly.
“I wonder who Zeb’s mother is?” said Stargarde,
as they walked slowly on. “She talks like
a lady at times. I must find out. There’s a mystery
about them that I can’t fathom. They’ve been
dwellers in big cities. They’re not like our poor
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
people, Brian. I wonder; I wonder——” and still
wondering she arrived at her own doorway.
“You’re crying!” exclaimed Camperdown, when
he put out his hand to say good-bye to her.
“What’s the matter?”
“I am thinking about my mother,” she replied
in a low, distressed voice. “Is it not strange, Brian,
that I hear nothing of her? From the day that I
heard I had a mother till now, I have searched for
her. Yet I can hear nothing from her; neither can
any one that I employ.”
Her voice failed, and with a heavy sob she
dropped her head on her breast.
Camperdown looked at her in obvious distress.
She so seldom gave way; he could see that she was
suffering extremely. “Don’t cry, Stargarde; don’t
cry,” he said uneasily. “It will all come out right.
We may find her yet.”
“I am a coward,” said the woman, suddenly lifting
her moist, beautiful eyes to his face; “but
sometimes I can’t help it, Brian; it overcomes me.
I never sit by a sick-bed, I never kneel by a dying
person without thinking of her. Where is she? Is
there some one to care for her? Perhaps she is
cold and hungry and ill. Her body may be suffering,
and her soul too, her immortal soul. Oh, that
is what distresses me. She was not doing right—we
know that.”
“There is one thing I know,” he said decidedly,
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
“and that is that you’ll do no work to-morrow if you
spend the night in fretting over what can’t be
helped. Come, take some of your own medicine.
The Lord knows what is best for you; go on with
what you have to do and wait his time.”
She brightened perceptibly. “Thank you, Brian,
for reminding me. Good-night, my dear brother,
always kind and good to me,” and pressing gently
the hand that still held her own, she gave him
a farewell smile and went slowly into her rooms.
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVI | THE COLONIAL COTTAGE
.sp 2
Stanton Armour was a man who dwelt
apart from other men as far as his inner life
was concerned. A large number of people saw
him going daily to his office; a smaller number had
business dealings with him; a select few had an
occasional conversation with him in the privacy of
his own house; and of the outer man those people
could give a very good description.
Of the inner man they knew but little. Wrapped
in an impenetrable, frozen reserve, it was impossible
to tell what was going on in the hidden recesses
of his mind, except at some occasional times when
he exhibited a flicker of interest or annoyance at
something that was transpiring about him.
His reputation was that of an honorable, upright
man, yet he was a person to be respected and
avoided rather than cultivated and admired.
There were a few people—discerning souls—who
looked deeper than this and even felt pity for
the man. They said that his state of frozen composure
was unnatural, and that there was somewhere
a reason for it; he had received some
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
shock, he had a secret trouble, or had been disappointed
in love, or had in some way lost faith in
his fellow-men, or perhaps, it was hinted, his brain
might be affected. It was a well-known fact that
he had been a cheerful lad, a little sober in his
ways, inasmuch as he had begged his father to take
him from school and give him a seat in his office,
yet still a lad happy and companionable in his
tastes, and showing no sign of the prematurely
grave and reserved man that he was so suddenly
to become.
This change in him dated from the time that the
firm suffered so heavily from the defalcations of
the French bookkeeper, and most people believed
that this was the true cause of Stanton Armour’s
peculiarities. He had been very much attached to
the Frenchman, and his sudden falling into crime
had given him a terrible shock. And stepping into
the disgraced man’s shoes as soon as he did, would
have been an occurrence to sober a much more
flighty lad than he had ever been. From the day
of Étienne Delavigne’s departure, Stanton Armour
in spite of his youth, had begun to take upon himself
a strange interest and oversight of his father’s
business, and in an incredibly short space of time
was admitted to a partnership in the house.
As the years went by, though his father was
still nominally head of the firm, he it was who
managed all important transactions. Very quietly
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
this went on, and only the devoted servants of the
house saw the persistent pushing of the father out
of the places of responsibility by his youthful, talented,
and apparently intensely ambitious son.
Outsiders, when the fact became impressed upon
them, supposed it was Colonel Armour’s good pleasure
that his son should be master in place of himself,
but such was not the case. The head of the house
had been primarily a man of pleasure, but he also
loved his business, and had thrown himself into it
with a zeal and relish and a skill for making money
that had made him the envy and despair of men
less fortunate than himself. Then, after the lapse
of years, he found himself quietly excluded from
the excitements of business life. His son reigned
while he was yet alive. He resented this at first,
with a wickedness and fury and a sense of impotence
that had at times made him feel like a madman,
but in late years more wisdom had come to
him, and for Stanton to mention a thing was to
have his father’s ready acquiescence.
The members of the family and intimate friends
of the house knew that there was no sympathy between
father and son, and very little intercourse.
They rarely spoke to each other, except in the presence
of strangers. Stanton was master in the business
and master at home. He occupied the seat
of honor at the table, and his father was as a guest.
Colonel Armour did not even sleep under his own
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
roof, though this was his own doing, and of his usual
place of sojourn we have to speak.
The grounds at the back of Pinewood sloped
gradually down to that beautiful inlet of the sea—the
Northwest Arm. Behind the house were on
the one side, a flower garden, a tennis lawn, and a
boat house; and on the other a semicircular stretch
of pines, that began in front of the house, and with
a growth of smaller evergreens formed a thick,
wedge-shaped mass down to the water’s edge.
A few places there were where lanes had been
cut among the trees and gravel walks formed.
The broadest of the walks led to a handsome cottage,
where dwelt Colonel Armour, at such times
as he was neither away from home, nor up at the
large house, his usual attendant being a Micmac
Indian rejoicing in the name of Joe Christmas.
Joe would not sleep under the roof of a substantially
built house. That would be too great a
stretch of Indian devotion. The Micmacs do not
take kindly to indoor life, and every night when his
day’s work was done, Joe paddled himself in his
small canoe across the Arm, where he had a solitary
wigwam among the firs and spruces of a bit of
woodland belonging to the Armours.
Valentine Armour made a constant jest of the
Indian’s wildwood habits. “Plenty trees, Joe,” he
would say, pointing to the pines about the house.
“Build wigwam here.”
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
“No, no;” and Joe would shake his head,
and show his tobacco-stained teeth in amusement.
“Too near big house. Too much speakum.”
Joe’s connection with Colonel Armour arose
from the fact that he had been his guide in many
a hunting excursion in years gone by, and had
found the colonel so indulgent a master that at last
he had formed the habit of following him home in
the late autumn, and establishing himself near him
till the hunting season came around again.
He was a good cook, and he would occasionally
condescend to perform household tasks, an unusual
favor from a Micmac. He also had charge of the
boat house, and at times, by a great stretch of
courtesy, would render some slight assistance to
the gardener or coachman.
He was an easy-going, pleasure-loving Indian,
rather tall of stature, with olive skin, the dark,
searching eyes of his race, and thick, black hair
reaching to the back of his neck, and there cut
squarely across. At a distance there was a ridiculous
resemblance to his master about him, owing
to his habit of arraying himself in Colonel Armour’s
cast-off garments. In common with other Micmacs
of the present day, he despised the skins and
blankets of his forefathers and aped the fashions
of the white man.
None of the house servants ever liked him. He
was “creepy and crawly in his ways,” they said,
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
and though nothing could be proved against the
good-natured, mild-spoken Christmas, certain it
was that he knew quite well of the race prejudice
that existed against him, and any man-servant or
maid-servant who carried matters with too high a
hand invariably departed with suspicious haste
from the service of the Armours. They received
a fright, or had an illness, or suddenly made up their
minds that they would leave without formulating
any complaint—in short they always went, and the
Indian if remonstrated with at all, only shook his
head, and ventured a long-drawn “Ah—h,” of surprise,
that he should be so misunderstood.
He professed not to mind the cold weather, but
in reality he hated it, and during the winter days
he spent most of his time in the cheerful kitchen
at the cottage, where before a blazing fire on the
old-fashioned hearth, he made and mended flies,
fishing rods, bows and arrows, and inspected and
polished the various instruments of steel designed
to create havoc among beasts, birds, and fishes during
the next hunting season.
A few days before Christmas, while Joe was
squatting before his fire, Dr. Camperdown was
driving leisurely out to Pinewood.
There had been during the preceding day a
heavy fall of snow. Arriving inside the lodge gates,
Dr. Camperdown heard a sound of merry laughter
and shouting before him.
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
A number of young people in red, white, or blue
blanket costumes were careering over the snow before
him; and ejaculating, “A snowshoeing party!
Flora always has something going on,” he gave
Polypharmacy an encouraging “Hie on,” and made
haste to join them.
As he caught up with the last stragglers of the
party, he was inwardly pleased to see Vivienne
among them.
“Had a good tramp?” he asked, after responding
to her gay greeting.
“Delightful!” she exclaimed, her cheeks a blaze
of color. “We’ve been across the Arm and
to Dutch Village, and now we’re coming in to
have afternoon tea—and I haven’t had a tumble
yet,” and as she spoke she gave a coquettish push
to the toque on the back of her head, and looked
at him over her shoulder.
“But you’re just going to have one,” he said,
“take care.”
It was too late—she had pushed the front of her
long snowshoe too far into a drift, and down she
went, with an exclamation of surprise, and sending
up a cloud of white, powdery flakes above her.
Captain Macartney, who was her escort, made
haste to assist her to her feet, and she got up laughing
and choking, her mouth full of snow, her black
hair looking as if it had been powdered.
“We’re all too lively,” she cried, beating her
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
mittens together; “our tramp hasn’t taken enough
out of us—just hear them shouting over there, and
see me run,” she vociferated, frolicking off on her
snowshoes with a gayety and wildness that made
her companion hurry after her, dragging his larger
appendages along more heavily, giving an occasional
hop to facilitate his progress, and crying
warningly, “’Ware snowdrifts, Miss Delavigne.
You’ll be down again.”
Down again she was, and up again before he got
to her, and with some other members of the merry
party sliding down a steep snowbank before the
house. Then they joined a group below them
busily engaged in arranging a set of lancers before
the drawing-room windows.
“Dance my children, dance,” called Flora approvingly,
and in a lower key to Valentine Armour,
“Unfasten my thongs quick, Val. I wish to go in
and see if the maids have everything ready.”
The young man went down on one knee, and
bent his head over her snowshoes. He was in a costume
of white, bordered by delicate pink and blue
stripes. A picture of young, manly beauty he was,
his black eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing, the
white-tasseled cap pulled down over the closely
cropped hair, that would have been in waving curls
all over his head had he allowed it to grow.
Judy, from a window above, was watching the
progress of the dance. The couples stood opposite
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
each other, then floundering and plunging
through the snow, essayed to form figures more or
less involved.
Many falls, inextricable confusion, and much
laughter ensued, then the attempt was given up.
Unfastening their snowshoes they filed gayly into
the house. Dr. Camperdown watched them out of
sight, the smile on his face dying away, as his keen
eyes caught sight of poor, mis-shapen little Judy,
half-hidden behind the window curtains, her face
convulsed with envy and annoyance. Such amusements
were not for her. She never would be strong
and well like other girls.
Dr. Camperdown’s gaze softened. Springing
from his sleigh, he anchored Polypharmacy to a
snowdrift, and casting off his huge raccoon coat,
like an animal shedding its skin, he took a book
from a pocket in it, and made his way to the drawing
room.
Divans, ottomans, and arm-chairs were full of
young people, chatting, laughing, and telling jokes
over their tea and coffee, sandwiches and cake.
“I believe you young people laugh all the time,”
he grumbled good-naturedly, coming to a halt in
the middle of the room, and surveying them from
under his eyebrows. “Girls especially—always
giggling.”
“How old are you, dear doctor?” exclaimed a
pretty girl of seventeen, looking saucily up into his
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
face. “Is it a thousand or two thousand? I’m
only twenty,” and she made an audacious face at
her teacup.
“Silly girl,” and the man looked down kindly at
her; “silly girl. Where is Judy Colonibel? She
is the only sensible one in this party. Judy, Judy;
where are you?”
“I don’t know where she has bestowed herself,”
said Mrs. Colonibel complainingly. “She could
be of assistance to me if she were here. Won’t
you find her, Brian?”
Camperdown went out into the hall, and lifted up
his voice. “Judy, I have a present for you.”
She appeared then—hobbling along over the carpet
with childish eagerness.
"It is that rara avis, a Canadian novel," said
Camperdown. “The glittering romance of the
‘Golden Dog.’ See the picture of him. Gnawing
a man’s thigh bone. Looks as if he enjoyed it.
Read the French, Judy.”
The girl bent her head over the book and read
slowly:
.pm start_poem
“Je suis un chien qui ronge l’ os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos.
Un temps viendra qui n’ est pas venu
Que je mordrai qui m’ aura mordu.”[1]
.pm end_poem
.fn 1
The following is a free translation [Ed.].
.pm start_poem
“I am a dog that gnaws his bone,
And while he’s gnawing takes his rest;
In time not yet, but yet to come,
Who’s bitten me, I’ll bite with zest.”
.pm end_poem
.fn-
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
“Hateful words,” said Dr. Camperdown, “and
a hateful tragedy. When you go to Quebec, Judy,
you’ll see the dog tablet there yet. But you
needn’t go out of Halifax for Golden Dogs. Bitten
ones there are here, plenty of them, gnawing
bones and waiting a chance to bite back. You’ve
got your own Golden Dog, you Armours,” he
added under his breath.
Then surveying critically the young girl whose
face was buried in the volume, “Body here, Judy—mind
already back to time of Louis Quinze. Don’t
read so steadily, you small bookworm. Remember
your eyes. Better, aren’t they?”
“No; worse,” said the girl impatiently.
“Go and help your mother, won’t you? She
needs you.”
“She can get on without me,” sullenly. “I
have to do without her,” and pulling her hand from
him, she made as though she would go upstairs.
Suddenly she stopped, and eyed him curiously.
She was struck by the intentness of his glance.
“What are you thinking of?” she asked.
“Of a poor child—younger than you, called
Zeb. When you’re disagreeable you look like
her.”
She smiled disdainfully, and began to limp upstairs.
“Judy,” he called after her, “where’s the
colonel? He likes this sort of thing,” with a gesture
in the direction of the drawing room.
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
“He’s not well,” said Judy with a meaning
smile. “Mamma sent for him, but he’s dining
early in the seclusion of the cottage. Good-bye,
and thank you for the book,” and she took herself
upstairs with such haste that he could not have recalled
her had he wished to do so.
“Poor girl,” he muttered; “books her only comfort.
Glad Flora isn’t my mother,” and with this
sage reflection, he rammed his fur cap over his
ears, turned up his coat collar, and opening a door
at the back of the hall, crossed a veranda, went
down a flight of steps, and struck into a path cut
through the drifted snow, and leading down to the
cottage.
It was very quiet under the pines. There was
only a faint breath of wind, ruffling occasionally a
few flakes of snow from the feathery armfuls held
out by the flat, extended branches of the evergreens.
Everything was pure and spotless. The
white path that he followed was almost untrodden.
The stars blinked down through fleecy clouds on
an earth that for once was clean and without stain.
The lights from the cottage streamed out through
the windows and lay in colored bands on the banks
of snow. Dr. Camperdown paused an instant in
the shadows of the trees as some one approached
one of the windows and propped open a variegated
square of glass.
“Must be getting hot in there,” he murmured,
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
going nearer. “I hope the Colonel isn’t getting
hors de combat.”
He was looking into the dining room, a small
apartment floored and wainscoted in dark Canadian
wood, and hung around with pictures, trophies, and
implements of hunting life. The floor was partly-covered
with bear and wolfskin rugs, and in the
middle of the room stood a small table, covered
with a spotless damask cloth, and having served on
it a dinner for one person. Of this dinner Colonel
Armour had evidently been partaking, but at the
moment when Dr. Camperdown looked in at the
window, his strength or will to enjoy it had suddenly
forsaken him, for the Micmac was carefully
assisting him to the floor.
Colonel Armour was, as usual, handsomely
dressed, and held his serviette clutched in his hand,
but his head hung on one side and his limbs
seemed powerless as the Micmac, holding him
under the arms, slipped him to the center of the
soft, bearskin rug. The rug had been dressed with
the head of the bear, and placing his master’s head
close to the fiery jaws, Joe took the napkin from
the clasped fingers, straightened out the loose
limbs, and placing a fire-screen between Colonel
Armour’s face and the leaping flames on the hearth,
seated himself at the table and proceeded to eat
up the dinner decently and in order.
Rejecting all the wine glasses that stood in a
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
group beside Colonel Armour’s plate, Joe selected
one of the several decanters on the table, and drank
only from it, tilting it up to his mouth with an occasional
stealthy glance at the prostrate figure beyond
him.
“Port!” ejaculated Dr. Camperdown. “The
beggar has a discriminating tooth. Drinks moderately
too. Doesn’t emulate his master,” with a
contemptuous glance at the hearth rug. “Sound
as a pig, he is. I’ll go in. First though,” with a
mischievous twinkle in his eye, “must frighten Joe.
He’s doing wrong. Ought to be punished.”
Drawing in a deep breath he ejaculated in a sepulchral
voice, “Joe Christmas!”
The Indian had a conscience, and he knew that
he ought to be taking his dinner in the kitchen, so
when Dr. Camperdown’s terrifying voice fell on his
ear he sprang from his seat, wildly extended his
arms in the air, and still clutching between his fingers
the half-empty decanter, unfortunately reversed
it and allowed the wine to trickle in a red
stream down Colonel Armour’s immaculate shirt
front.
Camperdown laughed convulsively, and strode
along the path to the front door.
The Micmac let him in and surveyed him with
mingled respect, admiration, and remonstrance.
“Couldn’t help it, Joe,” exclaimed Dr. Camperdown
chuckling. “You looked too comfortable.
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
Is the colonel sick?” pointing to the hearthrug.
“Not bery sick,” said the Micmac, looking at
the table. “Drinkum too much wine.”
“Colonel can drinkum wine, but if Micmac
drinks too much, he can go live in woods,” said
Dr. Camperdown meaningly.
“Me no likum wine,” said Joe.
“Come now, Joe, is that truth in inside heart?”
asked the doctor.
The Indian smiled and laid his hand on his wide
chest. “Little wine good—make inside warm,
Much wine bad—makeum squaws lazy.”
“And Indians too,” said Dr. Camperdown.
“Now listen, Joe; I want to talk to you. Who
gave Micmac medicine when he was doubled up
with awful disease called cramps?”
“Doctor did,” said Joe bluntly.
“Who gave him powders when he got too yellow,
and pills when he got too fat?”
“Doctor did,” replied Joe yet more bluntly.
“Who gave him good tobacco, and paid his
gambling debts, when colonel would have been
angry, and policeman might have taken Joe to
prison and skinned him alive?”
“Big doctor did,” responded Joe, his manner
the quintessence of independence.
“And who will do it again? great fool that he
is,” asked Dr. Camperdown grumblingly.
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
“Doctor will,” exclaimed Joe joyfully.
With an abrupt change of subject, Dr. Camperdown
went on, “You know new young lady up to
big house?”
“Me knowum.”
“She very fine girl,” said Dr. Camperdown
earnestly.
“Bery fine,” echoed Joe, in level, guarded tones,
but with the slightest suspicion of a glance in the
direction of the hearth-rug, that at once caught
Dr. Camperdown’s attention.
“Colonel not very polite to young lady,” he
said carelessly.
“Not bery polite,” responded Joe with portentous
gravity.
“Colonel musn’t get too cross to young lady,”
asserted Dr. Camperdown without apparent meaning.
“Not too cross young lady,” repeated Joe with
the aggravating inanity of a talking machine.
Dr. Camperdown almost lost patience, and felt
inclined to indulge in one of his fits of ill-temper.
But he restrained himself, only muttering under
breath, “You rasping, unaccommodating Micmac,
I’d like to thrash you.” Then he said
“Young lady French, Joe. Her fathers and your
fathers great friends.”
Joe replied to this statement by a non-committal
grunt.
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
“Servants up at big house not like young lady
much,” observed Dr. Camperdown.
The Micmac’s sleepy eyes lighted up. “Cook—fat
porpoise—Jane one wild-cat. She not stay
many moons.”
Dr. Camperdown laughed sarcastically. “You
true prophet about servants, Joe. Shall I tell Mrs.
Colonibel to search for new maids?”
Joe did not show any signs of confusion, except
by withdrawing his eyes from Dr. Camperdown,
and staring stolidly at the fire.
“You good servant, Joe,” remarked Dr. Camperdown
cajolingly. “You serve Colonel Armour
well. You can serve him and young lady too. She
all alone. You watch, Joe, and if young lady wants
a friend, you help her. You not let any one do
anything to hurt her.”
Joe was a faithful servant to the House of Armour
in his mistaken sense of the term, inasmuch as he
was too ready to do the bidding of any members
of the family, no matter how dishonorable a thing
he might be required to do. If Vivienne Delavigne
had been received kindly by the Armours and
treated as one of themselves he would have had
not the slightest hesitation in giving Dr. Camperdown
the pledge he required. But with the
keenness and sharp wit of an Indian, he had
quickly divined the status of the young lady up at
the big house, and thought that a promise of service
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
to her might complicate his relations with the
family of his employer. And still, he was under
great obligations to Dr. Camperdown, and felt sure
that the physician would not require him to attempt
the impossible. So at last he said gravely, “If
young lady need, I servum—if no need, I no
servum.”
“That’s good, Joe,” said the Doctor with immense
satisfaction. “You’ve given me your word,
and being only a poor Micmac and not a clever
white man, you won’t break it. Here’s a roll of
tobacco. Good-night to you,” and he swung himself
out of the cottage as precipitately as he had
come, hurrying along the winding path muttering
contentedly, “That’s done. Stargarde would be
pleased, if she knew,” and listening with pleasure
to the faint song of the snowshoers who were just
leaving the house:
.pm start_poem
“Hilloo, Hilloo, Hilloo, Hilloo!
Gather, gather ye men in white;
The winds blow keenly, the moon is bright,
The sparkling snow lies firm and white!
Tie on the shoe, no time to lose,
We must be over the hill to-night.”
.pm end_poem
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVII | MACDALY’S DREAM
.sp 2
“I wonder where MacDaly is?” queried Stargarde.
Vivienne was spending the day with her, and
together they were walking up and down the Pavilion
courtyard. The brilliance of the afternoon
sunshine and the purity of the earth, where a thin
veil of snow lay over all deformities and unsightliness,
had tempted them out of doors.
“Who is this MacDaly that you are so anxious
to see?” asked Vivienne.
Stargarde laughed, then her face became grave.
“He is a poor old soldier who boasts continually
that his father was a gentleman, though he himself
has sadly fallen from that estate.”
“And is he one of your protégés?”
“Yes; he lives over the washhouse,” said Stargarde
with a motion of her hand in the direction
of a near brick building. “I sent him to town with
a note. I fear that he has gotten into trouble.”
“Does he drink?”
“At times he does. He meets old companions
who tempt him to do so. I feel a responsibility
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
about him, for he used to be Colonel Armour’s
night-watchman at the warehouse. He was dismissed
for some cause or other many years ago,
and he never ceases to mourn over it.”
Vivienne wondered why Stargarde should feel
any responsibility for Colonel Armour’s actions,
but dismissed the thought from her mind on reflecting
that to Stargarde all men were brothers.
She put her hand through Stargarde’s arm and
pressed it gently as they walked up and down the
path. “Do not worry about him. He will return.
Think what a glorious day this is.”
“Ah, yes,” said Stargarde, turning her face up
toward the deep blue of the sky. “It is a pleasure
to live.”
“I love this clear frosty weather,” said Vivienne;
“it is so much more agreeable than the wind,” and
she shrugged her shoulders inside her warm jacket.
“And you, dear Stargarde, are you sufficiently
clad in that short cloak?”
“Do I not look comfortable?” asked Stargarde
mischievously.
They surveyed each other with amused glances.
Both were very fair, there was no doubt about it.
Over their cheeks Jack Frost had drawn his finger.
They had the brilliant coloring, the light in the eye
that comes to those in perfect health.
“My blood is dancing in my veins,” said Stargarde;
“and yours——”
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
“It dances also,” said Vivienne demurely.
“Then we will remain out a little longer,” said
Stargarde; “as good as the air may be in the house
it is always better out of doors.”
“Please continue talking to me about your theories
with regard to the poor,” said Vivienne earnestly.
Stargarde pinched her cheek, then nothing loath
entered upon a discussion of various philanthropic
schemes where Vivienne, she knew, would follow
her with interest. Occasionally, however, her
glance wandered to the washhouse, and Vivienne
knew that she was thinking of the ex-soldier.
MacDaly was not thinking of his kind patroness.
He was lower down in the town, just steering his
way out of a low drinking shop, and in a slow and
interlaced fashion wandering down the street while
he communed with himself after the following manner:
“If I were making an observation on the subject
’twould be on the effect of the curiosity of the
subject. That whereas and however, in some
human creatures, liquor flies to the head, in sundry
other and divers intelligent cases, it takes the
opposite direction and bewilders the feet. On the
present occasion, my head or head-piece, otherwise
known as pate, noddle, or skull, is perspicacious and
discriminating—acute and high in tone as usual.
I feel that I could sing were there any one to hear,”
and lifting up his voice he began to warble discordantly
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
and with a vainglorious and martial
accent:
.pm start_poem
“’Tis the flag of Old England.”
.pm end_poem
Pride will have a fall, and by reason of too much
attention given to the head, the feet got beyond
control, and MacDaly shortly found himself in the
gutter.
Halifax people, no matter how great a fall of
snow they have, immediately begin to dig trenches
through it in preparation for the thaw which they
know is sure to come. In one of these hollowed-out
beds—no unpleasant resting-place for a warmly
clad man who had just come from a heated saloon—Derrick
Edward Fitz-James O’Grady MacDaly,
old soldier, Irish Nova Scotian, loafer, drunkard,
lecturer, merrymaker, and character well known
about the town, reposed, till he was discovered by
two small boys who happened to be passing up the
street.
“Hallo, here’s Skitanglebags,” said one of them,
referring to him by his accepted nickname, “drunk
as an owl. Let’s muzzle him.”
“No; cork him,” suggested the other.
MacDaly, in his cool and comfortable bed, felt
his soul revolting from both of the two forms of
torture proposed. He knew that the boys were
quite capable of either rolling and smothering him
in the snow or of stopping up his mouth, for they
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
were at that age which La Fontaine says is “without
pity.”
“Gentlemen,” he piped up shrilly, “would either
of you be knowing any one that might for any reason
be wanting a pup?”
True to the dog-trading instinct which has made
Halifax vie with Constantinople as an agreeable
place of residence for the canine tribe, the lads exclaimed
in eager concert, “Have you got a pup?”
Yes; he had a pup, he said, and during a discussion
of its merits he cunningly persuaded the
boys to assist him to his feet. Then with one on
each side of him, he ambled along the street nodding
amiably to any acquaintances he happened to
meet and suppressing with difficulty his strong desire
to break forth into singing.
The two lads he was decoying home with him
under pretence of wishing them to see the pup
that he described as surpassing in beauty all other
pups that had ever been offered for sale to them.
“What breed is it, Skitanglebags?” asked one
of them.
“And what is the breed you might be wanting
to have, if you’d not be above mentioning it?”
asked MacDaly guardedly.
“Bull terrier.”
“And you’ve named the name of the fathers and
forefathers and grandmothers and patriarchs of my
dog’s tribe as far back as the records go,” said MacDaly.
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
“His pedigree is that long that my wall is
fairly covered with it, and it hangs down on the
floor,” and he plunged into an enumeration of the
points of the dog. His head, jaws, ears, shoulders,
chest, feet, color, symmetry, and size, were minutely
described, the boys meanwhile listening with delighted
ears, and forgiving him his frequent lurches
against them. They also kept a brisk lookout for
policemen, and when a dark coat with brass buttons
was seen in the distance, guided MacDaly into
the doorway of some house, where they kept him
until the enemy had passed.
Long before they had reached the Pavilion the
whisky that he had been drinking began to mount
to his brain, and he shocked and annoyed the boys
by his manner of conducting himself.
“Bother you,” said one of them, kicking him on
the shins. “Keep off my feet. You’re doing the
‘Dutch roll’ and the ‘inside edge’ all over the
place. You’re not on skates.”
“Oddsboddikins, what a glorious lady!” was
MacDaly’s response. “Smart and tricksy as a
fresh-scraped carrot,” and hat in hand, he bowed so
low in admiration of a plain-featured, elderly woman
who was passing, that he was in imminent danger of
losing his balance and falling prostrate at her feet.
“I’ll send a policeman after you,” she retorted
angrily, as she went by.
“Beauteous lady, sleek and pleasurable creature,”
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
pleaded MacDaly, looking after her, “be not
repellent to thy servant. Thou art——”
His further speech was broken by the two boys,
who, seizing him by the arms, hurried him so rapidly
around a corner and into a long street that he
had not breath enough to utter a word.
He proceeded along the street soberly enough,
only taking off his cap to each electric-light post,
and to each of the unused iron gaslight pillars,
that still stud the streets of Halifax, till he came to
a church. There he persisted in sitting down on
the steps and shedding a few tears over his sins.
The boys at length drove him off, and he staggered
along a few paces to a small field between
the church and the schoolhouse, and gazed between
the pickets of the fence.
“What are you looking for, Skitanglebags?”
asked one of his escorts.
“A little mammiferous quadruped, my boy,” he
replied, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“A little thing with cloven hoofs and hollow horns,
a creature called a goat. Alas, I loved it, and it
has been taken hence.”
“Oh, drop that,” said the lads in chorus, and
they again urged him onward. “What would the
goat do there in winter? There’s nothing but snow
in the field now.”
“I never loved a sweet gazelle,” MacDaly
hummed lightly, leaning back on his bearers, and
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
allowing his long legs to somewhat precede him up
the hill. Opposite a schoolhouse he came to a
dead halt. “Who comes here? Stand easy, sir.”
Colonel Armour was walking along the street at
a leisurely gait, a single eyeglass in his eye, a handsome
sealskin cap set on his gray hair, his dark,
heavy coat fitting him without a wrinkle. With
his straight, military figure, his handsome appearance,
no greater contrast to the
drunkard advancing toward him could be imagined.
He stared slightly at MacDaly as he
passed, but made no sign of recognition.
Like some noxious reptile fascinated by a bird of
fine appearance MacDaly gazed at him. When Colonel
Armour went by without quickening or slackening
his pace, MacDaly turned, and with eyes
glued to the retreating figure watched it out of
sight. Then he stooped down, and catching up
some snow pressed it to his forehead.
“Let go my arms, boys,” he said, with some irritation.
“I can walk now. I’ve had a shock,”
and he marched ahead of them without help, keeping
his feet well and only stumbling occasionally.
Silently they passed by one house after another,
nearly all built in the monotonous, square-roomed
style of architecture that prevails in Halifax, until
they arrived before the Pavilion. The boys took
MacDaly, who was now partly over his shock, and
was again walking unsteadily, in through the gate
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
to the washhouse where, entirely oblivious of them,
he was about mounting to his small apartment in
the attic.
“The pup, Skitanglebags!” ejaculated one of
them impatiently.
He stared at the boy in a confused manner, then
as his promise came back to him, muttered: “Yes,
yes; the pup—I’ll try to find him. Follow me,
gentlemen.” Rolling his eyes about him as if seeking
inspiration he climbed the steps to the attic,
closely followed by the boys.
“Why don’t you call him?” asked one of them.
“What’s his name?”
“His name?” and MacDaly, nimble-witted as
he was, could not for his life call up on the instant
the name of any of his former quadrupeds.
“I call him—I call him——” he responded.
His sentence was never finished. While speaking
to the boys, his eye fell on a small hole in the
wall, through which he took surveys of the courtyard.
He still kept up some of the traditions of
a long-ago brief military experience. The washhouse
was his fortress; the Pavilion sometimes the
camp of an enemy, sometimes the stronghold of an
ally. Just now there was a besieging force advancing
upon him, consisting of two ladies. With a
face of dismay he watched Stargarde coming toward
his place of retreat. The figure of the young lady
with her was not familiar to him. MacDaly did not
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
care particularly who she was; he did not look at
her until, as Stargarde pointed to the washhouse,
the girl lifted her head. Then he clapped his
hand to his mouth to restrain a shrill cry—a long
unseen face had risen before him.
“Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!”
he gasped, and huddling the two astonished boys
together, he drove them into the small room where
he slept, and turning a wooden button on the door,
forbade them on the peril of their lives to move
hand or foot till he should tell them to do so.
“MacDaly, MacDaly—are you here?” came
floating up to his room in Stargarde’s clear voice.
Shivering violently, MacDaly clutched the
shoulders of the half-frightened, half-angry boys.
“Whisht—whisht,” he said in a warning undertone
to them.
“Not home yet,” they heard her say to her
companion. “I must send some one to look for
When the sound of their footsteps died away,
the boys wrathfully demanded an explanation from
MacDaly, for they plainly saw that they had been
deceived in the matter of the pup.
Instead of an explanation they received a temperance
lecture. Shocked once more into partial
sobriety, the miserable man, with the fumes of
liquor still on his breath, and with an earnestness
that impressed the boys in spite of their anger,
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
begged and prayed them never to touch a drop of
anything stronger than water.
“It will be the ruin of you, my lads,” he said
brushing the moisture from his bleared eyes.
“Swear by your fathers and mothers that you’ll
leave the cursed stuff alone. ’Twill make ye anything—thieves,
liars, and even murderers.”
The boys, more struck by his extraordinary
ascent from foolishness and frivolity to impassioned
and clear language, than by the fervor of his exhortations,
shook off his persuasive hand and, assuring
him that they could take care of themselves,
insisted upon their immediate release from his room.
Not until Stargarde had crossed the veranda and
entered her rooms did MacDaly permit them to go.
Then, with many adjurations to be quiet, they were
allowed to slip out from the washhouse and make
their way back to town.
After their departure MacDaly threw himself on
his bed. He might at any time be summoned to
an interview with Stargarde and it would be well
for him to refresh himself by a nap.
In a few minutes he was snoring loudly and going
over again in his brutish sleep the tragic story of
Étienne Delavigne, that had been brought to his
mind first by Colonel Armour, whose appearance
never failed to move him strongly, and secondly by
the unexpected apparition of the young French
girl, who was so marvelously like her father.
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
In a troubled phantasmagoria Colonel Armour
was before him—not the Colonel Armour of to-day
keeping up his ghastly fight with old age, but the
handsome middle-aged man of twenty years before.
Stanton Armour was there too, a bright-faced
happy lad. Étienne Delavigne, their modest and
retiring bookkeeper, and Madeleine Delavigne, his
shy, proud, aristocratic wife, the pet of the Armour
family. Then a horrid jumble took place—the
mild and gentle Étienne Delavigne was furiously
angry with the colonel, and a quarrel was taking
place between the two of which he, Derrick Edward
Fitz-James O’Grady MacDaly was sole witness.
Delavigne was flung out of his employer’s office,
the warehouse was on fire, and the evil one appeared
in person to seize the eavesdropping MacDaly, who
lay on his back rigid with terror.
While he was sleeping and dreaming a tall dark
figure had come noiselessly up the steps to his
room, a hand was laid on his shoulder, first lightly,
then more heavily. MacDaly started up on his
bed, bathed in perspiration and trembling violently.
A tongue of flame leaping up from the dull fire
showed him a brown face that in his first confusion
he imagined must belong to some evil spirit that had
been sent for him.
He muttered, “Not ready, spirit,” put up a
frantic prayer for protection, and clutching at his
bedclothes as if they would be an anchor to hold
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
him to earth, shrunk into as small a space as possible.
His visitor was Joe the Indian, who grinned in
delight at MacDaly’s terror. “Cunnel sendum,”
he said in a sepulchral voice, and slipping something
that rustled under MacDaly’s chin, as he
found it impossible to lay hold of his hand, he
withdrew as silently as he had come.
MacDaly’s terror was over. Springing up, he
poked the fire, looked at the denomination of his
bill, and then proceeded to caper around the room
on the tips of his toes.
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVIII | WARM FRIENDS
.sp 2
When MacDaly recovered from the effect of
his joy over Colonel Armour’s gift he muttered
to himself: “Now for something to satisfy,
regale, and otherwise gladden the inner man.”
Opening the door of a small closet in his room
he looked on an upper shelf, where he found nothing
but a few crumbs on empty dishes, and a huge
black teapot standing with its protruding nose
toward him.
Clutching the teapot with both hands he proceeded
toward the restaurant piously murmuring:
“Pray, kind and beneficent spirits of light, vouchsafe
unto Mary a quiet and peaceable condition,
that she may in all honor and excellency of entertainment
receive a poor wayfarer.”
Mary was in an excellent temper, MacDaly was
happy to observe through the kitchen window of
the eating house. Knocking delicately at the door,
he advanced with a mincing step into the room;
then bowing low, cap in hand, and placing his
mammoth teapot on the back of the stove, he
modestly took a seat in the corner.
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
Mary was dandling a baby on her knee and took
no notice of him, and though remarks were fairly
bursting from his lips he thought it more prudent
to restrain them. Presently the owner of the baby,
who was also the superintendent of the eating house,
came bustling into the room.
“You here, MacDaly?” she said brusquely;
“how is that?”
“Good-evening to your ladyship,” he said, getting
up and bowing profoundly. “As I sat in my
lonely domicile or dwelling and observed the cheerful
light streaming from this mansion and abode of
pleasure, I said to myself, ‘Perchance they will find
it in the goodness of their amiable hearts to allow
me to take my humble refreshment under the shelter
of their kindly roof, and in the solacement of
their excellent presence,
“That will do, MacDaly,” interrupted the superintendent;
“where is your tea?” and lifting the
cover she gazed into the black, yawning depths of
his teapot.
“Truth to tell, I did not bring any, lady,” he said
subserviently. “I thought for a single occasion I
could do without the liquid refreshment in my enjoyment
and appreciation of the solids.”
“And where are the solids?” she asked, looking
sharply about her. “Now MacDaly, you know
the arrangement is that you cater for yourself. We
are not rich people at the Pavilion, and if we give
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
you a room, and a fire, and bedclothing, it is all
you should require of us. There are poor creatures
worse off than you that we are bound to help.
For this once I’ll put some tea in your teapot.
Now produce your bread and butter.”
“Madam, beloved lady, neither has your humble
servant any of the staff of life nor of its trimmings.”
“Mary, give me the baby, and cut him some
bread and spread it thin,” said the superintendent
in quiet despair.
“Most high-minded and condescending lady,”
exclaimed MacDaly, in a burst of ostentatious generosity,
“I will pay you nobly for your entertainment.
If you or your worthy and estimable helpmate,
Mary, could change this money——” and
bowing elegantly he held out to her the bill that he
had just received.
She pounced upon it. “Ten dollars! Derrick
MacDaly, where did you get this?”
He informed her that it was a present.
“Now, I’ll not believe that,” she said firmly,
“till you tell me where it came from.”
In great dejection of spirit at the conceit which
had made him show his gift to her, he mentioned
Colonel Armour’s name.
“It was kind in him to give it to you,” said the
matron quietly pocketing it; “and I am sure he
expected you to make good use of it. I shall give
it to Miss Turner to buy you some new clothes.”
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
MacDaly immediately went down upon his knees,
begging and praying her to restore the money to
him.
“I will do nothing of the sort,” she said. “You
would drink it away; and if I buy you clothes
you’ll keep them; for that much may be said in
your favor, MacDaly, however drunk you are, you
never allow anyone to cheat you out of your clothing.
Get up and take your food.”
MacDaly ate the bread and drank the waters of
affliction that evening. He would not be able to
go to town again the next day and have a jollification
as he had planned to do, and with melancholy
tears dropping down his cheeks, he sat watching
Mary tidy her kitchen and afterward put on her hat
and jacket to go for a stroll with her soldier lover,
who was waiting for her by the Pavilion entrance.
Later on he was sent for to go and see Stargarde.
He found her busy with a heap of sewing.
“Good-evening, MacDaly,” she said kindly.
“Did you deliver my note?”
“Yes, gracious lady,” he responded mournfully;
then he proceeded to give her an account of the
afflicting manner in which he had been treated by
one of her deputies.
Stargarde was listening indulgently and attentively
when he suddenly paused and began to fidget
with his hat.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
“’Tis the foreign and unlooked-for young lady,”
he said, pointing to the inner room. “If it is not
unbecoming, may your humble servant ask wherefore
and whence does she come?”
“Vivienne,” called Stargarde; “come here,
dear.”
The girl sauntered out with a book in hand,
whereupon MacDaly fell into a state of great agitation.
Vivienne surveyed him curiously, and Stargarde
laid down her work. “MacDaly, did you
know this young lady’s father?”
“Yes, complacent lady, yes,” he murmured.
“Did you?” said Vivienne eagerly. “Stargarde,
may I ask him some questions?”
“Certainly, dear.”
Vivienne sat down near the bewildered man who
was spinning his hat through his hands like a teetotum.
“Yes, yes,” he ejaculated; “I knew him.
A beautiful gentleman he was; never gave me the
cross word. It was a sad grief to the colonel to
lose him—a sad grief.”
“Were you here when my father died?” asked
Vivienne softly.
Stargarde gazed at her in deep anxiety while
MacDaly gabbled on, “When he died, my dear—I
mean my revered young lady—oh yes, I was here;
he is dead—of course not being alive and present
is to be dead and buried, otherwise interred and
sepulchred.”
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
“Vivienne,” said Stargarde in a pained voice,
“your father did not die here.”
“Did he not?” said the girl; “I thought that
both he and my mother did, and that they were
sent to their French home to be buried.”
“No,” said Stargarde, “your mother died in
the French village; I do not know where your
father’s body lies. MacDaly, I think that you had
better go home.”
“May I not just ask him a few things more?”
said Vivienne pleadingly. “I want to know
whether he remembers my father when he first
came here.”
“Do you, MacDaly?” asked Stargarde.
“Perfectly and most harmoniously; a youth
fitted in every way to attract and embosom in himself
the affections of the master who, progressing
at a nimble pace through a settlement inhabited by
the curious people known as the French, thrusts
his white hand in the gutter and picks out the
treasure-trove, enunciating and proclaiming with
his accustomed clearness, ‘What’ll you take for
him?’ throws the money and brings him home
and his fortune’s made. Stamp-licker, office lad,
confidential man, and keeper of the rolls to the
master, and to top, crown, and in every way ornament
his bliss, joins himself in joyful matrimony
and dwells in peaceful and well-to-do habitation
with his greatly-esteemed spouse, while at the same
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
time some of us poor lads had nothing but a hut
and a housekeeper,” and concluding his long sentence
with a groan MacDaly looked with a dull and
melancholy eye about him.
“I don’t understand him,” said Vivienne with
a puzzled gesture.
Stargarde was hanging her beautiful head in a
way unusual with her. “He refers to your father,”
she said, “and to the manner in which Colonel
Armour became acquainted with him.”
“Oh I know that,” said Vivienne. “Colonel
Armour was having a driving tour through the
province and seeing a pretty orphan boy that he
thought would make a good pet he paid some
money to the people who took care of him so that
they would give him up.”
“Yes,” said Stargarde.
Vivienne gazed at the half-witted specimen of
humanity before her in silence. Then she said,
“I will not detain you any longer. Perhaps I
will see you again some day.”
Without his usual politeness MacDaly darted from
the room as if he had been held there a prisoner.
“I wished to talk more to him,” said Vivienne;
“but I saw that you did not care for it, Stargarde.”
“Come here, darling, and sit on this stool by me,”
said her friend as soothingly as if she were talking
to a child; “I am so glad to find this interest in
your parents in you, and yet, and yet——”
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
“And yet—what?” queried Vivienne.
“I wish that you had chosen to speak to me
first rather than to MacDaly.”
“This was an impulse,” said Vivienne. “I have
always intended to ask you some questions; but
we are so seldom alone—and though my father and
mother are much in my thoughts I dread to mention
their names. Can you understand?”
Stargarde replied by a pressure of her hand.
“They are sacred to me,” said Vivienne dreamily.
“I would not for the world have the Armours
know that I often wake up sobbing because my
parents have been taken from me. You know I
am supposed to be a proud person,” and she looked
up at Stargarde, her eyes filled with tears.
“You are not proud—that is, not too proud,”
said Stargarde warmly. “You are an ardent,
generous girl, with a heart full of love that will be
bestowed on your fellow-creatures.”
Vivienne suddenly put her hands to her face.
“O Stargarde, Stargarde,” she exclaimed, “how
shall I tell Captain Macartney that I cannot marry
him? And Mr. Armour, what will he say?”
“Do not afflict yourself too much. You have
made a mistake, as many another girl has done.
The only way to make amends is to say, I have
done wrong—forgive me. Then start over again.
That is all any of us can do in the perpetual error
of this life.”
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
Vivienne looked up over her shoulder and
pressed one of Stargarde’s hands adoringly to her
lips. They had slipped into their usual relation.
The girl was sitting at the feet of the woman she
so much loved. She was curled up on the hearth
rug, her red draperies wound around her, her back
against Stargarde’s knees.
“Let us return to my question,” said Vivienne
at length, “my parents. Will you not tell me
what you know about them? Was my father,”
proudly, “as became his peasant up-bringing, a
boorish man, or was he a gentleman?”
“The latter, I think, from what I have heard;
you know I never saw him. He is said to have
been a gentle, amiable young man, a favorite with
all who knew him.”
“And what made him leave the Armours? I
have always fancied that it was his health.”
“No, it was not his health,” said Stargarde reluctantly.
“What was it?” asked Vivienne wistfully.
“My dear child, you have confidence in me?”
“Most implicit confidence.”
“Then take my advice; go to Stanton Armour.
He knows more about your parents than any man
living. He will tell you just what is good for you
to know. Will you do this?”
“Yes,” said Vivienne, in a constrained voice.
“But you speak as if there were some mystery.
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
Surely there is nothing that all the world may not
know?” Stargarde looked down at her compassionately.
“Sometimes,” said Vivienne, struggling
with an emotion that she could not altogether hide,
“sometimes I fancy that there is something I do
not understand. Judy once gave me a hint of it.
Mammy Juniper in her ravings urges the wicked
Ephraim to make restitution to some one that I
think is my father. Do you know what she means,
Stargarde?”
“Go to Stanton,” said her friend, with a lovely
smile of pity and affection. Then leaning forward
till Vivienne felt her sweet breath on her face
added, “You need comforting; let me rock you.”
She held out her arms invitingly, and half laughing,
half protesting Vivienne found herself, dignity
and all, enwrapped in a close embrace. Stargarde
had her on her lap and was rocking back and
forth, soothing her as a mother would a child.
To and fro they went, the one slim and graceful,
with dark skin, brilliant and questioning eyes, and
black hair lying loosely on her forehead, the other
a Venus of Milo, who held her burden, tall as it
was, as easily as she would have held a baby.
The soreness and tightness about Vivienne’s
heart gave away, and burying her face on Stargarde’s
shoulder she shed a few surreptitious tears.
“That’s right; it will do you good to cry,” murmured
Stargarde.
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
“There is some one at the door,” said Vivienne
presently. “Let me get up, dear Stargarde.”
“It’s only Mary with the milk; come in, Mary.”
“It’s not Mary,” said a well-known voice. “Beg
pardon for interrupting so charming a tableau. You
missed that, Armour,” and Dr. Camperdown turned
to his friend, who was following him.
“Not altogether,” said Mr. Armour, with a swift
glance at Stargarde’s amused face and Vivienne’s
flushed one.
“What an unexpected honor!” said Stargarde,
gayly shaking hands with them. “You,” looking
at Armour, “rarely honor us with a visit.”
“And I come too often, I suppose,” said Camperdown
gruffly. “Take off your coat, Armour;
we’ll stay a little while.”
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIX | BROTHER AND SISTER
.sp 2
Armour, after hanging up his coat, sat down
in a corner of the little room.
“You don’t often come to town in the evening,
Stanton,” said Stargarde.
“No; I had to see some merchants who are
going away early in the morning. The sleigh was
sent in for me, so I thought I would call for you
and Miss Delavigne.”
“Are you going out to Pinewood?” asked Dr.
Camperdown of his hostess.
“Yes; to spend the night and a part of tomorrow.”
“It will do you good,” he returned; “I suppose
you are sorry to have her go, Miss Delavigne?”
“More sorry than I can tell you,” said Vivienne.
“You saucy little girl!” and he frowned ominously
at her. Then in a lower key, and making
sure that Stargarde and Mr. Armour were deep in
conversation, “Has she been talking to you?”
“Oh, yes, of many things.”
“Good; let her advise you. What do you think
of her?”
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
“I—I think that she is magnificent,” said Vivienne,
trying to speak calmly.
“Better still,” said the physician in deep satisfaction.
“Be with her all you can; she’s a rock
for strength and an angel for sweetness.”
“Vivienne,” said Stargarde, “Stanton wishes to
go; are you ready?”
“Yes,” said she, rising and going for her wraps.
“Don’t drive home,” said Camperdown a few
minutes later, when they stood looking at the
heaped-up rugs in the sleigh standing before the
door. “There’s no room for me, anyway. Let’s
walk. It’s a fine night. Look at the stars and the
moon,” and he pointed up to the blue vault of the
sky.
“Are we not going to be rid of you yet, Brian?”
said Stargarde, with a comical face.
“A medical man does not desert his patients.
I’ve two to see home. Stanton, I forbid your driving.
A walk will make you sleep better. Take
Miss Delavigne on ahead of us. If you go too fast
I’ll say that you are trying to outwit me. Now
one, two, three, and away. Send your man home.”
“Not till I find out whether these ladies prefer
to walk,” said Mr. Armour.
“Of course they do. I asked them.”
“Oh, well, if it is arranged”—and turning to the
sleigh he said to the coachman, “We shall walk;
do not wait for us.”
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
Vivienne glanced at Armour’s face as they went
under the gateway. She wished to know if he was
annoyed at Dr. Camperdown’s persistence in giving
them the long walk out to Pinewood, and so coolly
foisting her upon him as a companion, when he
would so much rather have had Stargarde.
He did not seem annoyed. There was even, she
fancied, a look of cold, placid satisfaction on his
face as he walked along soberly by her side, his
hands in the pockets of his coat, his head bent
slightly forward. However, he did not speak to
her, and seemed to be in one of his usual reveries,
or listening to the conversation of Stargarde and
Camperdown, who were close behind them.
Passing quietly by one door after another they
came suddenly upon MacDaly, who was sneaking
guiltily away from home.
Armour and Vivienne passed him, Camperdown
stared at him without speaking, but Stargarde drew
up before him with a pained and remonstrating,
“Why, MacDaly, I thought you were in your
room?”
MacDaly was too much overcome to speak, but
he seemed to be touched by the distress of the only
person in the world that he cared for besides his
own unworthy self, and bowing low he laid a bottle
at her feet.
Camperdown promptly broke the neck of the
bottle and threw it in the gutter, and calling to
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
Vivienne and Armour not to wait, he and Stargarde
retraced their footsteps in order that they
might see the wandering lamb safely within the
shelter of the Pavilion.
Vivienne looked at Mr. Armour, who was gazing
fixedly at her. “Stargarde is an ideal woman; I
did not think that in real life there were any like
her.”
“Her moral character is one of great beauty,”
he said, “and she is utterly fearless; yet what is
the use?”
“The use?” repeated Vivienne with vivacity;
“has she not stopped MacDaly from spending the
night in some saloon?”
“For to-night, yes; for to-morrow, no. He is
an inveterate drunkard.”
“But he promises her to do better. He may reform
some day.”
“How can he reform when inherited tendencies
are crying out in an opposite direction?”
“Stargarde does not believe in heredity,” said
Vivienne.
“She does, but to a limited degree only. That
is where she makes a mistake. Yet in her case
every theory with regard to heredity has been
thrown to the winds. One might almost say she
was born damned.” Vivienne looked him severely
in the face. “I have shocked you,” he said irritably.
“Yet if you knew everything——”
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
“Stargarde says,” began Vivienne, “that one
should look after little children, give them good
food and wholesome surroundings, and God will
take care of the rest.”
“What about the ancestors?” he said. “Children
are helpless there, and that is where the mischief
comes in. I wish I had had the choosing of
mine,” he added under his breath. “I should
have been a happier man.”
A swift and intense compassion took possession
of Vivienne, which, though she gave no expression
to it, he seemed to understand perfectly and to
slightly resent.
“I am not so unhappy as you imagine,” he observed,
“and I beg your pardon for talking to you
so freely; I don’t know why I do it.”
His tone was as sulky as that of a boy, and Vivienne
wisely forebore to answer him. For a long
time they walked on without speaking; then to break
the awkward silence she said, “Stargarde has saved
many children.”
Mr. Armour smiled faintly. “You are coming
under her influence; if it weren’t for your engagement
I daresay you would make a Stargarde the
second.”
“I am going to break my engagement,” said
Vivienne quickly. “Mr. Armour, I cannot——”
He stopped short and looked down at her.
“What is this?”
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
“Stargarde has been talking to me—she told
me to explain to you. There were some things
that I did not understand; and I think with her
that one should love deeply the person that one
marries.”
Mr. Armour concealed his astonishment. There
was about the girl at his side a gentleness and frankness
that always enveloped her like an atmosphere
when she was fresh from Stargarde’s influence. He
could not speak harshly to her, yet he was annoyed.
“I think,” he said gravely, “that you had better
give this matter some further thought. There is a
precipitancy about your entering into engagements
and breaking them that I do not like.”
“Don’t you understand?” she said, with an eager
little gesture. “It is this way: You have a calm
and clear judgment, and much experience. You
form your opinions slowly. I am young and rash,
and, as Stargarde says, I have made a mistake that
many another woman has made. It is a good thing
to be married, but I did not think long enough about
the suitability of, of——”
“Of Captain Macartney, I suppose,” said Mr.
Armour dryly. “What will he say to this abrupt
dismissal?”
“He will understand,” said Vivienne; “he is
good and kind. I do not dread telling him half as
much as, as—you might fancy I would.”
Mr. Armour noted her confusion of thought.
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
“Or half as much as you dreaded telling me,” he
said; “am I right?”
“You are,” said Vivienne vivaciously; “yet, if I
may say a word in my own defense, it is that my
haste in entering into this engagement was to please
you.”
“Indeed,” curtly; “then I am to be made the
scapegoat?”
Vivienne was wounded by his tone, and made no
reply to him.
“And what are your plans for the future, may I
ask?”
“Stargarde wishes me to live with her.”
“You will get tired of that life in a week.”
“Then I will do something else,” bravely; “but
I really think that you are mistaken in me.”
“I am not mistaken in thinking you are an irrepressible
worry,” he communed with himself, just
as Vivienne said,
“May I ask just how much control you exercise
over my movements?”
Armour stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“When shall I become mistress of my own
affairs?”
“Your own affairs,” he said, with an involuntary
smile. “Well, I should say that you were managing
them yourself just now.”
“I do not think that you understand me. You
or your father was legally appointed my guardian.”
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
“There was no legal appointment,” he said, pushing
his fur cap farther back on his head. “We took
charge of you on our own responsibility.”
“But my father—when he died did he not ask
you to take charge of my money and educate me?”
“What money?” and Mr. Armour’s eyes grew
colder as he fixed them on her.
“Whatever my father left me,” said Vivienne
patiently. “I don’t know anything about it, except
that it is safe in your hands, and that I want to give
some of it to Stargarde if I go to live with her.”
Mr. Armour’s gaze wandered all about him before
he answered her. Then he said quietly: “Where
would your father—a clerk on a salary—accumulate
money to leave you?”
“But what have I been living on?” said Vivienne
in surprise.
“I leave that to your imagination.”
“Have you been supporting me all these years?”
she asked, her face suffused with color.
“Again I reply that I leave that to your imagination,”
he said, twisting an icicle off a window that
they were passing.
She stopped suddenly and covered her eyes with
her hands. Mr. Armour scanned her narrowly.
Was she trying to impress him? No; her emotion
was genuine. Her gloved fingers, held like bars
over her crimson, almost purple cheeks, were outward
and mute signs of inward suffering.
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
“I would have undeceived you if I had known
of this delusion of yours,” he said kindly.
“Do I owe you everything—everything?” said
the girl, dropping her hands and fixing her glittering
eyes on him.
He bowed gravely.
“And you have thought me extravagant, I dare
say.”
“That is hardly a fair question,” he said, with an
approving glance at her fur-lined jacket and richly
trimmed gown. “I wished you to dress like a
lady.”
“A lady!” repeated the girl bitterly, “yes; a fine
lady. Now I shall have to support myself.”
“Why so?”
“I am grown up now. You have given me a
good education. I shall take no more favors from
you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am too proud to be dependent.”
“That is exactly why you should go on with
your dependence. What can you do to support
yourself?”
“If I cannot support myself by assisting Stargarde,
I will teach.”
“What can you teach?”
“Everything that I have been taught.”
“Pardon me—a smattering of everything. You
have received an ordinary boarding-school education,
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
which is about the worst possible preparation
for a teaching career. If I had intended you to
teach I would have put you in a public school or a
college.”
Vivienne looked steadfastly at him without speaking.
“Be content to do as I tell you,” he said, walking
on and clasping his hands behind his back.
“Your father served us well. As a lad I worshiped
him. I plan to support you until the day of your
death. If I die first, suitable provision will be made
for you. As I told you I want you to remain at
Pinewood for a time. Then you may go where you
will. You are getting on well now. I detest those
scenes that Flora delights in; you women know
how to put a stop to such things, and I am glad
that you have done so. I am glad too that Judy
likes you—she leads a lonely life.”
Vivienne was not listening to him. To his surprise
he found that she had dropped behind him
and had struck an attitude of distress against a snowbank.
“She looks like the picture of her ancestress,
Madame La Tour, defending her husband’s fort,” he
muttered, hastening back to her.
“I am not faint,” said Vivienne feebly. “I am
coming right on; but I have had a blow—such a
blow, but”—proudly—"you will not see me break
down again."
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
She spoke with a remnant of her old spirit, and
Armour smiled encouragingly at her. “Take my
arm, you foolish child. You have not broken down.
Now let us set out again, and have no further interruptions.
See, there are some people coming—friends
of ours too, I believe. Try to get some
color in your face.”
Vivienne held her head well up till they had
passed, then it sank on her breast again. Armour
glanced at the little, clenched hand that lay on his
arm and said gently and yet a trifle disdainfully:
“Do not imagine that you are suffering.”
“I do not imagine it. I know that I am.”
“Your disturbance is purely a thing of sentiment,”
he said. “I do not say that you are not
troubled—I dare say you are; but you will get over
it. You are young; you do not know the meaning
of the word sorrow.”
“What is it then to suffer?” she asked.
“To suffer”—and he drew a long breath and
cast a glance about him like one taking his last look
on earth and sky—"ah, I will not tell you."
Vivienne shuddered; in the midst of her own
preoccupation she realized that there were depths
in the unhappy nature of the man beside her that
she could not fathom, even if she were allowed to
look into them.
“Do you know anything of astronomy?” asked
Mr. Armour suddenly.
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
“No, nothing,” she replied; “we did not have
it in any of the schools that you sent me to.”
He paid no attention to the sob in her voice, and
in tones as cool and passionless as if there were no
such things as sorrow and unhappiness in the world,
he pointed out some of the constellations to her.
In a short time they were beyond the outlying
houses of the city, and with lagging steps and upturned
faces passed slowly along a snowy road, from
which they had an extended and uninterrupted
view of the blue sky spread above them, where
countless stars shone and sparkled like priceless
jewels, set far above the unworthy earth below.
“I used to devote a good deal of my time to the
study of the heavens,” said Mr. Armour, when they
stepped slowly under the murmuring pines of the
avenue, and their view of the sky was shut off. “I
still have a telescope in the cupola, and occasionally
I go up. Do you ever hear me?”
Yes; she had heard his heavy step passing her
door, often late at night, and had surmised that
the strange, self-contained man, who was such an
enigma himself, was about to engage in a study of
the mysteries of the celestial bodies.
“Star-gazing ruined Palinurus,” interposed Camperdown,
who came rolling up to the broad stone
doorstep, looking like one of the good-natured
men-of-war sailors who are so frequently seen about
the streets of Halifax.
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
He had evidently caught some scraps of their
conversation, for he went on: “See the Æneid,
Book V., line something or other. Palinurus directed
his eyes to the stars; the god shook over him
a branch dripping with Lethean dew; and rendered
sleepy by Stygian power, over he went into the clear
waters. Poor Palinurus.”
“What is the matter with Camperdown this evening,”
said Armour, addressing Stargarde, who at that
moment came sauntering out from under the pines.
“I don’t know,” she returned, glancing uneasily
at the subject of their remarks. “I never saw him
like this before. His tongue rattled so fast that I
had to send him on ahead in order that I might
enjoy the quiet beauty of this evening.”
“Hear a parable, O friends,” said Camperdown,
without raising his eyes, and scraping the snow
about with his foot. “Once a certain man sat
under a plum tree, where he looked and longed exceedingly
for a beautiful young plum that hung
just over him. The plum grew and ripened, but
being the most obstinate plum that ever lived,
would not fall into the man’s mouth. One day
being weak with impatience and with waiting for
the plum, he opened his mouth to yawn, when
straightway the plum fell into his mouth and choked
him——”
“So that he never spoke again,” said Stargarde,
with a stifled laugh.
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
“No,” said Camperdown, lifting his eyes and
surveying her with preternatural gravity; “loosened
his tongue and gave him an unwonted flow of language.”
“Good-night, Camperdown,” said Armour; “I’m
going in.”
“So am I,” said Dr. Camperdown agreeably,
“as far as the pantry. I’m ravenous, Stanton.
Stargarde offered me no supper this evening. Pity
a poor, starving man.”
“Come in,” said Armour shortly, unlocking the
door and ushering his guests into the hall, which
was dimly lighted. “Now, Camperdown, don’t
make a noise, or you’ll have Flora down upon us.”
“That isn’t the way to the pantry, man,” said
Camperdown, pushing him aside. “That’s the
china closet. It’s too hot there to keep food.
Here, follow me,” and taking a box of matches
from his pocket he led the small party—for he insisted
upon bringing Stargarde and Vivienne along—into
a room whose shelves were lined with a
goodly supply of tempting meats and dainties.
“Cold goose and apple sauce!” he ejaculated,
setting aside a large dish. “You mustn’t touch that,
ladies, nor you, Stanton. ’Twill give you indigestion.
Mayonnaise of celery—I’ll have some of that with
it. Here is some jelly for you, Miss Delavigne—lemon,
I think, and custard, and cake. Stargarde,
you may have those mashed chestnuts. Stanton,
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
you’d better try a soda biscuit. Now ‘fall to,’ as
old Hannah says, and don’t make a noise.”
Vivienne was not in a humor for frolicking, and
excusing herself went upstairs, her hands full of
pieces of sponge cake that Dr. Camperdown had
bidden her take with her. When she reached the
staircase leading to the upper flat, she found that
Mammy Juniper was, as Judy graphically expressed
it, “on a prowl,” and had started it by one of her
favorite occupations, laying a curse on Vivienne.
The old woman’s face was terribly distorted, and
she had pushed her white nightcap far on the back
of her grizzled wool. Her candlestick she held in
her hand, waving it back and forth across Vivienne’s
door panels as if she were making mystic signs.
Vivienne listened for a few instants to the anathemas
called down upon her innocent head,
which this evening seemed to take the form of bodily
afflictions. “Make her like Job, Lord,” the
old woman was praying; “give her boils and no
potsherd to scrape them. Cover her with sores.
Let her be racked with pain——”
Such expressions were not pleasant to listen to,
and too weary and disheartened this evening to disturb
the old woman, who was apt to become belligerent
if interrupted in her ravings, Vivienne retreated
noiselessly to the hall below. There she sat down
on the top step of the staircase and watched for
Stargarde to come from the pantry.
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
In a few minutes Camperdown, chuckling amiably
to himself, came through the lower hall and
passed out of the house. Some time elapsed before
the other two appeared. Then they came
sauntering along together, Stargarde with her hand
on Mr. Armour’s shoulder, and looking fondly into
his eyes. When they reached the middle of the
hall, she drew his head to her and kissed his forehead
repeatedly: “Good-night, my dear boy. May
all good angels guard your sleep.”
Vivienne in her bewilderment and distress almost
cried out. She had become very much attached to
the eccentric physician, whom Stargarde tolerated
so good-naturedly, and she fondly hoped that some
day Stargarde would marry him. And now she was
bestowing caresses on another man, which from a
woman such as she was, could mean only one
thing, that she loved Mr. Armour and would marry
him.
Some movement that Vivienne involuntarily
made, attracted the attention of the two people below;
Stargarde looked up hastily and on seeing
the disturbed face peering down at her, grew first
pale and then red, but did not release her hold on
Mr. Armour. “Vivienne,” she said quietly, “come
here, dear child.”
Slowly and most unwillingly Vivienne went down
step by step, till at last she stood in the lower hall.
Stargarde led Mr. Armour up to one of the panel
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
mirrors with which Flora was fond of decorating the
house. There she threw one arm around his neck,
and with her hand covered his moustache. A quick
motion of her other hand brushed back the yellow
curls from her face. The exposed forehead in her
case, the hidden moustache in his, heightened the
strong resemblance between them that Vivienne
was intensely astonished to perceive, and yet wondered
at herself for not noticing before.
The two heads were of the same classical shape,
the straight noses were alike, both had a clear,
healthful pallor of skin and faint coloring of the
cheek; but Armour’s thick, light hair was straight
and waveless, and several shades paler than Stargarde’s
yellow, curling locks.
In troubled confusion Vivienne gazed at them,
thankful that their backs were to her, and that Stargarde
had been thoughtful enough to present their
faces to her in the mirror. They were brother and
sister. She did not understand it, nor know what
to say about it, and it was an immense relief when
Stargarde turned to her with one of her quick motions,
kissed her lovingly, and going upstairs with
her murmured, “Don’t worry over it, dear; it is all
right.”
When they reached the turn in the staircase,
Vivienne looked over her shoulder. Mr. Armour
was going about the hall, putting out the lights,
with the same dull, unmoved expression of countenance
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
that he had worn ever since he came into the
house. Under his own roof there always seemed
a heavier shadow upon him than when he was away
from it.
“Oh, Stargarde,” said Vivienne, clasping her
friend’s hand to her breast, “I am so miserable!”
“I know it, darling; your face is pitiful. Go and
undress and get into your little white bed, and I
will come and sit beside you, and you shall tell me
all about it. I want to speak to Mammy first.”
Late that night, long after Stargarde had watched
Vivienne lay her black head on her pillow and had
kissed her, murmuring sweetly in French, “Bonne
nuit; dormez bien, mon ange,” old Mammy Juniper
crept to the sleeping apartment of the stranger
under the roof. Noticing that there were tears on
the lovely cheeks, she wiped them away, and with
fierce mutterings looked in the direction of Vivienne’s
room and called down a curse upon her, if
she had been the one to bring them there.
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XX | CHASED AS A BIRD WITHOUT CAUSE
.sp 2
Stargarde had had a busy afternoon. The
table in the middle of the room was littered
with account books, in the midst of which she had
cleared a small space so that she might take her
tea and go on with her work.
Bread and cheese, celery and tea, composed her
frugal meal, and she was eating and drinking cheerily
and thanking God in her heart that she had so
many more blessings than she deserved.
Yet there were some things that caused a shadow
to pass over her lovely face. Zeb was one of them.
All the afternoon she had been thinking of her. Out
in the playground in front of her windows, the
ruddy-faced children whose parents lived in the
Pavilion, had been playing merrily, and she had
wished a dozen times that Zeb was among them.
The very air of Halifax is military, and even the
children are warlike in their games. The children
had built a huge snow fort and manned it with a
body of resolute defenders, who gallantly resisted
the force till their supply of ammunition,
consisting of snowballs, had given out.
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
A spirited sortie had not mended matters. They
were overpowered, their officer in command captured,
their flag trampled in the snow, and that of
their conquerors run up in its place.
And Zeb might be sharing the children’s fun and
frolic if she would; but she would not. She had
plainly given Stargarde to understand that she did
not wish to have anything more to do with her,
and was going on in her own way with sullen resignation.
Stargarde sighed mournfully as she drank her
tea. “And it was all on account of Brian,” she
murmured. “Zeb was getting on well with me
till he came here that evening. Strange that she
should be so frantically jealous of him; and she
promised to come too. But I will not complain.
God will give me back my wandering lamb. I
must beg Brian not to come here for a time.”
As if in punishment of her inhospitable thought,
she at that moment heard his heavy step on the
veranda, and the utterance of her name in his
peremptory accents:
“Stargarde, Stargarde, let me in.”
She sprang up, opened the door, and watched
Dr. Camperdown in surprise, as he walked in holding
something in his arms closely wrapped in his
sleigh robe.
This something he put down on the broad, low
couch against the wall, and throwing back the robe,
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
disclosed to view a much battered and bleeding
Zeb. The child’s dress was nearly torn from her
body. Her black hair, discolored and partly drawn
over her face, was matted with blood that had run
down from cuts in her head.
“Take scissors and cut it away,” said Dr. Camperdown
shortly. “I’ll be back,” and he hurried
from the room. In a very short time he was with
her again, having with quick, impatient fingers,
thrown out Polypharmacy’s weight on the snow,
obtained his surgeon’s bag from the sleigh, and
seized the whip from its socket. This latter he
smiled grimly at, as he brought it in and set it in a
corner of the room. All the upper part of it was
gone, broken off short, and the heavy handle was
stained with blood.
“Doctor, doctor,” moaned the child, who, when
Stargarde touched her, recovered from her state of
insensibility. And “Doctor, doctor,” she continued
to moan all the time they were washing and
dressing her wounds and fitting in place the strips
of court-plaster. The cuts and bruises were all
about her head. The little, thin body, a mere
skeleton of a thing, was unhurt, and at last Camperdown
ejaculated, “Let her alone now; she’ll
drop off again.”
Stargarde, while there was necessity for action,
forbore to ask questions, and when her attendance
of the child was over, still forbore, for she saw that
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
Camperdown was in a state of furious, repressed
temper.
“May I go to the kitchen?” he asked abruptly;
and at her murmured, “Certainly,” he withdrew,
taking his whip with him, and making a great
noise and splashing while cleaning it. When he
came back into the little parlor, she was glad to
see that his features were less convulsed. She
poured him out a cup of tea, which he drank absently
and in silence, and then sat with knit brows
looking at the unconscious child on the sofa.
“How long since you’ve seen her?” he said at
last.
“Two days,” replied Stargarde. “She has been
avoiding me. Poor child, she has not been in a
good temper. The truant officer found her out,
and being under fourteen, she was obliged to go to
school. Some of the girls told me that she was
very angry about it on account of her shabby
clothes. They also said that they feared she wasn’t
getting enough to eat. Think of that, Brian, in
this good Christian city of Halifax, where thousands
of citizens sit down daily to comfortable breakfast
tables.”
He made some sort of an inarticulate reply, and
she continued: “I went by there the other morning
and the little things were singing their opening
song, ‘For daily bread and wholesome food, we
thank thee, Lord.’ Think of the mockery of it!
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
The city refuses bread to their children and puts
a song into their mouths.”
“Have you been making up your books?” asked
Camperdown, with an abrupt change of subject,
and a glance at the papers on the table.
“Yes; I have just finished collecting this quarter’s
rents, and I wanted to get things in order before
Christmas. I wish we had a dozen of these
model tenement houses, Brian. Do you know I
am besieged with applications to enter? And yet
some people say that if you build houses for the
poor they won’t go into them.”
“If any man said to me to-night, ‘You’re stripped
of what you possess; you’re a pauper,’ I would
commit suicide,” said Dr. Camperdown.
“Why would you do that?” asked the woman
gently.
“Because they’re badly used; that is, the paupers.”
“I should make a distinction between paupers
and poor people,” returned Stargarde. “A pauper
is a person dependent upon charity. A poor person,
or one who is not as well off with regard to
this world’s goods as his neighbors, should be one
of the happiest and most independent of mortals.
When I am coming home these winter evenings I
love to look in our Pavilion windows. What could
be more cheerful than the neat little kitchen, the
small supper table, the blazing fire with the wife
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
and children waiting around it for the father’s return?
Those people have no carking care, no worry as to
keeping up appearances, no elbowing each other in
the mad rush for social distinction. Of course they
have worries; they would not be human if they
had not; but their very simplicity of life tends to
lessen those worries.”
“But they’re neglected, they’re neglected,” said
Camperdown irritably. “Look at the children of
the rich. Suppose the parent leaves them; a
trained servant takes charge. The poor woman
goes out; she can’t take her children. Who’s to
look after them?”
“A neighbor, an elder child.”
“A neighbor,” repeated Camperdown, in what
would have been accents of scorn, had he not remembered
he was talking to the woman he so
much loved and respected; “a neighbor; and suppose
the neighbor a worse rascal than yourself?
Leave the respectable poor and take the vicious and
criminal classes. Wild beasts look after their own;
but suppose the beast is out and the young alone.
Who steps in as tender nurse?”
“The city should be a tender nurse to the
children of the poor,” responded Stargarde sadly.
“There should be public playgrounds and playrooms
with trusty women in attendance. What a
load of anxiety would be taken from the minds of
poor parents who are obliged to go out and work
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
by the day, leaving their children often to doubtful
companionship. I have known,” in a low voice, “a
humble woman who scrubbed floors and who was
not permitted to take her little girl with her. All
day long she was racked by anxiety as to whether
that child was in good company. She could not
lock her up, she could not trust her with any one,
for she was in an evil neighborhood.”
“What became of the child?” asked Camperdown,
a red and angry light in his eye.
“She is one of the worst girls in the streets of
Montreal.”
“Then a curse upon the city for its neglect,” he
said, with a fierce burst of wrath.
Stargarde looked at him curiously, and with visible
satisfaction. “Brian,” she said gently, “do
not waste time in cursing an evil, but set to work
to remedy it. And may I ask what extraordinary
thing has occurred to make you reason from such
a change of base?”
“There—there!” he ejaculated, pointing to the
sofa. “Never saw it as I did just now.” Then
going on with rapid utterance, “Was driving home
along Brunswick Street—dusky, but still could see
a bit. Happened to look up at old rookery you
took me to. One of the top windows open. Just
as I looked, child there,” with a wave of his hand
toward the sofa, “rose up, stared at me like a rat
out of a cage—face set, wild expression, and called,
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
‘Doctor!’ Then she fell back. I rushed into the
house and upstairs, nearly breaking my neck on
loose boards; no one about the halls, though I
could hear them lively enough in rooms. In the
front-attic den—a child there, in hand to hand tussle
with a lout of a shoemaker of this street, Smith
by name. You know him?”
“Yes,” replied Stargarde, who was listening in
pained attention.
“Brute drunk, beating and tearing at the child;
and she, poor brat—the children of the poor know
everything—defending herself as nobly as a beauteous
damsel assailed in her castle.”
“And you, Brian,” said Stargarde, hot tears of
shame and sorrow in her eyes, “what did you do?”
“Knocked him down, of course. Child threw
herself at me in a frenzy of relief. He’d choked
her so she couldn’t scream. Don’t take much
strength to stifle a child,” with an angry dilation
of nostrils, and an accent of superb disdain. “I
put her aside and addressed shoemaker. May the
Lord forgive me, but I was in a rage. Told him
I’d give him his choice; he could go to the police
court and I’d ruin him, or he could take a beating,
and I’d hush the matter up. He took the beating—there’s
nothing like the lash for attempted
crimes against women and children—and he lay
there and waited till I went down for the whip.
His back’s pretty sore; you’d better go see him;
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
but don’t let the thing get out, for the child’s sake,”
and his voice softened as he glanced toward the
sofa.
“The Lord sent you there, Brian,” said Stargarde,
through her tears.
“I got my lesson too,” said the man, twitching
uneasily as if his back too were sore. "Stargarde,
the worst is to come. The poor devil turned on
me as he left—the whip had thrashed the liquor
out of him—and snarled at me that I might take
my share of the blame. “’Tis you gentlemen that
send us to hell,’ he said. ‘You drink your fine
brandies and whiskies in your hotels and clubs,
and license the devils that sell us poor men made
liquors that are half poison and make us run mad
at anything we see.’”
“Brian!” exclaimed the woman. “You never
touch intoxicants yourself. You know the evil of
them. You do not work actively in any temperance
cause, but surely you would never sign a
license for any man to keep a saloon!”
He stood before her like a schoolboy culprit.
“I own property in this ward,” he said shamefacedly.
“Old Denver, that keeps a saloon near Smith’s shop,
came to me to sign his license. The man has to
get his living. I didn’t think—and put my name
down. That’s what stings now,” he went on contritely.
“Perhaps Smith got his liquor there.”
Stargarde drew herself up to her full height.
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
“Do I understand you to say that you, a reasonable,
intelligent, human being, knowing what would
be the effect of alcoholic poison on your own system,
and refusing to partake of it, would yet sign
a paper allowing this poison to be sold to your
fellow-citizens, every one of whom is as precious in
the sight of God as yourself?”
His silence gave the answer to her question, and
she went on with clasped hands and eyes raised to
the ceiling in a protest of despair: “There is no
name for this awful traffic—no words to express
the frightful misery of it. With all that has been
said and written, no words have yet been found to
fitly characterize it. It is unspeakable, indescribable,
and,” with a swift dropping from the abstract
to the real, “to think that you, Brian, would touch
it even with the tip of your little finger!” She
dropped into a seat by the table, laid her head on
her arms, and burst into tears.
She was disappointed in him, and, stung by a
thousand furies, he made no further attempt to justify
himself, but rushed from her presence.
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXI | A QUIET EVENING
.sp 2
Dinner was over at Pinewood, and all the
family but Mr. Armour sat, stood, or walked
about in the rose du Barry atmosphere of the drawing
room.
“The outlook seems more gory than usual,”
muttered Valentine, with a groan, placing his handsome
figure in a partially-shaded corner, “probably
because all the lamps are going. Confound those
carnation shades, and confound the everlasting desire
of women to have their own way! If Flora
decided to hang the place with crêpe we’d have to
submit. I wish Pinewood had a different mistress,”
and the young man glanced discontentedly at her, as
she sat quietly engaged with some work in a flow
of ruddy light from her favorite lamp.
The night was a cold one. The great furnace
and the open fires in the house were burning with
wild and headstrong draughts, and from the crossed
sticks of wood on the drawing-room hearth, mad,
scarlet flames went leaping toward the outer air.
Mrs. Colonibel was thinking about an approaching
dance—thinking so busily, as she drew the
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
silken threads in and out of her linen, that she had
no time, as she usually had, to bestow glances of
suppressed jealous anger on Vivienne and Judy.
The two girls were wandering about the room arm
in arm, having just come in from the conservatory,
where Judy had plucked camellias and scarlet
geraniums to make a corsage bouquet for Vivienne.
Colonel Armour sat by the fire, pretending to
read, but surreptitiously watching Vivienne, who
seemed to be clad in a kind of unearthly beauty in
the roseate hue cast over her face and white figure
by the colored lights of the room.
“Pray, Judy, make no more jokes,” she said,
drawing the deformed girl down to a seat beside
her. “My lips are really fatigued with smiling.
Let us be sensible. Perhaps Mr. Valentine will
sing to us. Will you?” and with a pretty, beseeching
gesture she turned to the young man.
He bowed gravely and went to the piano. “It
is the only time that I can endure him,” mused
Vivienne, “when that flood of heartfelt and touching
melody comes from his frivolous lips. How
can he sing so divinely—he, a trifler, an idler?”
Valentine, with eyes fixed on her, was singing
“Eulalie.” His sweet, strong, and powerful tenor
voice filled the room. Some penetrating quality in
it touched the girl strangely, and tears came to
her eyes as she listened.
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
.pm start_poem
“Star of the summer eve,
Sink, sink to rest!
Sink ere the silver light
Fades from the west;
But nevermore will I
Watch keep for thee,
With her I loved so well,
Sweet Eulalie.”
.pm end_poem
As the last plaintive, piercing note died away,
and while Vivienne was murmuring her thanks and
Judy was examining the singer with a curious and
critical eye, as though she had just discovered
something new and unusual in his appearance,
Mr. Armour came and stood quietly inside the
doorway. Vivienne saw the other people in the
room looking at him, and turned around. Perhaps
owing to his coming within the radiance of the
glowing lamp shades, the expression of his face
seemed kinder than usual. His eyes were fixed on
Judy. There was a sort of friendship between him
and his cousin’s child greater than that existing
between any other two members of the Armour
family. It was a well-known fact that the girl detested
her mother, that she often fell into violent
passions with Valentine because he teased her,
and that she usually ignored Colonel Armour as
completely as his elder son did.
Armour and Mammy Juniper were her favorites,
and even with them she did not always agree.
However, Armour it was who had most influence
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
over her, and he it was to whom Mrs. Colonibel
appealed when Judy’s fits of temper threatened to
disturb the balance of power in the household.
When Judy saw that Armour’s attention was directed
to her, she made a face at him and dropped
her head on Vivienne’s shoulder.
“Judy,” he said, “some telegrams have just
come in. I must write letters and I have a headache——”
He paused for a reply, and Judy raised her head
with an aggrieved expression. “Stanton Armour,
am I the kind of person to be mewed up in your
den with you all the evening and write letters for
love?”
“No, Judy, you are not that kind of person.
You require an equivalent for services rendered.
I make the usual offer.”
“What do you get, Miss Secretary?” asked Valentine
jokingly.
“He,” nodding toward Armour, “gives me a
dollar an evening. Do you think it is enough?”
suspiciously.
“Enough, Judy?” and Valentine laughed in
pretended amusement; “not half nor a quarter
enough. A young lady of your abilities should
command three dollars at least.”
“I won’t go for a dollar, Stanton,” said Judy
stoutly, and she dropped her head to its former
resting place.
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
“If I paid my typewriter at the rate I pay you,
Judy, she would think herself fortunate.”
“Have you a typewriter in your office, Stanton?”
asked Judy, whose curiosity was aroused.
“Yes.”
“Does she write all your letters for you?”
“No; some of them only. I dictate to her and
she takes down what I say in shorthand and then
copies on her machine.”
“I should like a typewriter, Stanton. Will you
get me one?”
“If you promise to learn to write on it.”
“I will; and Vivienne will help me, won’t you, my
blackbird? And I will write for you this evening,
Stanton,” graciously; “for on the whole, you are a
satisfactory kind of man. Come Vivienne,” and
getting up she extended a hand behind her.
“I wish to do some reading in my room,” said
Vivienne, folding Judy’s fingers together and putting
them from her.
“You can read in the library,” said Judy imperiously.
“I sha’n’t go one step without you.”
“The evening is wearing away, Judy,” said Mr.
Armour patiently.
“Come with me at once,” exclaimed Judy,
stamping her foot at Vivienne. “I tell you I hate
to write stooping over a desk and holding a stiff
pen in my hand. I must have something nice to
look at. You shall come.”
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
Vivienne was very much annoyed. For weeks
Judy had not spoken to her in anything but a
caressing tone. What had come over the strange
girl? “I shall not go anywhere with you when
you speak to me in that tone,” she said proudly.
Mrs. Colonibel looked up from her work, and
seeing that she was not observed, indulged in a
scornful smile. Colonel Armour laid down his
paper, and in open amusement surveyed the two
young people standing opposite each other with
flushed and disturbed faces.
“Pray keep on quarreling, children,” said Valentine.
“You are both charming in those attitudes,
I assure you.”
Vivienne blushed a yet deeper crimson, and
holding her head well up, walked from the room.
Judy hobbled after her, caught her hand, and
kissed it repentantly. “My sweet girl, have I
offended you?”
Vivienne smiled and pressed her hand, but continued
on her way toward the staircase.
Judy clung to her. “Do come with me; it is
hateful in there. Stanton is so solemn. If you
will come, you may sit with your back to him and
look at me.”
“Pray put an end to this teasing, Miss Delavigne,”
said Armour wearily, and opening the door
of the near library.
To Judy’s great delight, Vivienne came back
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
with her. Into the large, quiet room with its
sombre rose and ashen tints they went. “How
can you have a headache in this cool place, Stanton?”
said Judy. “Now if you were in the fiery
furnace of the drawing room one might understand
it. You must turn up your lamp—there is not
light enough for me—and poke your fire. I am
cold. Where shall I sit? Not too far from the
heat, if you please. Draw that little table up for
me and put that grandfatherly chair in front of the
fire for Vivienne, and you may sit behind the big
table.”
“Does your head ache badly?” asked Vivienne,
fixing her large, dark eyes on Armour’s face.
“Rather badly.”
“That means it is splitting,” said Judy briskly.
“Most men would say that. Stanton never exaggerates.”
Armour smiled slightly, and having complied
with Judy’s rather unreasonable demands in the
way of supplies of pens, blotting paper, and all the
paraphernalia of a secretary’s desk, seated himself
at a little distance from her and began to dictate.
Judy wrote a fair, round hand, and under the pressure
of a silver spur had become familiar with the
ordinary forms of business correspondence, so that
the writing went smoothly on. The girl, unlike
her spendthrift mother, was inclined to be miserly,
and hoarded every cent that she received to be deposited
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
in the savings bank, the gloating over her
bank book being one of her chief pleasures in
life.
One hour passed, then another, and still Judy
wrote steadily on, only stopping once or twice to
ask Mr. Armour to replenish the fire, or to bestow
a loving glance on Vivienne who had fallen asleep
over her book, her head resting on the cushion of
her high-backed chair. “I’m tired,” she exclaimed
at last, throwing down her pen. “Won’t this do?”
“Yes,” he said looking at his watch. “I had
no idea it was so late. I fear that I have fatigued
you.”
“Are they to be posted to-night?” said Judy,
her eyes wandering to the heap of letters on the
table.
“Yes. Just ring the bell beside you; Vincent
must go to the post office.”
“I will stamp the envelopes,” said Judy obligingly.
“Please pass me your glass moistener. I
hate to lick things. Here is Martha; will you give
her the message for Vincent?”
When the letters were disposed of, Armour took
up his station on the hearth-rug, and Judy threw
herself in an ecstasy of silent adoration before
Vivienne. “Isn’t she an angel, Stanton?”
“Not an angel, but very much of a woman,” he
replied, calmly surveying the sleeping girl.
“You’re a man,” said Judy sharply, “and when
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
you see a pretty girl in a white dress you admire
her, and you needn’t try to make me think you
don’t. I was reading the other day that Napoleon
thought a slight woman—he hated fat ones—dressed
in white and walking under trees, was a lovely
sight, and I quite agree with him. So do you.
What are you frowning about? Don’t you like
Napoleon? Everybody worships him nowadays.”
“A human tiger with a thirst for blood? No.”
“Well, he admired women.”
“He was a beast in his relations to them, Judy.
Why does Miss Delavigne so often wear white?”
“She likes it; but she’s going to give it up.”
Armour was struck by Judy’s mysterious tone.
“Why does she do that?” he asked.
“She says she can’t afford it; it’s a terrible grief
to her that she has no money of her own.”
“Ah, she told you about that discovery, did
she?”
“Yes, she couldn’t keep it from me. I saw
that she was fretting over something and I teased
her till she told me. Don’t you see a difference
in her?”
“In what way?”
“Why, she is so subdued, and she thinks a great
deal and often lies awake at night. That’s why
she’s sleeping now. And she tries to mend her
clothes. Dear me!” and Judy began to laugh,
“she makes a sad botch of it. She darned a
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
stocking the other day till it was so lumpy she
couldn’t wear it. She worries too about breaking
her engagement to Captain Macartney. You know
that, don’t you?”
“Do you imagine that Miss Delavigne would
confide the history of her love affairs to me?”
“No; but you might make her. When are you
going to let her leave here, Stanton?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll miss her when she goes, mark my
words. You are as red as one of mamma’s lamp
shades now merely from thinking about it. I
shouldn’t wonder if you are in love with my treasure
yourself,” and seizing a fold of Vivienne’s
gown she pressed it to her lips.
“Do you see any symptoms of it?” he asked
coolly.
“Yes; when you are carving you always give her
the bit of meat nearest the bone, and you watch
her when no one is looking, and you hate for Val
to pay her any attention, and you don’t want
Uncle Colonel to come near her. You and I are a
sad pair of pagans, Stanton. You don’t like your
father, and I don’t like my mother—who isn’t worthy
of the name, so I call her mamma. Do you know
what makes me hate Uncle Colonel so much?”
“No; I wish you wouldn’t run that word ‘hate’
so hard.”
“Well, ‘detest’ then. Do you remember that
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
wall-eyed housemaid with pink cheeks that we had
three years ago?”
“Yes.”
“One day I saw Uncle Colonel kissing her in
the back hall, and she looked as if she liked it,
and then he kissed her again, and she said, ‘Law
sir, there might be some one lookin’.’ I went up
behind and gave her a slap on the back, and said,
‘You saucy hussy, get to your work,’ and I said to
Uncle Colonel, ‘You old fool!’ and I have never
liked him since. I don’t see what gentlemen want
to kiss servants for, when there are flocks of ladies
who would be proud and happy of the honor; do
you, Stanton?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did you ever kiss a woman, Stanton?”
“I once had a mother, Judy.”
“You are begging the question; but your mother
was lovely, wasn’t she? In that painting in your
room she has a sweet, patient face like a nun’s. I
don’t see how she got on with Uncle Colonel;
probably he hastened her end. Mammy Juniper
says you are more like her than Val. Hush, my
sweet saint is waking up. No, she isn’t. I want
to beat myself sometimes when I think how hateful
I was to her when she came.”
“What did you do?”
“I teased her; but soon I began to like her, and
now I could not live without her, and if she leaves
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
Pinewood I shall go too,” and Judy threw a defiant
glance up at the man standing over her.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Judy,” he said, scanning
disapprovingly the little passionate figure crouched
on the hearthrug.
“Why shouldn’t I follow her?” continued the
girl vehemently. “Hasn’t she done more for me
already than my mother has ever done? Wasn’t
I left, a baby, to the charge of servants who tumbled
me about, and injured my spine, and made me a
fright, so that I shall never get married as long as I
live?” with a choking sob. “And then she hated
me because I was ugly, and any time that I had
died she would have been glad; but I sha’n’t die.
I am going to live for Vivienne. She is making me
well and strong. Do you notice how much better
I am looking?”
“Yes,” he said kindly. “There is a change in
you. You are putting on flesh and have more
color in your cheeks, and I see that you don’t use
your crutches as much as you did. Camperdown,
you know, has told you for years that you were too
dependent on them.”
“Vivienne did it,” said Judy triumphantly. “She
begged me to gradually lay them aside, and she
goes for walks with me, and urges me not to eat
sweets and pore over books. You know mamma
was always bribing me to do something for her by
saying that she would give me a box of caramels
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
and chocolates, and Vivienne puts them in the fire;
and have you noticed, Stanton, that at the table I
watch her and eat only what she does?”
“No; I haven’t.”
“I do; she says it will help me, to see another
person doing without dainties. Was that ice cream
nice this evening?” wistfully.
“I forget; did we have any? Yes, I believe it
was.”
“It was pistachio, my favorite flavoring,” said
Judy. “Vivienne didn’t take it, so I couldn’t.
She was hungry, but she refused ever so many
things. All this afternoon we were at the rink.
She is as graceful as a bird on the ice, Stanton.
She skated in Scotland, so she has kept up with
the new things. She was waltzing with Mr. Trelawney,
and doing the double Dutch roll and the
grapevine and all kinds of figures that I don’t
know; and I walked about and watched her and
sat by the fire in the dressing room and drank only
one cup of tea, for Vivienne was looking.”
“Was your mother there?”
“Oh, yes, and ever so many other people, skating
around and around. Such a gossip and clatter!
Mamma skates gracefully too. Why do fat people
so often skate and dance well, Stanton?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop Stanton; don’t talk any more; Vivienne
is really coming out of her sleep. See her eyelids
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
quivering. What will she say first? ‘Is your headache
better, Mr. Armour?’ Now I am going to
wake her as the princes in the fairy tales wake the
princesses. Don’t you envy me?” and bending
over Vivienne, Judy laid an airy kiss on her lips.
“Heigh ho, maiden, awake!”
Vivienne lifted her heavy lids and started up in
laughing confusion.
“You adore Parkman,” said Judy tantalizingly;
“yet you fall asleep over him.”
Vivienne smiled at her, and without replying
turned to Armour and uttered the predicted sentence.
“My headache is gone, thank you,” he replied,
stroking his mustache in sober amusement.
“I beg your pardon for falling asleep,” Vivienne
went on; “but the sound of your voices was soothing;
I found it impossible to resist.”
“Now what shall we do?” said Judy, jumping
up. “Go to bed, I suppose. What time is it,
Stanton? Ten o’clock; too late for tea in the drawing
room, but we might make some here. Will you
help me, Vivienne?”
“If it will not take very much time.”
“That is another thing that she makes me do,”
said Judy to Mr. Armour, “go to bed early. But
we won’t be long, dearest. Will you drink some
tea, Stanton?”
“No, thank you.”
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
“Perhaps cocoa would be better,” suggested
Vivienne.
“Yes,” replied Judy, “much better. Brian Camperdown
says it is the least harmful of all our beverages.
Do you think you could find us a pot,
Stanton, to boil some water?”
“I will try,” he said, laying his hand on the door
knob.
“Let us all go,” exclaimed Judy, seizing Vivienne
by the hand.
Together they visited kitchen and pantries, and
on their return journey were met by Mrs. Colonibel,
who stared in astonishment at their burdens of a
water kettle, cups and saucers, a cream jug and
sugar basin, biscuits and bread and butter.
“We’re trying a cooking experiment, mamma,”
said Judy. “Stanton is going to boil a book in
that kettle, and Vivienne is to eat it buttered.”
“It is cocoa that we are about to make, Mrs.
Colonibel,” said Vivienne; “we shall only be a short
time.”
The lady smiled benevolently upon them and
proceeded on her way upstairs.
“Talk to us about your beloved France, Vivienne,”
pleaded Judy, a few minutes later, when
they were seated around the fire drinking their
cocoa. “Tell us about beautiful Touraine and the
castles of the Loire. No, begin with the crowd
on the Newhaven boat, Vivienne, and the Frenchwomen
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
that had no berths and had to lie on the
floor. They were deathly ill, Stanton, and cried out
‘Oh la, la, la, la, la,’ and ‘Ha yi, yi, yi, yi, yi,’ and
‘Je meurs! Tout cela va se passer’; and one of
them lost her artificial teeth and couldn’t find
them.”
Vivienne smiled at the remembrance. “It seems
but yesterday,” she said dreamily, “that we landed
in Dieppe, and the people ran across from the shops
to our train, bringing us soups and milk and coffee.
You cannot imagine, Mr. Armour, how very strange
and yet familiar it appeared to me—the French
faces and language. It was as if I had been asleep
all my life and had just waked up.”
“Go on, dear Vivienne; the journey to Paris.”
“I don’t know why it is,” said Vivienne, with an
apologetic smile bestowed on Mr. Armour, “but
Judy never wearies of tales of France.”
“It is because I hope to go there some day,”
said Judy triumphantly; “to visit every place that
you have been in. You need not stare at me,
Stanton; I am going. Proceed, dear Vivienne, describe
to him the lovely scenery on the way to Paris
and quaint old Orléans.”
“Did you send me to Orléans because my father’s
ancestor, Guillaume Delavigne, had come from
there?” said Vivienne to Mr. Armour.
“Partly; also on account of the good Protestant
school in the town, where the facilities for studying
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
French would be better than in Paris where there
are so many English people.”
She looked gratefully at him. He had thought
somewhat of her pleasure. It had not been all
business and sternness with him as she had at first
imagined. She talked on disjointedly for some
time and replied to Judy’s abrupt questions; then
she got up with a quiet, “Now we must say good-night.”
“Ah! not yet, not yet,” pleaded the girl; “you
have not come to the château of the Lacy d’Entrevilles.”
Vivienne stood firm. “Some other time,” she
said smiling. “Let us go now,” and Judy, grumbling
a little, prepared to obey her, though she cast
her eyes about the room as if seeking an excuse to
remain.
“Stanton,” she said amiably, “come up and
have afternoon tea with us to-morrow, will you?”
“With pleasure,” he said with equal amiability.
“You’re a good boy,” said Judy condescendingly.
“I’ll kiss you for that. Bend your proud
neck; I haven’t kissed you for a long time.”
With a little squeal of delight she felt herself
lifted off her feet. “Oh, put me down,” she said
laughingly; “I don’t like to leave terra firma. Now
say good-night to Vivienne. Kiss her too,” she
added mischievously.
Armour gave her a look that made her limp expeditiously
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
out into the hall. Then he extended
his hand toward Vivienne.
What was the matter with the girl? Her happy
gentle demeanor had suddenly turned into stiff reserve
and her face was deathly pale.
“You must not!” she exclaimed, when he
made a step toward her and extended his hand.
“Must not what?” he asked in surprise. Then
her meaning flashed upon him. She thought that
he was going to act upon Judy’s suggestion.
“Can you imagine that I would?” he said hastily;
“that I would be so, so——”
He was still hesitating for a word, when she drew
her fingers from him and hurried away.
He remained rooted to the floor in acute surprise.
Just for an instant the girl’s admirable self-control
had given way. There had been a flash of
the eye, a trembling of the lip. “Something must
have disturbed her,” he muttered. “It could not
be possible that—no, never. She would not fancy
me, a man so much older. And yet it would be
just like one of the tricks that fate plays us. If
she did, if I were a revengeful man, what an opportunity
for me. Stuff and nonsense! What am I
thinking of?” and he threw himself in his favorite
chair for reflection.
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXII | STARGARDE’S MOTHER
.sp 2
A strong north wind raged like a wild beast
over the peninsula on which the city of Halifax
is built, driving before it a blinding snow storm.
Up and down, backward and forward, the wind
whipped the white flakes, till it was a difficult matter
to tell whether they came from earth or sky.
Out on the harbor the wind screamed madly and
flung the snowy crystals into the teeth of perplexed
mariners who were trying to make their wharves,
causing them to shake their heads impatiently, for
the snow is a blanket for them, while fog is but a
curtain.
Not many people were about the streets. A few
pedestrians whose business forced them to go
abroad, went with bent heads and umbrellas under
their arms. The unfortunates who were driving,
had somewhat the appearance of distressed birds
trying to tuck their heads under their wings.
The wind shrieked and howled about square-roofed
Pinewood, but none of the inmates of the
house came out to be tortured by it. It hurled
sheets of snow against the double windows, but the
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
stanch glass would not yield, and the dry and
powdery particles would not cling to the smooth
surface, so the wind had not even the poor satisfaction
of shutting out the light of day from the
house.
With a sob of rage it tried to shake the sober
pines. But they had stood the shock of countless
winter storms and only slightly bending their stiff
bodies and nodding their green heads, with loud
sighs and murmurs warned the wild wind that he
would find no sport with them.
Roaring wrathfully, the wind swept over the
wood and under the trees of the avenue and up the
long, bare road leading to the town. Here at least
he would find a victim in the solitary occupant of a
sleigh jogging slowly out to the Arm.
Sweeping up snow from the road, pouring down
flakes from above, curling, twisting, and howling
about the head of the patient quadruped, the malicious
wind went; but horse and driver, though
blinded, smothered, and half covered with the
snowy atoms, stood the onset firmly. The driver
did not even pull up his horse, but kept moving on
slowly as before.
The wind in a last burst of fury swept out to sea.
There at least he could do some damage.
The man in the sleigh laughed to himself and
put up his head a little way from his high, fur collar
to look about him. One glance was enough.
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
He drew back his head and said quietly, “Get on,
Polypharmacy; you know where we’re going. Sun
or rain, wind or calm, it’s all one to us.”
Not to the bedside of some dangerously sick
person was Dr. Camperdown hastening, but to have
a tedious conversation on imaginary ailments with
a rich and fanciful patient.
“She’s a nuisance, that old Mrs. Prodgers,” he
soliloquized as he turned Polypharmacy’s head toward
the south. “Sent me word yesterday she
was dying. That means she has a headache today.
Hallo, there’s Stargarde,” as a woman’s figure
passed before his horse’s head and hurried down
the snowy road forming the southern boundary of
Pinewood. The grove of pines pressed up close to
the wall at this side of the house, and lower down,
nearer the Arm, was a small gate often used by
Colonel Armour’s friends who approached his place
of residence from the south and wished to save
themselves a longer walk around by the avenue.
“She must be going down to the cottage,” pursued
Dr. Camperdown. “She’s crazy to come out
in this deep snow. She’ll wet her feet, and wet
feet and cold feet are the cause of a third of the
miseries the feminine part of this town is subject
to, if they only knew it. Stargarde, Stargarde!”
and he lifted up his voice; “shall I wait and drive
you home?”
The woman quickened her pace to a run, and
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
plunging through the snow, was quickly at the gate
in the wall which she hastily opened and passed
through.
“Doesn’t want to see me,” he muttered. “Very
good. I can wait,” and he resignedly drove on.
About five o’clock the patient Polypharmacy,
at his master’s command, drew up in front of the
Pavilion. “I won’t throw the rug over you, Polypharmacy,”
said Dr. Camperdown, “for I’m not
going to stay. Stargarde isn’t home. Will leave
this tonic for Zeb, and return in a jiffy. Hallo,
what’s this?”
By this time the snow had ceased falling. A
brilliantly cold and beautiful winter sunset adorned
the western sky. Straggling lines of men with
shovels invaded the houses of the city, begging
for the privilege of clearing the snow from the
sidewalks, and various citizens who had been kept
indoors all day by the severity of the storm now
ventured forth for a stroll before darkness settled
upon the town.
Camperdown’s exclamation was caused by a
small procession coming down the street. Six old
men and three old women were creeping, halting,
and limping along in single file through the snow,
and turned in at the entrance to the Pavilion as if
to go to Stargarde’s rooms.
“Who are these and whence do they come?”
he asked a small boy in red mittens who was alternately
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
watching him and trying to make snowballs
out of the dry and powdery snow which refused to
stick together.
“I guess Miss Turner’s having a cripple tea,”
said the boy. “She often does. The cripples
likes to come together, ’cause they can talk about
their arms and legs.”
“Miss Turner isn’t at home,” muttered Dr.
Camperdown under his breath and hastened in
after the cripples.
A little girl opened the door to him, and said
that Miss Turner was in the kitchen, and he might
go out there if he chose to do so.
He left the child to entertain the cripples, who
were warming themselves by the fire and chatting
amiably to each other, and passing into the kitchen
he found Stargarde standing over a huge pot of
soup that was simmering on the stove.
“That is good soup,” she said emphatically and
lifted a spoonful to taste it. “Oh, how do you do,
Brian?”
“Have you been out this afternoon?” he asked
abruptly.
She lifted her clear eyes to his face. “No, I
have not.”
“There’s not another woman in the town with a
figure like yours,” he said irrelevantly.
“Isn’t there?” she said smilingly. Then looking
about to see that they were alone: “Brian, my
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
friend, do not be annoyed with me if I tell you
that you are coming here far too often lately.”
He was annoyed, in spite of her caution, and
showed it plainly.
“You know I am not one to fear the opinion of
the world when I think the opinion is likely to be
a wrong one,” she went on with a calmness and
sweetness that did much to subdue the opposition
in his mind; “but I am a single woman living
alone. Society is hard on women, unjustly so sometimes;
but there are certain safeguards erected
which are necessary, and which we should respect.
You are neither my brother nor my lover that you
should come here so often. I have never yet been
lightly spoken of, dear Brian, in all my comings
and goings through the city. You would be the
last one to bring reproach upon me——”
He muttered something about coming to see
Zeb.
“Zeb is well now,” she went on; “and Brian, she
is one of my anxieties at present. What is to become
of her? She refuses to go back to her
parents. The mother has sent for her again and
again. Zeb is not happy with me. She still loves
me, but you have the chief place in her affections.
She has worshiped you ever since that day you
saved her from that man. I think I never saw such
infatuation, and she is so quiet about it. You would
scarcely have suspected it if I had not told you.”
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
“Scarcely.”
“I was talking to her this morning of God’s love
for her, but she told me scornfully to stop. If
God had loved her he would have made you her
father instead of that man Gilberto.”
“Am I then as old as that?” asked Dr. Camperdown
wistfully.
Stargarde laughed merrily. “Zeb is only ten,
Brian.”
“I see you have some plan in your head,” he
said. “What is it?”
“I wish you would adopt her,” said Stargarde
with sweet audacity.
Camperdown burst into such a roar of laughter
that Stargarde was obliged to take him into the
pantry to continue their conversation, lest the cripples
should be startled by his merriment.
“She is so odd,” said Stargarde pleadingly.
“To-day she has gone off somewhere, because I
had the cripples coming. She wants one person’s
time and attention. Oh, Brian, save that little
lamb for the dear Lord.”
“I have one lamb called Hannah,” drily. “Two
lambs of that calibre in my pasture would be running
their heads together.”
“I have a family of orphans coming to me next
week,” Stargarde went on. “Zeb will be furious.
She hates other children. Brian, for Christ’s sake
save this little child.”
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
Camperdown shook himself with impatience.
“Suppose I got her, who would take care of her?”
“Old Mrs. Trotley; you know she is the last
survivor of one of the oldest families of Halifax, a
dear, gentle, old lady. Everything has failed her;
she has just given up her little shop——”
“So you want to foist her in on me?”
“Brian, you were railing against the city the
other day for not taking better care of the children
of the poor. Now, here you are not willing to do
your duty by one of them.”
“You are an impracticable schemer. Stargarde,
I wish you could see how beautiful your hair is
against that black jug.”
She paid no attention to the latter part of his
speech. “Well, Brian, will you do this at least for
me? Go to Zeb’s mother and ask her if she won’t
give the child up to me. Any reasonable arrangement
I am willing to make. They are not fit
people to have the custody of a young girl, and if
all else fails, remind her that I shall appeal to the
law which takes children from unworthy guardianship.
I ask you to do this because the woman
avoids me strangely, and will not speak to me.”
“When shall I go?”
“Any time, but soon.”
“I’ll go now,” with unexpected alacrity, and he
darted from the room.
Ten minutes later he stood wiping the perspiration
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
from his heated brow, and wondering whether
he was still in the possession of his senses, or
whether he had fallen a prey to some hideous
nightmare.
He had mounted to the crazy attic den which for
some weeks had been little Zeb’s home, and had
been bidden to enter. Before him he saw a bit of
tawdry womanhood at which he gazed in stupid
and angry fascination.
A transformation had been effected in Zeb’s
mother. Her old rags were gone, and she had
been trying to dress herself like a lady. Was it a
ghastly, bedraggled imitation of his own Stargarde
that he saw there, or did his eyes deceive him? If
he could imagine Stargarde twenty years older
than she was, a ruined, hardened, degraded creature,
a drunkard dragged through the mud of
several large cities, he might have conjured up
something like this bold and hard-featured woman
of unusually large stature who sat in a rickety armchair
by the fire, her dress twitched aside to show
the cheap embroidery of her petticoat, steam rising
in a cloud from her wet boots that she held
pressed close against the bars of the grate.
The most horrible part of the thing to him was
that she saw his emotion, and plainly understood the
cause of it. “Do you think I look like her?”
she asked complacently.
There was no light in the room except that coming
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
from the fire, and he stood a little farther back
in the shadow, so that she might not read so well
the expression of his face, nor hear the sharp click
in his throat which was all he could manage by
way of reply to her.
She shrugged her shoulders, and coolly drinking
from a cup that she held in her hand, said in a
coarse and cynical voice: “You will excuse me; I
am having afternoon tea to refresh myself after a
long walk. Sorry I can’t offer you some, but really
I don’t know where to lay my hand on another cup
and saucer.”
She had been drinking something stronger than
tea, he could tell by her voice, probably at the moment
she had some brandy in her cup, but she was
not by any means overcome by what she had been
taking, and was able to carry on a conversation.
He mastered his emotion, and moistening his lips,
which were as dry as if some one had strewn ashes
across them, said sternly: “I came here to see on
what terms you will part with the child Zeb.”
“Who wants her?” she asked sneeringly.
“I do.”
“What for?”
“To adopt.”
“Will you bring her up a lady?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose the lady of the Pavilion put you up
to this.”
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
At this the man’s two eyes glared at her with so
fierce and red a light from under his shaggy eyebrows
that the woman, bold as she was, saw that
she would spoil her bargain if she persisted in this
reference.
“You’re a gentleman,” she went on composedly;
“in other words a devil, and if you want anything
from me you’ve got to pay dear for it.”
In unspeakable loathing it seemed as if he could
find nothing to say to her, and he made a gesture
for her to continue.
“I might set a price on her,” she went on in
mocking, reflective tones, “and you’d pay me today,
and to-morrow it would be gone. No; you’d
better be my banker for life. I draw on you when
I choose.”
He moved forward a few steps as if to leave the
room, but she cried, “Stop.”
“I’m used to your class,” she said with a frightful
sneer, “and I know what’s passing in your mind.
You’re saying to yourself, ‘The woman is a liar, and
I’d better have nothing to do with her. The police
will get the child from her, and then I’ll have a clear
start.’ But, my fine gentleman,” leering hideously
at him, “don’t you, nor the young lady down yonder
set the police on me for your own sakes. I’ll
make it lively for you if you do. I’m going to
leave this dull little hole soon and go back to
Montreal. Not to please you, but to suit myself.
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
I came here for a purpose. I’ve no reason to serve
you, but if it’s any good to you to know it, I’ve no
intention of meddling with you or the young lady
yonder. You let me alone, and I’ll let you alone.
But I’m hard up now; you give me a certain sum
down, and tell me some place in Montreal where I
can go quarterly, and we’ll call it a bargain.”
Dr. Camperdown drew his breath hard and fast.
“Is Zeb your lawful child?”
“Yes; Gilberto is the only husband I ever had;
a beauty, isn’t he?”
In a few rapid words, for the sight of the woman
was so hateful to him that he could hardly endure
staying in the room with her, Camperdown concluded
the agreement with her. “On the day you
leave Halifax,” he said, “come to me and I’ll give
you a further sum. The sooner you come, the
more you’ll get.”
He turned on his heel, his foot was on the threshold
of the door, when he heard in a hissing voice
close to his ear, “Did you ever hate any one?”
Looking over his shoulder he saw the nearest approach
to a fiend incarnate that it had ever been his
bad fortune to behold. The woman had risen from
her chair, drawn herself up to her great height, and
with hand laid on her breast was staring before her,
not at him, her face convulsed by a fierce and diabolical
rage.
“You are nothing,” she said wildly, “Zeb is nothing,
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
Gilberto is nothing, the lady nothing, to me;
I despise you all, but that man, king of devils,
how I hate him! If I could see him burning in
torment”—and she broke into a stream of fierce
imprecations, compared with which Mammy Juniper’s
ravings were but as milk and water complaints.
“It is hell to me here,” she cried, striking her
breast violently, “to know how to torture him. I
could kill him, but what is that. One pang and all
is over. But to see him twist and writhe in suffering.
That is what I want. I have been to see him
to-day—other days. I said, ‘I starve and freeze.’
What did he say? ‘Woman, who are you? get
you gone.’ O Lord, Lord!” and throwing herself
in her chair, she rocked to and fro in speechless
agony.
The gaudy bonnet slipped over the back of her
chair, and as her paroxysm increased, her coarse,
light hair fell down, and from the rapid motion of
her body to and fro, whipped wildly over her head.
Wrapped in a horrible spell, Camperdown gazed
silently at her for a few minutes. Then he slammed
the door together, and rushing down the crazy steps
at imminent risk of breaking his limbs, quickly
found himself in the street.
“O God,” he said, putting up one of the most
fervent prayers of his life, when he stood once
more under the clear, cold canopy of heaven, and
lifted his eyes to the first twinkling stars of the evening,
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
“keep my pure, white lily from a knowledge
of this!”
He had left Polypharmacy on the opposite side
of the street. As he crossed over to him, and lifted
his weight to put in the sleigh he noticed a little,
lonely figure, that moved away from the horse at
his approach, and leaning against the wire fence
that bounds the Citadel Hill, watched him silently.
“Zeb,” he exclaimed, peering at her in the half
light; “is that you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, but without moving.
“Come here, little girl,” he said with great tenderness
in his voice, “and get in the sleigh with me.”
Without a word of demur the child took her seat
beside him, and allowed him to wrap the wolfskin
rug around her.
“Am glad I met you,” he said. “Have just been
seeing your mother. She says you may come and
live with me, if you choose. Will you, little Zeb?”
He was not by any means a nervous man, but
he shivered at the look the child gave him. She
wished to know whether he was in earnest.
“My house is lonely,” he said; “I want a little
girl to make it cheerful. You will come, won’t
you?”
The child burst into a passion of tears in which
she tried to restrain herself in a curious, unchildlike
fashion, finally slipping off the seat and sitting at
his feet with her head buried in the robe.
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
When he arrived at the Pavilion he tried to persuade
her to come out, but by various unmistakable
signs she gave him to understand that she would
not leave him to go back to Stargarde.
His face twitched with a variety of emotions.
He requested Stargarde to come to the door of her
rooms, for the cripples were at tea and he would
not go in. “I have Zeb,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll
take her—the mother consents; they’ll sign a contract.
Child’s in my sleigh, and I can’t get her
out.”
Stargarde clasped her hands; a lovely, rosy flush
glorified her face. “Oh, I am so glad! Thank the
Lord for that.”
“House will be cold and Hannah’ll be mad,” he
said; “but I’ve got to take her.”
“Zeb won’t mind,” said Stargarde joyfully, “if
she’s with you; you don’t know her faithful heart.”
“What is Mrs. Trotley’s address?” he asked.
She gave it to him, he looking at her the meanwhile
in inexpressible tenderness. “Stargarde,”
softly, “I’ll not come here so much. Don’t want
to bother you. You know what brings me.”
“Yes, yes,” she said hanging her head. “Dear
Brian, it grieves me to grieve you.”
“I know it,” hastily. “But don’t grieve even
for me, my darling. I would like your life to have
no care. But if trouble does come upon you, you’ll
send for me?”
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
“Yes, yes, I will.”
“Nothing would ever separate us,” he said in a
voice vibrating with emotion. “Nothing but your
own free will. You are so fair and lovely; always
a flower blooming amid dark surroundings.”
“Thank you,” she said gayly; “that is a pretty
sentiment.”
With a smile of ineffable affection, he gently
pushed her inside the door. “Go in, my darling;
you will take cold. Don’t tire yourself with the
cripples. Good-night.”
“Zeb,” he said, when he returned to the sleigh,
“come up here, I want to talk to you,” and fishing
under the wolfskin he drew her up and set her
beside him.
“I think I’d like to be a reformer, Zeb, it’s so
easy to go about telling other people what they
ought to do. But when it comes home to self,
that’s a different matter. Zeb, I’m not what I
ought to be.”
“Yer a good man,” said the child half sulkily,
“if there be’s any.”
“Thank you, little Zeb; would you mind saying
‘you’ instead of ‘yer’? Your mother talks good
English, but yours is a little defective.”
“You, you,” repeated the child under her breath.
“I’ll say it, doctor.”
He continued talking to her, but amid her brief
remarks and the many stirring arrangements he
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
made that evening for her comfort, there was before
him all the time the ugly picture of the big,
light-haired woman sitting by the fire, drinking her
tea and drying her feet, her thick lips moving in
the cynical, hardened fashion in which she had
talked to him.
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIII | ON MARKET DAY
.sp 2
Just as the city clocks struck ten on the last
Saturday morning of January of the year of
which we write, Dr. Camperdown came down the
steps and into the street from the large, stone building
known as the post office.
His hands were full of letters and papers that he
had just taken from his private box in the post
office, and which he stuffed into his pockets, as he
carefully picked his steps among the various boxes,
and bundles, and numberless things in the way of
encumbrances with which the sidewalk was almost
blocked.
The scene was not new to him. He was looking
about him absently rather than attentively, till he
caught sight of Stargarde coming over the crossing
from the near Provincial Building, accompanied by
her solemn black dog. She had a little basket on
her arm, and was evidently about to follow the
custom of many Halifax housekeepers who on
Saturday mornings do their marketing themselves.
A glad light, almost instantly repressed, leaped
to his face when he saw her. “Good-morning,”
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
he said, quietly touching his cap, and acting as
though he were about to pass her by.
“Are you not going to speak to me?” she inquired
with a gracious smile and extending a hand
to him. “I wish to praise you a little.”
“For what?” he inquired, opening his eyes,
through which he had been looking in a squinting
fashion at her.
“For your goodness in not coming to see me.
I think I shall have to start a system of cards of
merit, and bestow them upon you at regular
intervals.”
He smiled peculiarly. “I mustn’t take too much
credit to myself; you have given me a new interest
in life.”
“Yes; Zeb. I am longing to talk to you about
her. Can you not walk about with me while I do
my marketing? then we can have a little talk afterward.
You don’t stay in your office Saturday mornings,
I think.”
“No,” and hypocritically concealing his extravagant
joy, he turned and walked beside her.
“You have a very high color this morning, Stargarde,”
he said demurely. "I hope that you are
not
“Why, it is cold, Brian, very cold for Halifax.
Don’t you feel the chill in the air?”
“No,” indifferently, and swinging open his coat.
“I am never cold; don’t feel a lowering of the
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
temperature any more than our friends the market
women. Just look at them, Stargarde,” and with a
sudden interest in his surroundings, now that he
was no longer alone, he pointed to the unique
spectacle before them.
The people in the market on this particular
morning were mostly colored. Their rough sleds,
many of which were drawn by oxen, were ranged
along the gutters close to the pavements. In most
cases the animals had been taken out, and were
fastened to telegraph poles, railings, anywhere that
the ingenious Negro could find a rod or a staff
around which to twine a rope. A few of the oxen
were tethered to the tailboards of their sleds and
stood patiently munching wisps of hay, and surveying
their owners with kind, pathetic eyes.
One woman who had had the good fortune to
dispose of her stock, was just about leaving the
market, skillfully guiding through the crowded
street her tandem pair, consisting of a cow and an
attenuated horse, the horse leading.
“Look at her,” said Camperdown. “Happy as a
queen! She has sold her stuff, and sits enthroned
on a bundle of old clothes, and a few packages of
flour and sugar and a jug of molasses that she’s
taking home to her pickaninnies. You won’t see
many ‘carriage ladies’ with an expression like that.
What’s this? ‘Cow for sail,’” and he read the placard
hanging over the neck of a dirty white animal tied
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
to a telegraph pole. “When does that cow sail?”
to a melancholy-looking Negro standing near, whose
two huge, protruding lips curled back like pink-lined
breakers over the foam-like whiteness of a jagged
reef of teeth.
“She’ll sail now, mister, if you can raise de
wind,” said the man with a depressed yet amiable
smile.
“Ah, Brian, the biter bitten,” observed Stargarde
laughingly.
“He’s gut out three sheets now, I b’lieve, missis,”
the Negro went on inexorably. “You white folkses
be always a makin’ fun of us Niggers,” with an
apologetic grin.
“Oh, take in sail, take in sail,” said Camperdown,
pointing to the obnoxious placard.
“Guess I better, if’n it’s goin’ to send all the white
people into gales of high sterricks,” said the colored
man agreeably. “You be’s the secon’ or third lot
what has come to anchor here, gigglin’ and laughin’.
What’s wrong wid the card, missis?”
“Only one word,” said Stargarde gently, “which
is usually spelt s-a-l-e, rather than s-a-i-l, when one
has anything to sell.”
“Thank you kin’ly, missis. I’ll altercate it,” and
he lazily watched the two people going on their
way.
“Here are eggs,” said Camperdown, “big, white
ones, Stargarde, and butter like gold.”
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
Stargarde stopped beside a shy-faced French
woman, who was standing guard over a wagon, and
asked her how much her eggs were a dozen.
“Dwenty-vive cent, madam.”
“I will take two dozen, if you please, and four
prints of butter.”
Camperdown looked at the woman, and seeing
that he was looking at her, she immediately dropped
her eyes. She was tall and neatly dressed, and
wore a black shawl over her hair and pinned under
her chin. “A Chezzencooker,” he muttered, then
aloud, “What else have you?”
“Smells, zur; dirty sents a ztring.”
“Don’t want any of them; enough bad odors in
Halifax now.”
“Smelts, Brian,” corrected Stargarde. “He
doesn’t understand French,” she said kindly to the
woman.
“Beg pardon, I do; once got a prize at school for
extensive knowledge of the language. Needn’t tell
her I was the only one in the class,” in a lower tone.
“And you have ducks, and chickens, and cherry
bark tied up in neat, little bundles, haven’t you?”
Stargarde went on; “also woolen socks and sarsaparilla.
You must get some of the latter, Brian.
Hannah will make you some tea. She says it is
good for the blood.”
“Give me ten bundles, madam,” he said obligingly.
.bn 288.png
.pn +1
“I have only vive,” said the Frenchwoman, raising
her eyes just long enough to glance at the man,
who seemed to be a very bold kind of monster to
her.
“Very well, give me the five; and in addition
those little brooms. They will do for Hannah to
sweep her hearth.”
“I buy zem for myself, zur,” said the woman
hastily. “We make no brooms; ’tis the Neegurs
that does.”
“Ah,” politely. “I understand. Infra dignitatem.
Thank you, madam,” and he put his parcel
of sarsaparilla under his arm. “Whom does
she remind you of?” he asked Stargarde as they
went on.
“Vivienne, naturally; but Brian, the Chezzencook
people are not the same as the Digby and Yarmouth
French, are they?”
“No; a different lot. Came here at another
time. French though.”
“Oh, yes; I know that. What is happening
here? Brian, let us stand back and watch them.
I do love colored people.”
They withdrew a little from the moving stream
of passers-by on the sidewalk, and accompanied by
the dog placed their backs against the building.
In front of them was a group of colored men and
women, all warmly bundled in odds and ends of
clothing, and laughing, chattering, and joking in
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
the “wisely careless, innocently gay” fashion peculiar
to their race.
“Small wonder that they do not feel the cold,”
said Camperdown. “Just look at the clothes they
have on. Talk about Edinburgh fishwives, they
only wear seventeen petticoats. This stout dame
has on seventy at least, haven’t you, auntie?” he
asked, as a middle-aged colored woman approached
them to get a basket, which was like a little, gay
garden spot on the frozen snow, so filled was it
with bunches of wintergreen and verdant ferns,
dyed grasses, long and feathery, and heaps of red
maple leaves, carefully pressed and waxed to preserve
their flaming tints.
“Hasn’t I what, chile?” she asked, taking her
short, black pipe from her mouth, and regarding
him with a beaming, ebony face.
“Aren’t you pretty well protected against the inclemency
of the weather?” he inquired meekly.
“I don’t know what ’clemency be, but the
weather, good lan’, I knows that. Has to dress
accordin’. Look at me feet, chile,” and she held
up a substantial pair of men’s long-legged boots.
“Inside that I’ve got on socks. Inside that agin,
women’s stockin’s. And I’ve got on other wearin’
apparels belongin’ to men too, and Jemima Jane’s
dress, and Grandmother Brown’s and me own ole
frock, and on me head I puts a cloud, and on me
cloud I puts a cap, and on me arms three pair o’
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
stockin’ legs, and on me hans two pair o’ mitts, an’
over all I puts me bes’ Sunday-go-to-meetin’ mantle,
what I wears to the baptizins, an’ here an’ there,”
mysteriously, “a few other happenins,” and bending
over her basket she closed her thick lips on her
pipe.
Camperdown watched her gravely.
“If you was a colored gemman, an’ had to ris’
in the middle o’ the night, an’ bile your kettle, an’
feed your pig, an breakfus your young uns, an hitch
your ox,” she said presently, straightening herself
up and laughing all over her face at him, “an drive
a thought o’ twelve mile to town, an’ stan’ till gun
fire, and perform your week’s buyin’, an’ peregrenize
home over the Preston roads, which is main bad
this weather, you’d habit yourself mebbe worsen I
do, an’ not look so handsum nuther.”
Roguishly winking at him, she elevated her long
basket to the top of her head and walked away,
her back as straight as a soldier’s. With never a
hand put up to steady the nodding, swaying garden
spot atop of her head, she guided herself among the
crowd of people, her manifold tier of petticoats
bobbing behind her like the tail of a gigantic bird,
and presently disappeared.
“Good souls, those colored people,” ejaculated
Camperdown, looking after her. “They live on
their spirits. Oh, look here, Stargarde,” and he
drew some envelopes from his pocket. “Flora is
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
chameleonizing. She’s going to give a dance for
ma’m’selle. Read that invitation card. I frightened
her into civility.”
“Poor Vivienne,” said Stargarde.
“Happy Vivienne; she enjoys herself. It’s marvelous
to see the coolness with which she treats
Flora—the right line of conduct to adopt. If she
were meek and humble, Flora would impose upon
her shamefully. They’re going to have some lively
times at Pinewood, and that girl will be the leading
spirit. I suppose you’ve noticed that Stanton is
taking rather more interest than usual in her?”
“Yes; take care, Brian; take care. You are
playing at match-making, and it is a dangerous
game.”
“Well,” stoutly, “as you women nowadays are
so busy attending to departments of public good,
what is there for men to do but take up the private
ones, such as the making of marriages? Don’t
alarm yourself though, I don’t do much; only say
a word now and then.”
“But your words have weight.”
“I am glad they have,” sarcastically, “with some
people.”
“In your zeal for Stanton’s interests I hope you
will do nothing to bias Vivienne; she may fancy
Valentine.”
“Is thy servant a sneak?” he asked in an injured
tone of voice. “And that is Stanton’s affair, not
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
mine. He will be as just as the Lord Chancellor;
but ma’m’selle doesn’t love Valentine. He’s too
young; Stanton is just the age for her; he isn’t so
old as his years. He got frozen when he was a lad,
and has stayed frozen ever since. Frost preserves
you know. I want to see him melt now, and dance
for some woman the way the rest of us do.”
“Brian, it makes me nervous to hear you planning
so surely on a thing that may never come to
pass.”
“Stanton is all right,” he continued, rather as if
he were soliloquizing; “but you women are uncertain
qualities. That he will fall in love with her is
a foregone conclusion. He rarely goes anywhere;
never has been brought into intimacy with any
woman for any length of time; propinquity makes
a man either hate or love a woman. He’s disliked
her long enough; can’t keep it up. There will be
a tremendous rebound that will nearly shake the
life out of him; but will she reciprocate?”
“I don’t see how she can help it,” said Stargarde
impulsively; and the mere thought of Stanton beloved
and happy, touched her tender heart and
filled her eyes with tears.
“Nor I,” said Camperdown, with mock enthusiasm.
“Such a sweet and tender bit of marble as
he is! Such a loving block of wood! But you
women like such creatures.”
Stargarde paid no attention to him. “And Valentine
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
too,” she went on earnestly, “I do wish that
he could fall under the influence of some good
girl.”
“If he wants a good girl let him be a good boy,”
coolly. “That’s your own doctrine, Stargarde.
Pray don’t make an exception in favor of Valentine,
when you’ve been so firm with the rest of the
world. You’re one of the new women, you know.
‘A white life for two,’ isn’t that your motto? Same
thorny path of virtue for men and women.”
“Not thorny, Brian.”
“Sometimes I’ve found it so. Just think of all
the pleasant little dissipations I might have had if
you hadn’t been watching me with that lynx eye
of yours. No use to come to you and say, ‘Dear
creature, will you take a tenth place in my affections,
after cards, wine, and other things not worth
mentioning?’ I know what’s in your mind now.
You’re a true woman and have a sneaking fondness
for vagabonds. You love Stanton; but you think
he’s a strong man and can stand alone. You adore
Valentine, and if either brother gets ma’m’selle,
you think it should be the weakling, whose tottering
footsteps need guidance. Come now, tell me,
would you give the French girl to Valentine if it
depended on you?”
She hesitated. “Not as he is now; but we are
commanded to forgive those who repent.”
“Repent; nonsense, my dar—my dear Miss
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
Turner. Can repentance change the corpuscles in
a man’s blood? He sha’n’t have her, dissipated
young scamp that he is. You wouldn’t allow it
yourself if it came to the pinch. No; let ma’m’selle
shake him out of his abominable state of self-complacency,
if you will, but no marriage. A sisterly
affection is what she must bestow upon him.
She’ll tell him some wholesome truths if she gets
to know him better. I hope she may. He’s been
stepping over thorns all his life. I’d like to see
him lie down now, and have a good roll in them.”
“Brian!” and Stargarde looked appealingly
into the piercing eyes of her tormentor and lover.
“It would do him good,” he said, “and we’d
help to dress his wounds afterward. And the little
French girl would be amiable enough to help to give
consolation.”
Stargarde sighed. “Why do you so often call
her little? She is tall.”
“Oh, it’s a mannish façon de parler. Men always
say that about women they like.”
“Do they?” wonderingly. “I haven’t noticed
it.”
“I dare say not. Men as a rule don’t like big
women.”
“Indeed!”
“No; they do not. I heard a man the other
day speaking of a lovely creature, ‘But,’ he said,
‘she is too big to love.’”
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
Stargarde looked disturbed. “Was I the woman,
Brian?” she said sweetly, almost childishly.
“Well—I would have throttled him if he had
said anything else.”
“And do you find me so—so immense?” drawing
herself up to the full height of her charming
and exquisitely proportioned figure.
“Immense; yes. Quite immense.”
She scanned his face with an intentness that gave
him the keenest pleasure, though he deceitfully pretended
to be very much absorbed by a passing
sleigh.
“Stargarde,” he said, when the sleigh had passed
them, “you were criticising me just now, will you
allow me to perform the same kind office for
you?”
“Certainly,” with the utmost cheerfulness in
tone and manner.
“You said that I am getting frivolous. In your
character too, I see signs of weakening. There is
rather an alarming symptom showing itself, of deference
to the opinions of other people who are
very much less clever than you, myself for example.
You have always been so strong, Stargarde;
have stood alone. Now you are becoming
weak, deteriorating, getting to be like other women.
I would check it, if I were you, this inclination
toward the commonplace, the—the childish, if I
may mention the word in your connection. Perhaps,
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
though, the mental weakness follows upon a
physical one. Aren’t you well and happy?”
She was very much discomposed. “Yes, Brian,
I am well and happy; yet, I don’t know what
it is lately, there seems to be a vague disquiet
about me. Perhaps I have been doing more than
I should.”
“That must be it,” soothingly. “You are working
too hard. I will give you a tonic. Now let us
walk down toward the harbor and talk about Zeb.
You received my note?”
“Yes,” the expression of her face suddenly
changing, “and I was so glad that I cried over it.”
“If your gladness had taken the form of coming
to see her, I should have been better pleased,” he
said complainingly.
“I decided that it was better to leave her wholly
to you for a time.”
“Look at this,” he said, drawing a paper from
his inside pocket. “Isn’t she going a pretty pace
for a sometime ragamuffin?”
It was a milliner’s bill for twenty dollars, for one
felt hat trimmed with ostrich plumes.
“Oh, Brian, what did you do about it?”
“Paid it. You must know that my Zeb, or Zilla
as she prefers to be called—she says Zeb is vulgar—has
fully made up her mind to become a young lady
of fashion. She hasn’t got farther than the skin of
decent people yet, and clothes to her are the token of
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
respectability inside and out. I am reading ‘Sartor
Resartus’ to her, but it hasn’t made much impression
yet. Starting on the road to fashion she has
resolved to drag me after her. I suppose you
didn’t notice my new raiment?”
“Yes, I did,” said Stargarde, surveying the remarkably
neat check of his tweed suit. “I never
saw you look so smart, Brian.”
“Zilla hadn’t been in the house three days before
she ransacked my wardrobe. Said it was—well,
Mrs. Trotley says she swore like a ’longshoreman
at the shabbiness of it. She stationed herself at
the window and took observations. Little minx,
like a Halifax girl born and bred, she has taken to
scarlet fever as naturally as a fish uses its fins.
Dotes on the military; would put me in a uniform
if she could. Next to uniform she admires morning
clothes of officers. She sketched one fellow
top to toe for me, collar, tie, trousers, coat, boots;
had her pencil and paper behind window curtains;
then badgered me till I went to the tailor’s. Told her
I wouldn’t ape any man’s garments, but would buy
new fit-out. Have a collar on that almost saws my
neck off, see,” and he held up his head. “Do you
like the pattern of my tie, Stargarde?”
“Very much,” said the woman laughingly. “It
is too delightful to think of Zeb—Zilla’s dictating
to you.”
"I knew you’d enjoy it. Little witch made me
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
go to church with her, to show off my new things
she said. She is a fearful heathen. Wish you could
have seen us Sunday filing into church, I and my
respectable family. Mrs. Trotley always looks, as
she is, a lady. Zilla is like a demon in frocks, with
those wild eyes of hers. She drew a long breath
when we got inside the doors, as if she were going
into a shower bath, clutched my hand, and regularly
mowed down the people with her eyes as she
gazed defiantly about her. She would have slapped
any one that laughed.
“I felt almost as queer—haven’t been to church
for months. Zilla got in a fearful tangle with the
service, but she is not the child to quail before a
ritual. All this week she has been sitting with
prayer-book in her hand. Mrs. Trotley is teaching
her to find places, and I hear ‘Good Lord deliver
us’ and the ‘Apostles’ Creed’ from every corner
of the house. When ladies come to call on Mrs.
Trotley she won’t see them, or if she does, she
talks French. I happened to be in the house the
other afternoon—she had run to meet me, and two
old Miss Bellinghams caught her. She rarely loses
self-possession. ‘C’mont allez-vous?’ she said in a
meek, put-on-voice. Her French is remarkable,
her own composition mostly. The like was never
heard before nor will be again. ‘Don’t you talk
English?’ they asked. ‘A leetle,’ she replied; ‘Je
prefaire to parlee français.’ Poor little brat, she is
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
afraid that her vile English will give her away. She
is taking utmost pains to speak well. Makes me
correct every mistake.”
“And she loves you, Brian,” said Stargarde in a
delighted voice and with flashing eyes.
“I suppose so. Follows me like a dog about the
house. Embraces frequently. Makes my money
fly too, which is proof of feminine affection. First
day or two she was very quiet—not overcome, she
has been about too much for that—but sizing us
up. Then she began to overturn; old Hannah
must go and live with her son. I put my foot
down there. Hannah must stay. Zilla swore a
little, but was pacified by an offer of two maids to
attend properly to the house. New furniture has
been bought, likewise flower pots, bird cages, and
such trash. I expect she’ll ruin me.”
In silent ecstasy, Stargarde gazed at him. Then
she tapped the paper in her hands. “What about
this hat, Brian? Did you let her wear it?”
“No; she threw it in the fire. I told her ladies
wore fine hats; children plain ones. She first got
into a rage and danced and used bad language,
then hurled plumes and hat into the grate, and herself
at my boots.”
“Could not Mrs. Trotley have prevented her
from buying it?”
“The old lady is as wax in her hands. No one
can manage her.”
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
“But you, Brian, you can.”
“Well, yes; I have to; she’d override everything.”
“Are you going to send her to school?”
“Not yet. I give her lessons, and Mrs. Trotley
helps her to learn them. She’s the most indulgent
bit of femininity that I could have found for Zilla.”
“And you are pleased, Brian, that you took the
child?”
“Yes; she has given me an object in life. I
couldn’t endure a stupid child. She is as smart as
one of the saucy sparrows about our streets; she is
a sparrow—and you are like one of those beautiful
gulls circling in the pure air overhead,” he thought
to himself, taking care not to utter the latter sentiment
aloud; “and I am like one of those big,
ugly crows yonder on the beach,” he reflected further,
“hopping over his mates with eyes bent on
the stones to see that he gets his share of the shell-fish.
And by and by the white-winged gull will
come down and sit quietly beside that old crow.
And he will slay mollusks for himself and her too.
I beg your pardon; what were you saying?”
“That I would like to see Zilla. I will call to-morrow.”
“Come this evening,” hospitably, “and have dinner
with us. I will telephone for ma’m’selle and
Judy, if you will.”
“Thank you,” said Stargarde, critically examining
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
his face to see whether there was any feverish
anxiety visible that she should accept the invitation.
There was not. “I really believe,” she reflected,
her blue eyes sparkling like the waves beyond them,
“that the child is weaning him from me. I am
overjoyed,” and she really fancied that she was.
By the quick insight of love he was well aware
of what was passing in her mind. “You little
guess, beautiful bird,” he thought, as he walked
with his gaze bent on the ground, “why it is that
your protégée has become the light of my eyes.”
“Yes; I will come,” she said at last. “I shall
enjoy doing so.”
“You will see a change in Zilla even in this
short time. Regular diet and an untroubled mind
are doing wonders for her. Her cheeks are filling
out. Her hair, now that it is properly taken care
of, looks no longer like Gorgon locks. I daresay
she may turn out to be a beauty. Her eyes are
not so civilized as ma’m’selle’s, but when she gets
that wild stare out of them, they will be just as attractive.
That foreign streak in her blood makes
her uncommon—an uncommon liar too. Wish I
could get her to stop it.”
“Does she tell many stories?”
“Not to me. She is an acute little liar. Rarely
gets trapped. I told her the Lord would punish her
if she didn’t stop imposing on Mrs. Trotley and Hannah.
She said that wouldn’t be fair. If the Lord had
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
wanted her to be truthful he shouldn’t have given her
to her mother to bring up, for she told lies oftener
than the truth. I reminded her that ladies didn’t
lie—may I be forgiven! That made a profound impression,
and I can see an improvement. She won’t
steal. Says it is—no, I can’t tell you what she
said. Her language is forcible at times. She is
brave—brave as a tigress; would kill any one, I
think, that laid a hand on me.”
“She will get over her faults in time,” said Stargarde.
“Think of her wild, undisciplined life so
far. Oh, Brian, if I could only tell you what a
noble thing you have done in taking Zeb. It is
not the little, perishable body alone that you are
caring for, but the immortal soul as well. There is
something about the child that appeals to me
strangely. I felt it to be a heart-breaking thing
that she should be with those depraved creatures,
her parents.”
“Brutes,” said Camperdown. “The devil’s own.
He will get them.”
“Not the devil’s own; the Lord’s own, Brian.
He has not given them up.”
“I think he has—one of them.”
“Which one?”
“The mother, Mrs. Frispi, as she calls herself.”
“We shall see. Zilla’s good fortune may make
the mother more kindly disposed toward us. She
may allow me to talk to her in time.”
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
“I wish that you would let her alone,” he said
hastily.
“Nay, Brian, I cannot promise you that; and
now I must go back to the Pavilion.”
He stood, cap in hand, looking after her as she
walked away with a light firm step.
“Very carefully I spread a net for you, beautiful
bird,” he muttered enjoyably; “and you slightly
tangled your adored feet in it, and after you have
fluttered awhile I will set you free. The best of it
is you haven’t a suspicion of it. You’re dead in
love, beautiful bird, and I’m trying to let you know
it,” and he chuckled to himself.
“She’s saintly; very saintly,” he went on, after
a time; “makes me feel vicious by comparison. I
guess I’ll go to tease Stanton,” and swinging on his
heel he walked at a brisk pace along Water Street,
grimy, dirty Water Street, smelling of fish and oil
and tar, and having more individuality than all the
other streets of the town put together.
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIV | AN ANSWERED QUESTION
.sp 2
Trucks, low sleds, and huge wagons emerged in
a steady stream from lanes leading down to
the wharves, where ships great and small lay moored.
Rumbling out of these lanes with much noise and
cracking of whips from impatient drivers, these heavy
vehicles were a constant menace to unwary passers-by.
Dr. Camperdown having relapsed into a reflective
mood had a number of narrow escapes. Jumping
aside just in time, he went on his way, brushing
heedlessly along by sailors, hoarse-voiced captains
of fishing craft who wore bright-colored scarfs
around their throats, the few women who appeared
in the street, and an occasional shivering child,
running with a few cents in its hand to the nearest
eating-place for something to supplement a late
breakfast.
At frequent intervals he passed by clothing shops,
whose dangling garments of oilskin, fur rugs, and
woolen wraps formed numerous little arbors in
front of their entrance doors. Once a swinging
line of rough socks caught in his cap, was impatiently
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
swept aside, and fell to the ice and snow on
the pavement. The irate shopkeeper rushed out,
and sent a volley of bad language after him, which
Camperdown listened to complacently, and then
strode on without replying.
At last he arrived in front of the place he sought—a
substantial, brick building with Armour & Son,
Cobequid Warehouse, in gilt letters across its wide
archway.
He wished to go down the wharf to Mr. Armour’s
office, and passing under the heads of a
pair of mules that were dragging a load of barrels
of flour out into the street, he followed a narrow,
plank walk at the side of the building, occasionally
glancing up as he did so at the rows of barred,
prison-like windows above him.
“A more ponderous erection this, than the first
one,” he said half aloud. “Wonder how long it
will stand? ’Till after poor Stanton is in his grave
probably;” and opening a door before him, he
stepped into a small passage which gave private
entrance to Mr. Armour’s office.
A tap at the door and he was permitted to enter
by a curt, “Come in.”
In a good-sized room of moderate height sat the
virtual head of the Armour firm, a pen between his
fingers, his eye engaged in running up and down
the columns of an account book that he held
propped up before him.
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
The doors of the massive safes sunk into the wall,
stood half open; inside could be seen in compartments,
filed papers, rows of books, and small padlocked
boxes. On the wall hung calendars, the
signal service system of the port of Halifax, a map
of Nova Scotia, and various memoranda relating to
the business.
Camperdown approached the heavy table where
Mr. Armour sat, and throwing his cap on it, pulled
toward him one of the haircloth easy-chairs of the
room, and said agreeably as he sat down, “Morning,
Stanton. Is business progressing?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Armour, a faint smile hovering
about his lips.
He had just received news from his Jamaica
agent of the profitable sale of some West Indian
cargoes, and was feeling almost cheerful in consequence
of it—the making of money being the one
ray of sunlight in his joyless existence. However,
he did not tell Dr. Camperdown this, and the latter
went on:
“There’s a point in the science of killing people,
Stanton, that I’d like to have you know. When
you tackle me, don’t do it with cold steel, or frost
and snow and icy atmosphere. If I’m going to be
put out of the world, let me have an easy, comfortable
going. Something warm and pleasant.”
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,”
said Armour in a cold voice.
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
“Drowning is a pleasant death,” went on Camperdown
inexorably; “or bleeding; cyanide of
potassium kills a cat quickly. You can shoot a
dog quicker than you can starve him. More agreeable
to the dog too.”
“Your jesting is unintelligible to me.”
“I daresay,” replied Camperdown. “Why don’t
you try to make ma’m’selle happier, Stanton?”
Armour scanned him silently.
“She’s eating her heart out about something,”
said Camperdown with suspicious smoothness.
“Those French people are all fire and suppressed
passion. You don’t understand them, Stanton.”
“I have had some experience with French
people,” said Armour tranquilly.
“Well you don’t understand women, anyway.”
“And you do.”
“Yes, I know just how to manage them. I
know how to do most things. With the boundless
conceit of the average man I think I could run the
universe. Why don’t you buy ma’m’selle some
new gloves, Stanton? I noticed that she had on
shabby ones the other day.”
Armour burst into one of his rare and mirthless
laughs. “Really, Camperdown, you are hard to
suit with regard to this young lady. Is this the
fifth or the sixth time that you have interviewed me
about her? Would you accept a position as lady’s
maid out at Pinewood?”
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
“No, I wouldn’t,” said his listener with a growl.
“I want to do my duty by her,” said Armour.
“She has always had a handsome allowance. I
rarely notice a woman’s dress; but she certainly
would have attracted my attention had she been
imperfectly clad.”
“Do you ever look at her, Stanton?”
“Yes; occasionally.”
“You do not like her?”
“I really cannot see that my feeling toward her
matters in the slightest degree,” said Armour evasively.
“By the way, now you are here, will you
prescribe something for me? I am having insomnia
again.”
“Go to bed early; eat more; and when you leave
your office leave your business behind you, not
take it home and work half the night in your
library,” and Dr. Camperdown surveyed his patient
in great moodiness. “I won’t give you powders,
so you needn’t ask me. You’re breaking natural
laws and have been for years. There’ll be a collapse
some day.”
Mr. Armour’s quiet self-possession did not leave
him, and he returned his friend’s gaze with tranquil
eyes.
Something in his glance reminded Camperdown
of Stargarde, and a softer mood came over him.
“Stanton,” he said, and he stretched one hand
across the table, “what is the matter with you?”
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
Mr. Armour measured him with a glance of calm
surprise, and made no answer.
“What is it that happened,” Camperdown went
on, “to freeze you, to turn you from a living man
to a block of ice—what is it, Stanton?”
Again there was no reply, and his friend continued
eagerly:
“You are alive; you eat, drink, sleep, and walk
about, yet there is no joy in living. Have you
ever heard of the drug ‘curare’?”
Armour shook his head.
“It is much in favor with certain members of
my fraternity. They use it, as they say, in the interests
of science and for the benefit of mankind.
Animals to whom it is administered cannot move
or cry out, but their nerves are rendered acutely
and intensely sensitive. Sometimes,” softly, “I
fancy that you have been curarized, Stanton.”
Armour smiled in rather a ghastly way, and murmured
some unintelligible reply.
“By our ancient friendship,” said Camperdown
in persuasive accents, “tell me. If you are in
trouble, let me share it,” and uneasily getting up
as if he could not remain on his seat, he tramped
about the office, not noisily, but very gently, and
pushing the chairs aside with his foot. “Stanton,”
coming and bending over the immovable figure at
the table, “I have liked very few men, of them
you most of all. When we were lads, I loved you
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
like a girl. I never told you, but the ancient liking
has not entirely passed away. I would help
you if I could,” and the pent-up emotion of years
found expression in a movement that from Brian
Camperdown was a tender caress; he stooped
down and laid his arm across his friend’s shoulder.
Something of Armour’s immobility gave way.
A slight flush rose to his face, and he said huskily:
“I am grateful to you, but there is nothing to tell.
My business oppresses me.”
“Is that all?” asked Camperdown keenly.
“You know it is not. You’re eaten up by some
worry; everybody knows it.”
Armour pushed back his chair, and rose suddenly.
“Is it as bad as that?” he said hastily.
“Am I remarked upon?”
“We don’t see ourselves as others see us. People
know that you’re not in a normal condition.
Of course they discuss you. Who are you that the
rest of the world should be gossiped about and
you go scot free? Now you’ll try to mend, won’t
you? Throw your burden into the sea. Tell
some woman about it, if you won’t trust me. If
she loves you, you’ll be supremely happy; if she
doesn’t, you’ll be supremely miserable, which is
the next best thing. Take that little French girl
into your heart, Stanton. Next to Stargarde she
comes, sweet and true and gentle, and yet full of
fire; just the right qualities for you.”
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
Armour looked at him in undisguised dismay.
“This is wildness; in the name of mercy stop.
Have you been propounding this fine scheme to
her?”
“Yes; we discuss it often,” said Camperdown,
throwing sentiment to the winds and coming back
to his accustomed state of irritability; “she’s no
more in favor of it than you are; says she had as
soon wed a mummy as you. Also that you’ve been
detestable to her. Good luck to you in your wooing,”
and with a look of unqualified disapprobation
he strode to the door, slammed it behind him, and
hurried through the streets to his own office, where
a formidable array of patients restlessly awaited
him.
Left alone Armour glanced about him in an impatient
way. As if with mischievous finger the
words had been traced on the wall, he saw them
staring at him whichever way he turned, “Take the
little French girl into your heart; take the little
French girl into your heart.” The very air seemed
to be ringing with the foolish speech.
“I wish that Camperdown would let me alone,”
he muttered irritably. “I shall never marry; if I
ever did, she is the last woman in the world that I
could or would choose. If he knew everything he
would not be so ready with his advice.” Then his
face softened. “I wonder what she would say if
she could know of this conversation. I have never
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
satisfied myself about that suspicion. I will do so
to-day,” and with the air of a man well used to
mastering his emotions he set his book up before
him again, and was soon busy with the solution of
some financial problems in which he had been interrupted
by the entrance of his friend.
An hour or two later his man came to take him
home to lunch. “I shall not go back so early as
usual,” he said, as he left the sleigh at Pinewood.
“Come for me half an hour later.”
At the lunch table he did once glance at the place
where Vivienne sat quietly eating her baked potatoes
and roast beef, and listening with an amused
air to Judy’s semi-sarcastic remarks.
Mrs. Colonibel, busy with some thoughts of her
own, scarcely spoke, and Colonel Armour and
Valentine were not present.
“Will you be good enough to come to the library
for a few minutes,” said Armour, letting his blue
eyes rest for an instant on Vivienne as they left the
table.
With a murmured reply in the affirmative, she
passed by him as he held open the door for her.
“He looks as if he were going to scold her,”
said Judy turning to her mother. “Do you know
whether he thinks that she has been doing anything
out of the way?”
“No,” said Mrs. Colonibel, coming out of her
reverie; “I don’t; but I know that he scarcely
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
approves of anything that she does. He fairly
hates her.”
“Does he?” chuckled Judy with a sly glance at
her mother. “She is not afraid of him at any rate.
I admire her, mamma—she’s so cool and sweet.
Don’t you wish you were like her?” and with an
impertinent laugh the girl slipped by her.
“I shall not detain you long,” Armour was
saying to Vivienne in the library. “I only want to
give you this,” and he took an envelope from his
pocket, “and to ask you to pardon me for my
thoughtlessness in not handing it to you before.”
Vivienne blushed painfully and put back his
proffered hand with the question, “Is it money?”
“It is.”
“I cannot take it,” and she drew a long breath
and looked at the door as if she would like to
escape from the room.
“Why not?”
“I do not need it.”
He surveyed her in quiet disapprobation.
“You are vexed with me because I did not give
it to you before. But I forgot that you would still
have expenses, though under my roof.”
“No, I am not vexed; but I still have some
money left and I cannot take any more from you.”
“Again I ask, why not?”
“Because—because I do not think that it is right
for me to do so.”
.bn 314.png
.pn +1
She was very much disturbed though she controlled
herself admirably. In an interested fashion
he noted the whiteness and evenness of the teeth
pressing nervously against the red rebellious lips to
keep them from bursting into speech.
“Pardon me,” he said; “but I like to get at
motives. Do you refuse this money because you
dislike me so intensely or——”
“Oh, no, no,” she exclaimed, eagerly and protestingly.
“You have avoided me so studiously lately,” he
went on, “that really I began to fear it was marked
by other people.”
Always that fear of what others would say.
Vivienne smiled demurely. “You mistake me; I
never felt so grateful to you—not even when I was
a little girl and used to carry about a picture of
Napoleon because it resembled you.”
“Did you really admire me to that extent?” he
said ironically.
“I did.”
“And now you dislike me,” he said with persistence.
“I have told you that I do not, Mr. Armour.”
“You endure me then?”
“No, I do not endure you;” and she laughed
outright. “I am, as I said before, intensely grateful
to you.”
“She has as many moods as there are hours in
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
the day,” he soliloquized in internal discontent. “I
wonder how I had better make my next attempt?”
She spoke first. “Mr. Armour, you said that
you brought me here to accomplish a certain purpose,
and when it was accomplished I might leave.
Has the time not yet come?”
“It has,” he replied with a return to his usual
heavy expression. “You may go at any time. My
design has been frustrated, as so many of my designs
are.”
“I am sorry,” she said, “very sorry, for I know
that whatever your purpose was, it was a worthy
one.”
“That is a kind thing for you to say,” he responded
with unusual animation, “and very fitting.
Now you will take this money.”
“I cannot, Mr. Armour, and——”
“You will not,” he said finishing her sentence
for her, “not even to gratify me. Well, though
you will soon leave me, as I see you plan to do, I
shall still have a care of your movements.”
She cast down her eyes. “I will take it,” she
said hurriedly. “If you would believe me I would
tell you that I am more pained to reject kindnesses
from you than you are to have them rejected.”
“Is that the truth?” he asked calmly.
“It is.”
“We shall miss you after you go away,” he
went on after he had seen the envelope bestowed
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
in her pocket; “but you, I fancy, will be happy to
leave us.”
“No, no, not happy; I shall regret it.”
“You will miss Judy,” he continued; “the other
members of the family you are indifferent to.”
She lifted her glowing eyes to his face. There
was a method in his way of questioning her, and it
effected an immediate change in her manner. “If
you have no more to say to me,” she observed
quietly, “I will go away.”
“I have nothing more,” he said, “except to
make the simple observation that you are free to
return here at any time.”
“I shall not return, Mr. Armour.”
The proud sadness of her tone touched him.
“You arrogant child,” he exclaimed, “how can
you tell? What do you know of life?”
“I know what is right for me to do,” she said
almost inaudibly, “and I must not keep you any
longer.”
“Stay,” he said, “just for one instant. Till you
answer my last question. Judy is the one that you
most dread the parting from?”
“Yes, Judy—why not Judy?” she said composedly.
It was not Judy. He saw who it was in every
curve of her suddenly erect, defiant figure, in every
line of her dark annoyed face as she went quickly
away.
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
“I have not been engaged in a very honorable
employment,” he said when he was left alone.
“Baiting an innocent girl has not heretofore been
one of my pastimes; but I wanted to find out—and
she has teased me and braved me as no other
woman has ever done. She loves me.” And with
a deep flush of gratification he drew on his gloves
and left the room. “Hereafter her position in my
house will be very different. Perhaps she may not
leave us—who knows?” And with a growing conviction
in his mind that there were things in the
world of more interest than money-making, he
drove to his office.
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXV | ZILLA’S ROSEBUD
.sp 2
Miss Zilla Camperdown sat on the
top step of the second staircase in the
house of her adoption, carefully nursing a small
parcel done up in white tissue paper, and watching
patiently the closed door of a bedroom beyond
her.
At last the door opened, and Dr. Camperdown
appeared. “How do I look?” he asked, surveying
her with a smile so broad and ample that her
small form was fairly enveloped by it.
In speechless delight she caught him by the
hand, and leading him back into his room, devoured
with her eyes every line of his figure.
“How do I look?” he said again, but the child,
as if words failed her to describe the perfection of
the sight, waved him toward the full length reflection
of himself in the pier-glass between his windows.
He gazed complacently at it, and saw a closely
cropped, large, but finely shaped sandy head, a
trimmed moustache, and a new suit of evening
clothes that fitted admirably his strong and powerfully
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
built figure. “Look like a dandy, Zilla,” he
muttered. “Body’s all right, so it doesn’t matter
about the ugly face.”
“You’re a bouncer,” she said beatifically.
“There’ll not be one like you at the toe-skippin’.”
“At the what, Zilla?” he asked, twisting his
neck in order to get a view of his coat tails.
“The dance,” she said hastily. “There’ll be
women there, I suppose. Don’t let them run their
eyes after you, Dr. Brian.”
“Why not, my child?”
“You might be wantin’—wantin’ to fetch one
of them here,” a spasm of jealousy contracting her
brows.
He did not notice it, being still intent upon his
coat tails. “Suppose I did bring one, Zilla—what
would you do?”
“I’d dash vitriol at her,” said the child softly;
“then she’d run away.”
He turned sharply to her with the sternest expression
upon his face that she had ever seen there.
Her words had conjured up a vision of his beloved
Stargarde hiding her disfigured features from him,
and Zilla gloating over her misery. “Your badness
is awful,” he said backing away from her; “it
is the badness of big cities. Thank Heaven, we
don’t have it here.”
His words were as a spark to inflammable material.
.bn 320.png
.pn +1
Immediately the child fell into a raging passion.
Her joy in his affection for her had been so
acute that it had almost amounted to pain, and her
fury at his annoyance was so intense that she reveled
in it with a mad sense of pleasure. She
could not speak for wrath, but she returned his
gaze with ten-fold interest, and walking deliberately
up to the long mirror, she poised the dainty heel of
her slipper and sent it crashing through the glass.
He neither spoke nor stirred, though some of the
broken glass came falling about the toes of his
patent leather shoes.
She caught her breath, flung at him a whole
mouthful of her forbidden “swear words,” and
sprang at a razor on his dressing table.
At this he started toward her quickly enough,
and his hand closed over hers just as she seized the
shining steel. She struggled with him like a small
wild beast, but her strength was powerless against
his. “Drop it! drop it!” he said commandingly;
then more kindly, “Put it down, Zilla.”
At the change in his tone she looked up at him,
and unclasping her fingers from the handle, allowed
the dangerous instrument to slip to the floor.
Still holding the little menacing hands, he sat
down and took her upon his knee. “Did you wish
to kill me with that razor?” he asked.
“No; myself,” she said with a sob. “I’m tired
o’ living.”
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
Tired of living because she fancied that he had
ceased to love her. “Zilla,” he said, “I have a
dev—a demon of a temper.”
For answer the child buried her face, as he uneasily
reflected, in the glossy bosom of his evening
shirt front, and wept as if her heart would break.
Yet he did not disturb her, except to pat the back
of her head and murmur: “Don’t cry, child—you
wouldn’t really be angry with me if I got married,
would you, Zilla?” he asked, after her passion
seemed somewhat subdued. “You know that I
hope to make Miss Turner my wife some day.”
“I would not mind her so much,” said the child
reluctantly.
“And you would not do anything to hurt her?”
“No.” And she raised her tear-stained face to
assure him that she spoke truly.
“No one has been putting nonsense in your
head about my marrying you, Zilla?” uneasily.
“Marry you!” she said in accents of the utmost
scorn. “I’m not fit enough, and I’m only a little
girl. ’Twould be too long to wait.”
“Far too long,” cheerfully. “We’ll get you a
husband when you’re ready for one. Sensible men
don’t marry babies, or rather young girls.”
She understood him and smiled comprehendingly.
Then she said humbly: “Don’t delay yourself
any more—it’s time to go. May I say prayers to
you first?”
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
“Yes,” he replied, gravely subduing his astonishment
at this, the first request of the kind that she
had made to him. She knelt down by his knee,
and pressing her little hot cheek against his hand,
repeated devoutly a series of eminently proper and
reverential prayers that Mrs. Trotley had taught
her, but which, on account of long words, could
not possibly convey to her mind any apprehension
of their meaning.
At the last of the many “Amens,” she lifted her
face and said with unspeakable sadness and humility,
“Can I pray an extra?”
“Yes,” he returned, biting his lip; “as many as
you please.”
She immediately poured forth one of the heart-felt,
childish supplications which the young when
in agony of soul will sometimes utter, and to his
mingled shame and confusion it was addressed to
himself, rather than to the Supreme Deity, who was
but a shadowy and mysterious unreality to her.
“Dear Dr. Brian, cut the devil out of my heart
and make me like you,” it began, and continued
on through his list of virtues—in spite of his recent
admission with regard to his temper—and a vehement
and longing invocation to be more like him,
so that he would not get angry with her.
He did not dare interrupt her, and sat looking
at the reflection of his red and confused face in the
unbroken part of the mirror opposite.
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
With a final sob, not dreaming that she had done
anything unusual, she quietly put up her cheek for
his usual good-night kiss.
“Good-night, dear Zilla,” he said, in a rather
tremulous voice. “Will you not call me brother
in future, rather than doctor?”
The child stared at him incredulously, then flung
her arms around his neck in a choking embrace,
murmuring in eager delight, “Brother Brian,” and
rushed from the room.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Must try
to teach her a simpler prayer,” gruffly. “What’s
this, something she’s dropped?” and he picked up
the crushed paper parcel on the floor. It contained
a little, headless stalk wrapped in silver foil. The
rosebud top had rolled under the table in Zilla’s
struggle with him. He knew that during the afternoon
there had been an excursion made to a distant
greenhouse by Mrs. Trotley and Zilla, and had
guessed that it was to obtain a boutonnière for him.
“Poor child,” he muttered; “her rosebud shall
go to the dance,” and taking it in his well-shaped
hands, he, by means of one of his surgeon’s needles
and a bit of thread, quickly fastened bud and
stalk together and placed them in the silk lapel of
his coat.
The coat he took off and laid carefully on the
bed, and then proceeded to exchange the shirt blistered
by Zilla’s tears for a fresh one.
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
A quarter of an hour later he was standing in
front of the sleigh waiting for him by the pavement
and attentively scrutinizing Zilla’s windows.
Yes; the curtains were drawn slightly apart. He
threw back his topcoat, pointed to the rosebud,
and waving his hand to her entered the sleigh.
“By love I have won her, by love I must keep
her,” soliloquized Camperdown, as his sleigh traversed
the distance between his house and the Arm.
He soon arrived among the vehicles, opened and
closed, that were dashing up to Pinewood and depositing
their occupants at a side entrance to the
house, the large front hall being given up to dancing.
By a back stairway he was directed to a
dressing room, and joining a stream of people, for
Mrs. Colonibel’s dance was in reality a ball, proceeded
down the wide staircase to the drawing
rooms. Mrs. Colonibel, magnificent in pink satin,
was receiving her guests inside the back drawing-room
door. Colonel Armour, the handsomest man
present, in spite of his snowy hair, was with her, as
also was Valentine. Stanton was not visible. Beside
Mrs. Colonibel stood Vivienne, dressed as usual
in white, and receiving the salutations of the many
friends of the house, not with the shy, uncertain
manner of the débutante, but rather with the serene
and conventional reserve of a woman of the world.
“Both smiling angelically and neither of them
enjoying it,” muttered Camperdown, pushing aside
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
the purple train of a lady’s dress with his foot, and
stepping behind Mrs. Colonibel. “Solomon in all
his glory wasn’t a patch on her,” surveying the
back of her elaborately-trimmed gown. “And
ma’m’selle hasn’t an ornament. Sensible girl!
This is a frightful ordeal for her, this plunge into
society in a place that her parents fled from. Far
better for Flora to have given her a tea; much
more suitable for the coming out of a young girl.
That’s what we’ll give Zilla. But I must perform
my devoir,” and he fell in behind a group of ladies
who were coming up to greet their hostess, followed
by the gentlemen of their family.
Mrs. Colonibel’s fascinating smile was met by an
encouraging one on his part, and pressing gently
the white-gloved hand of the girl beside her, he
passed on to make way for another bevy of ladies.
Nodding to men acquaintances, and bowing to
every woman whose eye he could not escape, he
passed through the room and along the verandas,
which had been covered in for the evening.
“As gorgeous as the sun at midsummer, Will
Shakespeare would say,” he soliloquized. “Light,
heat, music, jewels, fine raiment on pretty, painted
peacocks, strutting about to show their tails to each
other—Flora’s idea of heaven. Wonder if Stargarde
is about?” With a wholesome fear of imperiling
delicate silks and laces, he cautiously
re-entered the hall, lifted up his eyes, and saw
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
Stargarde and Judy bending over the railing of the
circular well in the third story of the house. He
smiled at them, and in a few minutes they heard
his step on the stairway.
“Oh, what a dude!” exclaimed Judy. “Just
observe his broadcloth and fine linen, Stargarde,
and his boutonnière, and perfume too, I believe;
that’s the little wildcat’s doings.”
“Hold your tongue, Judy,” he said shyly, slipping
in to rest his arms on the railing between her
and Stargarde.
“Oh, but really, you know, it is too overcoming,”
said Judy saucily. “And his hair, Stargarde! What
have you done with your sandy locks, Brian? Isn’t
the back of his head nice?” and she ran her fingers
lightly over it. “I’m proud of you, my physician,”
and thrusting her hand through his arm,
she looked down on the moving groups of people
below. “They’re just going to start the dancing;
the musicians are in a little room off the library.
Stanton had to leave his den for once.”
“Where is he?” interrupted Camperdown.
“Dressing; he was detained in town. Doesn’t
the house look nice, Brian? We’ve had a florist
here all day. I like the palm grove in the back
hall best of all. Mamma must be dead tired.
She has been at the thing for a week. Stanton
for once let her have all the money she wished.
All day she has been fussing about the supper, and
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
watching the thermometers; the house isn’t too
warm yet, whatever it may be later; and the men
were late in coming to take up the hall carpet.
There go the lancers. I wish I could dance.”
Camperdown was not listening to her, being engaged
in carrying on a conversation in a low note
with Stargarde, who seemed strangely listless and
inattentive.
“Stargarde forgot that it was the night of the
ball,” said Judy. “She came sauntering out here
about six o’clock in that cotton gown, and said that
mamma had invited her to something, she didn’t
know what, but thought it was a dinner. Isn’t she
queer, Brian?”
“Very,” he replied; then to the subject of their
remarks. “You look pale; will you sit down?”
She sank obediently into the big chair that he
pulled up for her, and he resumed his talk with her.
Judy watched the dancing going on below, and
listened to the music as if she were entranced, occasionally
hushing Mammy Juniper, who sat on a
stool in the corner, rocking herself to and fro and
groaning, “O Lord, forgive! Good Lord, pardon!”
and similar ejaculations.
“There is Stanton,” exclaimed Judy. “I must
speak to him,” and she limped down to the hall
below.
“Not bad looking,” she said, critically surveying
his calm, well-bred face and heavily built though
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
finely proportioned figure. “Might even pass for
a handsome man. Why is it that men always look
so well in evening clothes? Stanton,” speaking in
a low tone, “when I told Vivienne that your business
engagements might keep you in town this
evening she looked as if she didn’t care at all.”
“Perhaps she didn’t,” he said coolly.
“Bah—you’re a man! She did care. What did
you say the other day to make her angry?”
“Nothing.”
“You did something.”
“No, I did not,” he said quietly; “but really I
must refuse to have Miss Delavigne thrust upon
me at every turn.”
“Come, look at her and see how lovely she is,”
and Judy drew him toward the circular opening in
the hall. “Aren’t her bows delicious? Do you see
Valentine watching her? He is happy because she
is going to dance with him presently, and I don’t
believe she wants to, for she is afraid that he is
going to get silly over her, just as he has been over
other girls.”
“Did she tell you this?”
“No, but I know it. What a pity that you have
given up dancing, Stanton.”
“I must leave you,” he said abruptly, and in a
few minutes he was moving quietly about among
his guests below.
“You may pretend and pretend as much as you
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
like,” said Judy sagely, “but you’re a changed
man, and everybody notices it; ten times more
cheerful, ten times more anxious to be at home,
and always with that glitter in your eye. Poor
mamma and poor Val!” and chuckling happily she
returned to her former place of observation.
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVI | THE MISERY OF THE WORLD
.sp 2
The house was only pleasantly filled, and there
was no crush anywhere. Shaking hands and
bowing to many people on his way, Armour passed
through the drawing rooms, the library, and the
dining room, where on a long table, pots of delicate
maiden hair and slender ferns nodded over dishes
of dainty china and glassware heaped high with
sweetmeats and every dainty viand possible to procure
for the elaborate menu of a ball supper.
The wide hall where the dancing was going on
was, in spite of the season of the year, like a bower
in its profusion of growing plants and cut flowers,
whose heavy rich odors were as incense to the nostrils
of his cousin—a woman of tropical tastes.
Everybody seemed to be stirring about. There
were no dull groups along the walls and the ripple
of conversation and laughter was a constant one;
and no one was in need of special entertainment
he was happy to observe. This was the result of
Mrs. Colonibel’s invariable custom of doubling the
number of her young lady guests by members of
the opposite sex, the usual proclivity of men to
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
look on at a dance rather than to engage in it,
being well known to her. So Armour was free to
enjoy himself in his own way, and feeling no responsibility
for the present as a host he joined a knot
of people who were watching the dancers from a
doorway.
The musicians were playing sweetly and with no
lapses into braying discordancy a new waltz, “Vive
la Canada.” The whole house was flooded with
their strains, so strong and soul-stirring, yet so well-modulated
that those in the near library were not
disturbed by them.
Patriotism it was probably that made the blood
stir so strangely in Armour’s veins, and his face
flush so dark a crimson. His eyes were fixed on
Vivienne, who was dancing with the tallest man in
the garrison, an officer of the Royal Engineers.
Armour noticed that they made frequent pauses,
and speculated a little about it, whether it was
owing to the awkwardness of her partner, or to her
own inclination not to keep on her feet during the
entire progress of a round dance. Of the amount
of attention that she was attracting she appeared to
be quite unconscious, but that she was quite well
aware of it, he was fully persuaded.
“Accept my felicitations on the subject of your
ward,” said a roguish voice in his ear; “your reward
perhaps I should call her, considering the satisfactory
termination of your cares on her behalf.”
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
Armour put out a hand to one of Valentine’s
merry friends, who was a frequent visitor at Pinewood.
“She’s fairer than the moon in all her
glory—that’s from the Bible isn’t it?” pursued the
young man; “or perhaps one shouldn’t use the
word fair in connection with one so dark. Royal
touch-me-not style, but fascinating. Hey nonny!
wish I had a million and was good enough shot to
wing Macartney. Au revoir, I’m engaged for the
next polka—must look up my partner.”
The waltz had ceased and a group of men surrounded
the place where Vivienne stood, her white
velvet gown gleaming like a snowdrop against the
crimson curtain behind her. She seemed to be
listening rather than talking and Armour was struck
as Camperdown had been by her slight ceremonious
air of reserve and by the absence of any girlish
eagerness of delight in this her first ball.
He, a man that had fallen into the habit of
taking no pleasure in anything, felt like a boy tonight,
and suppressing a smile he turned away and
sought Mrs. Colonibel to hear any instructions that
she might have to give him.
An hour later, while he was having a quiet stroll
along the verandas, carefully avoiding the conservatory,
where a few stray couples were wandering
among the flowers, he came suddenly upon two
people who stood in a recess. He turned quickly
on his heel, but not before he had noticed the
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
drooping, regretful attitude of Vivienne’s shoulders
and the earnest pose of Captain Macartney’s figure.
Angrily clasping his hands behind his back, and
muttering an uncomplimentary remark regarding
men who persecute young girls scarcely out of the
schoolroom with a declaration of love, he stepped
back into the drawing room.
He had scarcely arrived there before a hand was
laid on his shoulder. “Go to Miss Delavigne, will
you, Armour?” said Captain Macartney, his face a
shade paler than usual. “I think she would like
some tea, or an ice.”
With considerable alacrity Mr. Armour obeyed
him. He found Vivienne sitting down, her face
extremely flushed.
“It is warm here,” he said, cutting a slit in the
bunting with his knife. “I do not wonder that you
are overcome; I will bring you some tea.”
“I fear that our experiment is not a success,” he
said a short time later, as he stood watching her
drink the tea.
“Do you refer to this ball?” said Vivienne, lifting
her eyebrows.
"Yes; I encouraged Flora in it, for I thought it
would be a pleasure to you.
“I can think of nothing but my hackneyed expression
of your kindness and my gratitude.”
“And that I do not believe; you talk of gratitude,
yet your actions belie your words.”
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
“I think that I have outlived balls,” she said a
little wearily; “and you—you do not care for
them.”
“No,” he returned; “but you are younger than
I am.”
“Judy and I saw a poor creature to-day when
we were with Stargarde. She had been starved to
death; it was horrible. If a few of these gowns
here to-night were sold they would keep some
needy people in food for a year. And the wines
that are drunk—they do us no good, and often
much harm.”
“Would it please you to hear me say that I shall
never have wine offered in a mixed assembly
again?”
“It would, Mr. Armour.”
“Then I say it; and now is that shadow to lift
from your face?”
It did not, and Vivienne rose and said in some
embarrassment: “Shall we not go to Mrs. Colonibel?
I have not seen her for some time.”
“Tell me first why you are so ill at ease with
me,” he said with some doggedness. “You know
that I am anxious to atone for my past sins of neglect
toward you, yet you give me no chance. You
are restless, and I know your one thought is to
get away from here.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Mr. Armour, it is useless
for us to try to agree. We are like fire and steel.
.bn 335.png
.pn +1
I resolve and resolve that with you, who admire
meekness so much in a woman, that I will be a very
Griselda; yet I cannot.”
“I seem to rouse all the opposition in you,” he
said; “why is it?”
“I would rather not tell you.”
“I am tired of this constant, ‘I would rather not
tell you,’” he uttered in undisguised impatience.
“You speak the truth with more offense than most
women tell a falsehood.”
She played with her fan without speaking to
him.
“Stargarde tells me that you wished to have
some conversation with me about your parents,” he
continued; “yet, in your willfulness, you will not
mention them to me.”
There was something in this new accusation that
touched Vivienne’s sense of humor, which was always
present with her. He saw her roguish smile
and resented it. Scarcely knowing what he did
he seized the little white-gloved hand in his:
“We are alone for the first time for days. Ask
me now what questions you will, and promise me
that you will treat me with more friendliness for the
rest of your brief stay here.”
“Ask you—promise you,” she said slowly, and
with as much composure as though her hands were
free. “Mr. Armour, we cannot be friends because
according to you we are not equals.”
.bn 336.png
.pn +1
“Not equals!” he repeated. “What absurdity
is this?”
“Some women will lie to their—to their acquaintances,”
she went on. “I will not; and I say that
to a man of your indomitable pride, a child that
he has bought and paid for, as it were, and that has
grown into a womanhood that may occasionally
divert him, is not for an instant to be considered on
an equality with him—that is, in his estimation. It
is a toy, a puppet, with which he may occasionally
amuse himself, then throw it aside.”
A variety of expressions chased themselves over
his face while she was speaking. When she finished
he dropped her hands with a smile: “I am
right; I thought that your irrepressible and suspicious
pride—with which mine cannot be compared—was
at the bottom of this; but I will subdue it.
Vivienne——”
“Is not this rather a serious and gladiatorial kind
of conversation for a ball,” she interrupted, “a
place where one should utter only small talk?”
He leaned against the wall, and stroking his mustache
in a hasty and disturbed manner muttered:
“You are only a girl, yet you have yourself under
better control than most women. Would nothing
break you down?”
At that moment the conversation of some ladies
standing by a raised, curtained window, opening on
the veranda, became clearly audible.
.bn 337.png
.pn +1
“She’s not proud, neither is she consaited,” they
heard in a strident undertone; “I can vouch for
that.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear Mrs. Macartney, I did
not mean to hint at such a thing,” interposed the
low, cutting voice of a lady well-known to Mr. Armour;
“I merely said that a little less haughtiness,
a little more humility of deportment, would be
befitting to such a very young person who has so
broad a bar sinister across her escutcheon.”
“Her father was a thief, you know,” chimed in a
third hard, vulgar little voice; “a low, miserable
thief, who stole money just as meanly as a person
taking it out of a till. I don’t believe in smoothing
over big offenses and coming down so hard on little
ones. The Armours are very good to want to
introduce her into society; but I think a girl like
that ought to be left in seclusion. I pity Mrs. Colonibel.”
“And it’s me own daughter-in-law I’d like to
see her,” said Mrs. Macartney boisterously.
There was a rustling of silk, two swift “Ohs”
of ejaculation, two attempted apologies, and then
a subdued snorting which told them that the Irishwoman
had left her opponents in possession of the
field.
Vivienne sank back on her chair, and Armour
turned away to hide the anger of his face. She
thought that he was about to interfere, and touched
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
him on the sleeve with a murmured, “They are
your guests.”
He shook his head impatiently just as the cutting
voice went on, “How exceedingly brusque that
Irishwoman is; I cannot bear to have her near me.”
“She fancied that she was exploding an important
family secret,” said the vulgar little voice, “when
all the world knows that the French demoiselle has
jilted her stepson.”
“Indeed?” eagerly. “I have not heard that.”
“I am surprised that you have not. She is said
to be setting her cap for Mr. Armour. He is richer
than Captain Macartney, you know. French girls
are artful.”
Armour made a step forward, but Vivienne laid
a hand on his arm. “There is some one coming,”
she said, and putting up her fan to partly conceal
the terrible pallor of her face, and seeing that he
was unable to speak she said in a clear voice, “Did
you fancy, Mr. Armour, that this is my first ball?
I have been at one other in Orléans chez les Dalesworthys.
Mrs. Dalesworthy permitted her daughters
to put on white gowns and sit behind a screen
of flowers for ten minutes only to observe the dancing.
I accompanied them, and being anxious to
see one of the English princes who was passing
through Orléans and had honored the Dalesworthys
by being present, I stepped aside from the screen
and looked steadfastly at him, being, as I thought,
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
unperceived. To my wonder I saw Mrs. Dalesworthy
approaching, accompanied by an equerry,
who informed me that it was the wish of the prince
to dance with me. They were both smiling, and
as you may imagine I was exceedingly embarrassed.
‘Do not speak until you are addressed,’ Mrs. Dalesworthy
whispered; the prince bowed and offered
his arm, murmuring, ‘Mademoiselle has not been
dancing.’ I told him about our being behind the
screen, and he seemed greatly amused, and later on
requested to have Mrs. Dalesworthy’s daughters
presented to him. I speak French, as you know,
with an English accent, and the prince perceiving
it, and finding that I came from Nova Scotia, said
a few words about our ‘loyal Canada’ that you may
be sure excessively gratified——”
The passers-by were gone, and her voice broke,
“That is what I suspected—dreaded,” she said
bitterly; “and it is the last humiliation to which I
shall be subjected in this unhappy house. Let me
go,” to Armour, who had put his arm about her,
“I do not wish to hear you speak.”
“Unhappy child,” he said in a low voice, “go
then, if you will, and I will come to you as soon as
I can.”
Vivienne went swiftly upstairs, till she stopped in
the prettily furnished hall outside her rooms, and
put her hand confusedly to her forehead. Stargarde
lay on a broad divan, her face as white as
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
death, her features contracted in horrible suffering,
while Judy, who was the only person with her, hung
over the railing intent on the scene below.
“Judy,” cried Vivienne, springing to Stargarde’s
side, “what is this?”
“Oh, what a wretch I am!” exclaimed Judy.
“Stargarde, dear Stargarde, won’t you speak to
me? Come, wake up, or I shall go for Brian.”
“What is it? What is wrong with her?” exclaimed
Vivienne.
“The usual thing, one of her attacks. Try to
rouse her and I’ll get Brian,” and slipping rapidly
downstairs by means of a hand placed on the railing,
Judy disappeared.
“Stargarde, my darling,” murmured Vivienne,
caressing her tortured face, “look at me.”
One glance of intense affection she received from
Stargarde’s deep blue eyes, then the distorted features
composed themselves, and the sufferer seemed
to sink into a disturbed sleep.
So quickly that Vivienne wondered how he
could have gotten there, Camperdown gently thrust
her aside, and knelt down by the divan. “Stargarde,”
he said slightly shaking her, “Stargarde,”
then bitterly, “Too late; she has gone off.”
“Come in here,” whispered Judy, drawing Vivienne
into her room. “Brian is furious with me;
he was afraid that one of these things was coming
on, and when Val came for him to go downstairs,
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
he told me to talk steadily to Stargarde and not
let her fall into one of them; the great thing is to
keep her attention.”
“What is it? Oh, what is it she has?” and Vivienne
clasped her hands in distress.
“I call it ‘the misery of the world,’” said Judy,
dropping her voice. “A few years ago Stargarde
was in New York, visiting some philanthropic people.
One evening they were going to make a round
of the slums. They put on old clothes and took
some policemen, and Stargarde went with them.
They got into wicked places where men and women
of all nations were; I don’t know what they saw,
but there were some dreadful things, and ever since
then, when Stargarde gets run down and has nothing
to take her mind off it, she’ll sit down somewhere,
and all the badness that is going on in the
world comes up before her like a panorama; she
thinks about the men and women in China and
Japan and India, and the poor wretches in London
and New York, and it almost makes her crazy.
I’ve seen her throwing herself about just like an
actress on a stage, only with poor Stargarde it is
real. You know how big she is; her limbs get convulsed
and her face looks like the Laocoön’s, and she
is so beautiful; wherever she is and one of these
seizures comes on, some one sends for Brian. I’ve
seen him sitting by her with the perspiration dropping
off his face. It gives him an awful fright, for
.bn 342.png
.pn +1
he says she might die in one of them; he’s afraid
of her heart. Sometimes blood comes on her
face,” added Judy in an awestruck whisper.
Vivienne was unable to speak.
“This is not a bad one,” said Judy gazing consolingly
into her terror-stricken face. “She’s in a
kind of trance; I don’t think Brian will even have
to give her morphine—wait till I see,” and she tip-toed
to the door. “She’s lying quite still,” she
reported, coming back; “only moaning occasionally.
Vivienne dear, I am going to bed. I don’t dare
to face Brian again; he looks so annoyed.”
When Mr. Armour mounted to the topmost hall
in search of Vivienne, his eye fell on Stargarde lying
in unconsciousness on the divan.
“What does this mean?” he asked of Mammy
Juniper who sat by her.
“Again the Lord has laid his hand on her,” said
the old woman solemnly.
Mr. Armour seated himself beside his half-sister,
and affectionately drew the rug more closely about
her. “Where is Camperdown?” he inquired.
“He’s gone to get some supper for Miss Judy,”
and Mammy looked toward the closed doors of
Vivienne’s rooms.
She rarely mentioned Vivienne’s name, but Mr.
Armour knew by her expression that the two girls
were together.
“Tear her out of your heart, my son,” said
.bn 343.png
.pn +1
Mammy Juniper in a sudden vehement whisper.
“’Tis not the Lord’s will.”
A terrible gloom and depression overspread the
face that he held in his hands as he leaned forward
supporting his elbows on his knees.
“Mammy’s boy,” said the old woman affectionately
fondling his head. “If thine eye offend thee,
pluck it out.”
“Oh this agony of indecision!” he muttered,
looking about him as if for help; “if I only knew
what is right——”
“Trust Mammy,” said the colored woman persuasively.
“She has asked the Lord about it.”
“Hush, old woman!” interposed Camperdown
coming up the steps behind her bearing a tray
aloft. “Give your counsels of vengeance to the
winds, and don’t stir up this family to any more
wickedness. Try to soften their hearts, not harden
them. And don’t be so sure that you are a messenger
of the Lord. I think the devil sometimes
tampers with your messages. Stanton, Miss Delavigne
is in trouble about Stargarde——”
Armour immediately got up—a resolved look
upon his face.
“Here, take this with you,” said Dr. Camperdown
handing him the tray. “Persuade Vivienne to go
downstairs. Mammy Juniper and I will look after
Stargarde.”
Dr. Camperdown looked severely at Mammy
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
Juniper after Armour had entered the room.
“Don’t you see that every drop of blood in his
body is crying out for that girl? You might as
well try to stop Niagara with one of your fingers
as to check him now. Let him alone and all will
be well. Your rôle now should be that of peacemaker,
and you’ll find your hands full with
Valentine.”
The old woman groaned, shook her head, and
with an appearance of the greatest dejection sat
swinging herself to and fro.
.bn 345.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVII | NOT TO BE REPEATED
.sp 2
Judy had gone to bed and Vivienne was pacing
swiftly up and down the room.
Armour would never see her like that again.
Her face was flushed and contorted, her head held
high, and in all her tempers and mental disturbances
she had never flung him so passionate a glance.
“Put it down,” she said with a haughty gesture
in the direction of the tray.
“Will you eat nothing?” he said. “It is late.”
“No, I will not.”
He stood quietly watching her.
“Now, proud man, you see me humbled,” she
exclaimed.
He smiled compassionately. There was certainly
not a trace of humility either in her tone or her
attitude.
“I don’t think that any one ever suffered so
much,” she said suddenly stopping and clasping
her hands. “I—to be so disgraced, so unspeakably
debased—oh, it is hard to bear!” and dropping on
one of the white couches in the room she burst
into passionate crying.
.bn 346.png
.pn +1
“Poor little girl,” said Armour pityingly coming
to stand over her.
“Go away,” she cried, flinging herself into an
upright position. “Why did you come up here?
I do not wish to see you. Do you forget my odious
designs upon you?”
“Silly gossip,” he said, stooping down to stroke
her hair.
At his touch she immediately became calm.
“Mr. Armour,” she said pleadingly, “may I leave
here to-morrow?”
“Yes,” he said soothingly, “any time you will.”
“I will go away with Stargarde,” she murmured.
“Do not——”
“Do not what, Vivienne?”
“Do not do that,” she exclaimed pushing his
face away. “How can you touch me—I the
daughter of a forger and a thief?”
“Vivienne, do you love me?” he asked gently.
“You insult me deeply—deeply,” she said. “Do
I love you? Is that a question for a man to ask a
woman? I wish that you would leave me. I am
not in a condition to talk to you.”
“I love you, then—is that better?” he asked
indulgently.
“You do not!” she exclaimed wildly. “Do not
perjure yourself. If you kiss me again I shall send
you from the room.”
“Do you love me?” he repeated with persistence.
.bn 347.png
.pn +1
She sprang away from him and resumed her
excited pacing to and fro.
“Do I love you? Yes—no—what does it matter?
Suppose I do love a man who prizes me simply as
he does his other goods and chattels. I could not
be more miserable than I am now. I, who have been
so proud of my unblemished name. I wish—I wish
that I could die,” and she buried her face in her
hands.
“I could not lash myself into such a passion as
you are in if I lost everything in the world,” said
Armour.
“Yet you know how to suffer,” she interposed
impetuously.
“Yes; perhaps if you knew what it costs me to
say to you, ‘Vivienne, love me and be my wife,’
you would not be so hard on me.”
“That is it,” she replied with a despairing gesture.
“You fancy that I admire you. You wish to
have me all to yourself; you are a man to be
respected by women but not adored, and you are
consumed with pride to find one who does adore
you; I understand you.”
“Partly only,” he replied. “Vivienne, come
here.”
“I will not.”
“I foresee a stormy courtship,” he said in an undertone.
Then anxious to try his power over her
he added aloud, “Vivienne, please come here.”
.bn 348.png
.pn +1
“I will not,” she said again, but in her goings to
and fro her feet seemed to carry her nearer him in
spite of herself.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hands.
“I will not,” she said a third time, but the words
were feeble and her outstretched finger tips rested
on his hands.
“Sit there now, unreasoning child,” he said, drawing
her to his knee, “and let us talk this matter
over. I have something to tell you that will greatly
astonish you.”
Her black head drooped to his shoulder. “What
is it?” she said feebly.
“I have good reason to believe that your father
is not the villain he is supposed to be.”
“Is not,” she repeated keenly. “Is he not
dead?”
“No,” quietly; “I do not think so.”
She made a bewildered gesture. “I am surprised
at nothing now; but why do you say this?”
“I think I would have heard of it if he had
died.”
The girl was too excited to sit still. She sprang
up again and moved restlessly about him. “You
understand him,” she said; “ah, why have you
not talked to me of him before?”
“You have never asked me to do so.”
She stopped short, measured him with a quick,
comprehensive glance, then resumed her restless
.bn 349.png
.pn +1
movements. She could not understand him; it was
useless to try to do so. “You liked my father,”
she said impulsively.
“Yes; as a lad my father and Étienne Delavigne
were my ideals; your father was very patient and
kind to me. He gave me my first instruction in
business principles.”
“And were they all they ought to be?” asked
the girl passionately. “Did he teach you anything
dishonorable?”
“No; he did not.”
“Then why did he change?” she asked with
one of her eloquent gestures.
“I have told you already that I do not think he
did. I do not know, but I have a clue. Some day
I may clear him. I have been looking for him for
years.”
Vivienne gazed at him with a swift-flushing face.
“Oh, how grateful I am to you! Where do you
think he is?”
“In some of the large cities of the States.”
“Why would he not stay in Canada?”
“He would be afraid of meeting some one who
knew him.”
“You know everything,” she said vivaciously,
“and I know nothing. Tell me more—more.”
“Come and sit beside me then,” he said; “you
disturb me with your uneasiness. There, that is
better. When your mother died, your father, I
.bn 350.png
.pn +1
think, resolved to go to some large city, change his
name, and work quietly at something till he died.
It is very hard to find him among millions of men;
but he can be found, and for this purpose I have
employed different means.”
He paused for a few instants, but Vivienne, who
was listening with eager, breathless interest urged
him on.
“I employ detectives, advertise——” and he
stopped again.
“It must cost a great deal of money,” she said.
“But why did my father go away? What was it
that he did?”
“I will not explain the whole thing to you to-night,
you are too much wrought up already. I
will simply say that your father was accused of forgery.
I believe he found himself in the position of
an innocent man who cannot prove that he is not
guilty. Being of a timid disposition he ran away.”
“And left me.”
“And left you,” repeated Armour, “to me. He
knew that I would take care of you; and in his
fatherly affection he would not have your name
coupled with his dishonored one. He wishes to be
considered dead, and so he is by every one here
but myself and one or two others.”
“There is an immense load off my mind,” said
Vivienne, laying a hand on her breast; “but I am
not happy yet.”
.bn 351.png
.pn +1
“You will not be happy till you give up your
will to mine,” said Armour persuasively. “You will
marry me?”
“No, no; never,” she said, with eyes devouring
every line of his face. “I will never marry a man
who does not love me as I love him. Yet—yet just
for to-night let me imagine that you love me, that
you worship me. Let me draw your dear head on
my shoulder like this,” and suddenly going behind
his chair she flung her arms around his neck. “Let
me smooth back your hair and tell you that I love
you, love you, and yet I can never marry you. For
the last time I will kiss you——”
“There never was a first time,” murmured Armour,
who, nevertheless, was deeply moved by her
emotion.
“And I will tell you,” she continued, “that you
have won what many another man has tried to get
and never will get at all, the affection and adoration
and sympathy of one foolish woman’s heart.”
“Why foolish?” he asked, putting up a hand to
try to induce her to come from behind him so that
he might see her face.
She clung the closer to his neck. “Because,”
she said, “you have found out that I love you. I
should never have allowed you to know it. I have
fretted over it and worried and cried till I was ill,
but it was of no use.”
“It was fate,” he said; “you will marry me?”
.bn 352.png
.pn +1
“Good-night,” she murmured; “good-night,
good-night. You will never see me like this again.”
He felt her warm lips on his ear and cheek, then
she was gone. He hastily got up and had one
glimpse of her before she disappeared into her
room, one hand clasping the train of her white
gown, her head carried well in the air.
“Not to be repeated, eh?” he muttered disapprovingly.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” and with
eyes bent thoughtfully on the floor he too left the
room. In the hall he ran against Camperdown.
“How is Stargarde?” he asked.
“All right; how is ma’m’selle?”
“All wrong,” and Armour’s strong white teeth
gleamed for an instant through his heavy mustache.
Then he went on his way downstairs, trying to recall
to his mind a gipsy prophecy uttered about
him when he was a lad, strolling one day about the
environs of Halifax with Étienne Delavigne. Ah,
this was it; the old woman, thrusting her wedge-shaped
face close to his, had muttered it twice:
“Self first, wife second, friends a matter of indifference,
reputation dearer than life.”
“A part of it has come true,” said Armour heavily;
“I wonder what about the rest?”
.bn 353.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVIII | MISKEPT ACCOUNTS
.sp 2
Vivienne kept her word. When Armour
got up the next morning he found that she
had already gone to the Pavilion with Stargarde.
With much inward chafing and impatience he
listened to Judy, who prattled of her speedy return,
and to Mrs. Colonibel who over their late breakfast
table talked with languid irritability of several
occurrences that had displeased her during the
course of the ball.
During the day he called at the Pavilion. Vivienne
was out and Stargarde received him.
“Yes, she has told me everything,” she said
sympathetically; “and Stanton, you must have patience
with her. She is in a terribly disturbed state
of mind. You are so different from her and she is
so young and does not altogether understand that
your temperament is a total contrast to hers.”
“I have great respect for your judgment,” said
Armour quietly. “I shall do as you say. Do you
think that she will make a suitable wife for me?”
“Yes, oh yes,” said Stargarde enthusiastically;
“but do not forget that it is not the master of Pinewood
.bn 354.png
.pn +1
with whom she has fallen in love—it is the
man. Your social position and wealth are small
matters to her. It is your undivided attention that
she craves.”
“She has it,” he said heartily, “as far as any
woman can.”
“She will realize that in time; in the meantime
one must give her a chance for reflection.”
“There is some difference between our ages,”
said Armour uneasily. “I wish for her sake that
I were a younger man.”
Stargarde smiled languidly. “I referred to that
and she said she would not care if you were a
hundred.”
“That sounds like her,” he said with satisfaction.
“I will go now lest I should meet her.”
“Yes, do so,” said Stargarde with sweet inhospitality;
“and try to keep away from here for a
time.”
“I will,” he said, and after a little further conversation
he left her and went back to what he
speedily found to be a very lonely house. There
was no more cheerful girlish chatter about the halls
and in the rooms of his dwelling, for as the days
went by, Judy with her usual shrewdness discovered
the situation of affairs, and calmly absented herself
from home and presented herself at the Pavilion at
all manner of unseasonable hours.
“If you have a pretty flower,” she said coolly,
.bn 355.png
.pn +1
“and some one else picks it, you can at least go
and sit down beside it and enjoy its perfume,
though why this particular hothouse bloom should
choose to transplant itself among weeds and stubble
is more than I can imagine—making petticoats
and aprons for old women too. Stuff and nonsense!
She’ll soon get over it.”
Weeks passed away and Armour in a kind of
dull resignation continued his solitary life. Judy
was rarely at home and Mrs. Colonibel had grown
strangely quiet and haggard. She was also losing
her flesh. Armour did not know what was the
matter with her, though he knew quite well what
ailed his brother, who at home was always dull now,
never merry, and who so often returned from the
town with a bright red spot in each cheek.
At such times Armour eyed him keenly and suspiciously,
for he knew that the red spots betokened
a visit to the Pavilion.
“Valentine has developed quite a fondness for
Stargarde’s society,” said Judy one day in a vexed
way. “I wish that he would stay at home. No
one is happy when he is about, for he teases unmercifully,
from the dog up to the human beings.”
Camperdown disapproved hugely of the situation
of affairs. “It is always the unexpected that
occurs,” he said one day to Stargarde; “but I
didn’t expect such a block as this. I’m going to
interfere. That girl is worrying you to death.”
.bn 356.png
.pn +1
“No, she is not,” said Stargarde; “she really is
not, Brian.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said stoutly. “Anyway,
she’s worrying me, and her mission in the
world is to keep that family together. I’m going
to talk to her.”
“Don’t offend her, Brian.”
“There now—she is coming between us,” he
growled. “I’ll not have it.”
A day or two later came his chance for a conversation
with Vivienne. Accompanied by Stargarde’s
dog she had left the Pavilion immediately after
breakfast, and had gone for an early constitutional.
She liked to saunter along the streets and look in
the shop windows before the rosy-cheeked matrons
and maids came trooping from north, south, and
west to do their shopping in the business quarter
of the town, which lies along the water’s edge.
As she stood examining with a critical and approving
eye the many soft fur garments hung up
in a shop window, Dr. Camperdown came suddenly
around the corner of the street, swinging himself
carelessly along, his hands in the pockets of his
huge raccoon coat, in which he looked like a grizzly
bear—amiable or unamiable as his humor happened
to be.
Catching sight of Vivienne he moderated his
pace, and came to a stop without being perceived
by her. As the girl examined a waxen lady who
.bn 357.png
.pn +1
was enveloped in a complete suit of sealskin, Dr.
Camperdown examined her.
“Wax doll better equipped for a walk than girl
is,” he soliloquized. “Girl’s dress might do for
Parisian boulevards—too thin for Halifax winter,”
and he surveyed disapprovingly the quiet elegance
of Vivienne’s brown cloth costume.
Her attire was certainly better suited for a summer
or autumn day than one in February, and she
shivered slightly as she stood before him.
“French shoes too,” he muttered, looking down
at her feet. “No overshoes or rubbers.” And
as if unwilling to be protected from the cold while
she was suffering from it, he angrily swung off his
bulky coat, and threw it over his shoulder, saying
as he did so, “Little simpleton, her mind is so preoccupied
that she doesn’t know what she puts on.”
Roused by his half-uttered words, the girl turned
around. “Good-morning,” he said grimly. “Which
is your pet form of lung disease? If you just mention
it you’re likely to have it.”
“Ah, Dr. Camperdown, is it you?” she said.
“You know that I do not love affliction in any
shape. Remember how I grieved over my cold.”
“You’re on the high road to something worse
than a cold now,” he said. “Have you no thicker
mantle than that; no warm bonnet?”
“I wear neither mantles nor bonnets,” she replied,
pressing her hands into two tiny pockets at
.bn 358.png
.pn +1
the sides of her jacket and looking up smilingly
at him. “And I was sufficiently warm in this gown
in Scotland.”
“Old Scotland isn’t New Scotland,” he grumbled.
“They have high winds there, high enough to take
the slates off the roofs, but not piercing enough to
lay your heart open, as they do here. You didn’t
look out to see what sort of a day it was before you
left the house; come now, did you?”
“Possibly I did not,” said Vivienne.
“You didn’t,” he said; “I know you didn’t.
Come, let us walk on briskly, lest you take cold.
When are you going to cease being obdurate? You
needn’t stare at me, ma’m’selle, I’m not afraid of
your black eyes. Look here, I’ve something to
show you,” and he paused on a street corner and
drew out several pieces of paper.
The first one was a ridiculous caricature of Stanton
Armour standing with his hands wildly clutched
in his hair, a frantic expression on his face, which
was upturned to the sky.
“He’s grappling with the biggest worry of his
life here,” said her companion, laying his finger on
the sketch. “He thought he’d had every trouble
in the world, but he hadn’t.”
Vivienne looked at him inquiringly.
“He hadn’t fulfilled his destiny by falling in love.
That every man ought to marry he thought was a
pernicious doctrine.”
.bn 359.png
.pn +1
“As it is,” she remarked with unexpected spirit.
Camperdown scowled at her. “If you don’t
marry, young lady, twenty years hence you’ll be a
bad-tempered, dried-up, withered dame that no
man will want to look at.”
Vivienne shrugged her beautiful shoulders.
“See what a beast I am,” he went on; “all because
I didn’t marry. I’m too selfish to live—come
now, don’t throw me pretty glances. You can’t
cajole me. I say a man or a woman who remains
unmarried without just cause for doing so, is a detestable
egotist.”
Vivienne bit her lip and cast a glance in the direction
of Mascerene, who was patiently enduring every
insult from a passing quarrelsome dog.
“Let him alone, and think about Stanton,” said
Camperdown impatiently. “He fell in love, as I
said. See him here overcome by the discovery:
‘Merciful heavens, haven’t I suffered enough without
having a woman flung into my life, or rather,
not a woman, a full-grown creature, but a slender
reed of a girl?’ I am sure you are sorry for him,
Miss Delavigne,” turning suddenly and subjecting
her composed features to an intense scrutiny.
“I am always sorry when a person suffering happens
to be one whom I esteem.”
“It is abominable that Stanton should have led
so tortured a life,” continued the physician; “he
has been martyrizing ever since his mother died.”
.bn 360.png
.pn +1
“Unfortunate man!”
“But he’s getting over it here,” unfolding another
bit of paper. “He’s thinking that it isn’t
such a bad thing after all that his adored one is
just eighteen years younger than himself.”
Vivienne laughed despite herself at the disordered
appearance of her always faultlessly attired
guardian, who was caricatured as sitting at a
table, his hair sticking up all over his head, his fingers
tracing with furious haste across the open page
of a huge account book the quotation,
.pm start_poem
This tough, impracticable heart
Is governed by a dainty-fingered girl.
.pm end_poem
“Now you mustn’t laugh at this one,” he said
warningly, as he turned the paper over. “It’s too
tragic. ‘Will she marry me? oh, will she marry
me?’ See, there is the wharf and the deep black
water.”
Vivienne did laugh. A few spirited pencil marks
showed a man and a maid standing beside each
other at the end of a wharf, against which waves
were dashing. The girl’s face was averted, the
man’s attitude plainly said, “If you don’t do as I
wish you to I shall throw myself into a watery
grave.”
“Oh, put it away,” she said merrily, “or I shall
bring disgrace upon myself. I did not know that
you had so great a talent for caricature.”
.bn 361.png
.pn +1
He put the paper in his pocket and said gloomily:
“If I had a sister and Stanton Armour asked
her to marry him and she wouldn’t, I’d shut her up
somewhere.”
“What a regrettable thing for Mr. Armour that
this obdurate fair one is not related to you.”
“Obdurate? She’s not obdurate,” said the physician,
surveying Vivienne half in affection, half in
irritation. “I don’t understand some men. They
beat about the bush and examine their motives,
and shilly-shally till it makes one wild to see them.
Why don’t they say to the women they love, ‘I’m
going mad for love of you; you must marry me.
I’ll wait and watch, but I must have you. You
shall not marry another man‘?”
“Mr. Armour is of a different nature,” said
Vivienne.
“No, he isn’t,” with a suppressed laugh; “only it
takes him longer to wake up. I don’t know what
was the matter with him, unless he was thinking of
the girl rather than of himself. Perhaps he thought
that she didn’t care for him. Now he’s got a hint
to the contrary, and all the power on earth won’t
keep him from urging his suit. I suppose you
didn’t know that he nearly went to the West Indies
in one of his ships two weeks ago?”
“No; I did not.”
“He has some trouble that I don’t understand,”
said Camperdown. “Anyway, I told him that if he
.bn 362.png
.pn +1
didn’t do something to stop his fretting, he’d be in
an insane asylum within a year.”
“But he did not go away.”
“No; something happened to prevent. He
ought to go somewhere though. Miss Delavigne,
have you not been hasty?”
“I think, Dr. Camperdown, that without being a
brother, you exercise the privileges of one,” she
said gravely.
“Then adopt me,” he said; “let me be your
brother. If Heaven had vouchsafed me a sister, I
should have prayed that she might be like you.”
Her eyes grew moist as she looked into his wistful
face. She just touched the large hand extended
to her, but her fingers were immediately
seized in a warm grasp.
“You don’t understand,” she said, with a catch
in her voice. “He really does not care. He does
not come to see me.”
“Overtures will be made you in the course of
time; will you receive them?”
“Yes,” she replied breathlessly, then she fairly
ran away from him.
The overtures came sooner than she had expected.
That afternoon as she sat alone over the
fire an urgent message came over the telephone
from Judy.
“Vivienne, is that you?” called the lame girl in
an anxious voice.
.bn 363.png
.pn +1
“Yes; it is I.”
“Can you come quickly to Pinewood? No one
is ill, but you must come. I cannot explain.”
Vivienne hurried to the veranda, where she
found MacDaly lounging about. “Will you get
me a carriage as quickly as possible?” she asked.
“Yes, revered and honored lady of transcendent
charms,” he replied; then with considerable alacrity
he gave direction to his long legs to carry him as
speedily as possible to the nearest cabstand.
Vivienne, with a wildly-beating heart and eyes
that went roving affectionately over every object
on the well-known road to Pinewood, soon found
herself before the hall door and in Judy’s embrace.
“Come in, come in,” was her hurried greeting.
“Mamma asked me to send for you. I don’t know
what is going to happen, but I think there is something
wrong with her accounts. Stanton asked her
to bring her housekeeping books to him this afternoon.
He examines them about once a year. I
fancy that she has been misappropriating.”
Vivienne shrank from her. “Judy, what are you
saying?”
“The truth, I fear,” and Judy made a detestable
face. “Do you think mamma would hesitate to
steal if she thought she wouldn’t be found out?
No, indeed; but Stanton will be too sharp for her,
and he is so particular that if he finds her out he
will be in a terrible rage.”
.bn 364.png
.pn +1
“This is a shocking thing that you are saying;
surely you have made a mistake.”
“No, I have not,” said Judy stubbornly. “I
wish I had. Where did mamma get that last set
of jewelry? where those English dresses? She
must have squeezed the money out of her housekeeping.”
“Judy, I feel very much in the way; you should
not have brought me here.”
“Are you not willing to do this much for me?”
said the girl. “Do you want to see my mother
turned out of doors?”
“No,” said Vivienne, throwing her arm around
her neck; “but what can I do, dear?”
“You can do more with Stanton than any one.
He has been hateful lately. A bear with two sore
paws would be an angel compared with him. I
cannot hear mamma saying a word. She must be
terribly disturbed. She always begins to shriek
over a slight thing. Will you not go in?”
“Judy, I cannot,” and Vivienne drew away from
her.
“Stanton is raising his voice; he must be furious,”
said Judy, placing an ear at the door.
“What is he saying? ‘Leave here at once.’ Oh,
Vivienne, go in, go in! Tell him that she cannot.
What will people say?”
Vivienne was standing at a little distance from
her, and she did not move till Judy threw herself
.bn 365.png
.pn +1
upon her with a frantic, “Vivienne, she is my
mother; I do not love her, yet—yet——”
“Do not cry, darling,” said Vivienne, kissing her
impulsively. “I will do as you wish,” and she
knocked at the door.
“They do not hear you,” said Judy, turning the
handle; “go in and do what you can,” and she
ushered her champion into the room.
A very quiet and unobtrusive champion she had
introduced, who stopped short in acute distress.
Armour was standing with his back to the door,
yet Vivienne could see that he was in one of the
terrible rages of which Judy had told her. Mrs.
Colonibel sat at a table, staring with wide-open,
glassy eyes at some account books before her.
“Speak for me, Miss Delavigne,” she said with
a gasp of relief. “I have offended Stanton mortally.
You can feel for me on account of your
father.”
Armour turned on his heel and his face underwent
an immediate change; Vivienne stretched
out her hand to him. Though he were a prey to
ten-fold more evil passions than the ones which possessed
him, he yet was the man that she loved. He
took her hand silently, then he said sternly to his
cousin: “Go; you make me forget you are a
woman. Let me be rid of you to-night. I hope
that I shall never see your face again.”
Mrs. Colonibel burst into a violent fit of weeping.
.bn 366.png
.pn +1
“Oh, Stanton, give me a little chance,” she
sobbed; “a month longer, even a week, to prepare
for this. You will ruin my prospects.”
“You have heard what I said,” he replied, walking
away from her to a window. “You can’t
change my resolve.”
“Intercede for me,” whispered Mrs. Colonibel
as she passed Vivienne; “he will listen to you.”
Armour stood with his hands behind his back
till the door closed. Then he looked around to see
if he were alone.
Vivienne still remained—sorrowful, grieving, and
saying not a word.
“How did you come here?” he asked.
“Judy sent for me.”
“Ah,” he replied significantly.
He resumed his scrutiny of the outdoor world
and for a long time made no further remark. Vivienne
slipped to a corner of a sofa. After a time
he began to pace up and down the room talking
bitterly, half to himself, half to her.
“Always the same—trust and deceit, honor and
lies. They are all in league against me. They
deceive me in one direction and I am on my guard
there; then there is a change of position and I am
attacked in some other place. Vivienne,” abruptly,
“I would rather see you dead than deceitful.”
He had paused close to her, and as he spoke he
gazed into her face with piercing scrutiny.
.bn 367.png
.pn +1
“You do not flinch,” he said; “yet you too may
be acting a part. Have you lured me on with shy
defiance and pretty girlish conceits in order that
you may count another victim?”
“I am profoundly sorry for you,” said the girl.
“Your faith in human nature has received another
shock.”
“Which does not add to my charms,” he said
harshly, unhappily, and with some resentfulness.
“You need not shrink from me. I’m not going to
sit down beside you.”
“Which does add to your charms for me,” said
the girl with great firmness; “and I am not
shrinking from you but making a place for you.”
His expression brightened, and he dropped on the
sofa beside her and laid his head on her shoulder
like a tired child, murmuring: “You have come
back to me, dear little girl. Smooth those ugly
wrinkles from my face. I have longed to feel your
hands wandering over my head again.”
“I first loved you because you were unhappy,”
said Vivienne composedly; “but it breaks my
heart to see you like this.”
“This is a moment of weakness,” he said languidly,
“of mental relaxation. This stirring of
one’s emotions is a detestable thing; and I have it
all the time, I who was born for a tranquil life.”
“Tell me all your troubles,” whispered Vivienne
in his ear, “everything, everything.”
.bn 368.png
.pn +1
“No,” he said unexpectedly. “No,” and suddenly
straightening himself he took her in his arms.
He was a strong man again, and Vivienne fluttered
a little in his grasp, blushing in deep perplexity
and wonder.
“Do you wish to go away?” he asked.
“No,” she said; “not if you will do as I wish.”
“And you wish to be mother confessor?”
“Yes; give me the history of your life, your
inner life.”
“Well—I love you,” he said.
With an intense passionate gesture the girl held
her head well back, her burning dark eyes staring
hard into his flashing blue ones. Yes, there was a
strength and fervor of devotion there that she could
not doubt. She dropped the arms that she had
outstretched to keep him from her with an unutterably
satisfied “Oh!” of surprise.
“A curious exclamation that,” he said teasingly;
“have you nothing more to say to me?”
She would not speak for a long time, but remained
with her face hidden in his shoulder. Finally
she said: “When did you find this out?”
“It has been true all along,” he said; “only you
would not believe me.”
“Who is deceitful now?” she cried.
“I am not; I really have loved you for weeks,
only I have been a stupid, blundering fool about
expressing myself. When will you marry me?”
.bn 369.png
.pn +1
“I do not know. You will not send Mrs. Colonibel
away, Stanton?”
“Yes I will; do not speak of her,” and his face
darkened.
“Let her remain for a time.”
“Not a day.”
“Not to please me?”
“Let me tell you what she has done,” and somewhat
grimly he related the history of his cousin’s
thefts.
“Why does not your face change?” he asked
when he finished his story; “why do you not look
scornful and shrink from me?”
“Why should I, Stanton?”
“I come of the same stock. Flora was an Armour
before she married old Julius Colonibel for
his money. This family is like a blasted tree,
whose branches drop off one by one.”
“But the trunk remains; it will be sound till it
falls,” said Vivienne, trying to enclose his unhappy
figure in her arms; “and I know an ivy that will
cling to it.”
“God bless the ivy, the confiding ivy,” he muttered
with a clearing of face.
“And you will forgive Flora, Stanton?”
“Forgive, forgive,” he repeated; “what an easy
word to say and what a hard thing to do. Shall
one word be the end of her sin against me for
months?”
.bn 370.png
.pn +1
“You have nothing to do with her punishment,”
said Vivienne softly. “God takes care of us when
we sin. Flora has already suffered. Put that
thought aside and go to make your toilet for
dinner.”
“I do not wish any dinner,” he said.
Vivienne looked at him mournfully. “And I
am so hungry!”
He smiled. “Well, my child, I hope for your
sake that the bill of fare is all you can desire.”
“It will not be if you are not there. The daintiest
dishes will turn to dust and ashes in my
mouth.”
“How she loves me—this little girl,” he said,
holding her at arms’ length and fondly inspecting
her.
“It grieves me when you brood over troubles,”
she continued, with a contraction of her dark
brows. “You are a true Anglo-Saxon. Try to be
light-hearted.”
“I place myself at your disposal,” he said.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Ah, you have spoken; now do not retract. Go
immediately to unhappy Flora. Try to make her
comprehend that you forgive her, that she shall
never be forced to leave Pinewood, that I and you
also wish her to stay.”
“No, no,” he interrupted, “I cannot agree to
that.”
.bn 371.png
.pn +1
“Do you think I could be contented in a paradise
even with you from which unhappy souls have
been expelled?” she exclaimed.
“I think that I could make you so.”
“You could not, for you would not be happy
yourself. You too have a conscience, and you
know that if we are selfish we shall be miserable.
Also there may be a change in Flora, and though
I shall be fond of assuring you that our interests
are identical, may I not ask whether you will not
promise me the supreme control of our
“I will.”
“And who always keeps his promise? You are
silent, therefore I proceed. After visiting Flora,
go to your room and practise a contented smile
before your glass, then descend to the dining room
fully prepared to welcome our adored Stargarde,
who will probably come out to dinner. Will you
do this?”
He hesitated.
“Then all is at an end between us,” she said
tragically. “I can have nothing more to do with a
man as doleful as yourself.”
“You dear little witch,” and he put out a hand
to detain her, but her laughing face looked at him
from a door across the hall, and he was obliged to
walk across to her.
“This thing has cut me deeply,” he said, “more
deeply than you can understand. If you will consent
.bn 372.png
.pn +1
to remain here till we are married, Flora may
also stay till then—that is if she will keep out of
my sight for a day or two.”
“Would you make a business transaction of it?”
“I lay no claim to perfection.”
“Very well,” said Vivienne with a wise shake of
her head, and she went upstairs to Judy who was
hanging over the railing above.
“It is shocking about Flora,” she murmured;
“but if I allow him to meditate so much on these
family problems he will become distracted.”
.bn 373.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIX | THE MICMAC KEEPS HIS CHARGE
.sp 2
February passed away, and March came—"March
that blusters and March that blows,
March the pathway that leads to the rose"—the
month hailed with delight because it breaks the back
of the Nova Scotian winter.
In a lamblike and gentle manner it succeeded
snowy February, with a brilliant sun, not too high
winds, and thawing, melting rivulets in every direction
running from rapidly-melting snow-banks.
But after the first of the month there was a change.
Jack Frost again clouded the windows, an icy hand
was laid on the rivulets, the snow-banks no longer
decreased in size, and there were two whole weeks
of outdoor skating.
Lent had begun and the winter gayeties had
ceased. Mrs. Colonibel, missing the stimulus of a
constant round of excitement and forced to think
constantly of her changed position in the household,
was a different woman.
Nominally she still retained her old place; in
reality it was the young French girl who was the
mistress, who was consulted on all possible occasions
.bn 374.png
.pn +1
while she was ignored. She accepted the
situation with rather more grace than might have
been expected and only on rare occasions offered
a protest. A kind of reluctant admiration for Vivienne
had sprung up in her breast. She knew that
the girl on one pretext and another was delaying
her marriage because she feared that Armour,
though willing to indulge her on every other point
would probably be firm with regard to this one;
his cousin would not be allowed to remain in his
house nor to retain the slightest authority in household
affairs—she must make room for the young
wife.
At the close of one sunny Saturday afternoon,
Mrs. Colonibel approaching her glass with a kind of
horror at her altered appearance, carefully applied
some rouge to her cheeks and then went drearily
downstairs.
It was nearly dinner time, but Valentine was the
only person in the drawing room. Judy and
Vivienne were with Stargarde, with whom they
spent the greater part of their time. Stanton had
not yet come and Colonel Armour was dining in
town.
Valentine stood by the window, his hands behind
his back, his eyes bent on the long, glassy expanse
of the Arm, where a number of boys were
skimming to and fro like swallows. He looked
around as Mrs. Colonibel entered the room. His
.bn 375.png
.pn +1
face too, was restless and unhappy, and to conceal
it he turned his back on her and moved toward
the open conservatory door.
She took his place at the window. The huge,
yellow ball of the sun was just dropping behind
the fir-topped hills on the other side of the Arm.
The spiked tree points stood out against the clear
blue sky like the jagged edges of some rude fortifications.
Below the forest, where stood fishermen’s
houses and the summer cottages of Halifax citizens
among gray fields, a shadow had fallen, but a golden
glow yet lingered on the frozen Arm and along the
eastern shore where Pinewood was situated.
Mrs. Colonibel’s glance wandered aimlessly to
and fro, from a few belated crows that had been to
the seashore to look for fish, and with hoarse and
contented croaks were sailing to their haunts in the
old pine trees at the head of the Arm, to the small
boys who seemed loth to leave the ice.
“Those lads have it all to themselves,” she said
spiritlessly.
“Yes,” muttered Valentine; “magnificent ice
too.”
“Val,” suddenly, “why couldn’t we have a
skating party this evening? I know Miss Delavigne
would like it, for she won’t go to the rink now.”
His eyes glittered, but he said nothing.
“There’s been steady frost for a week,” she went
on earnestly; “it’s perfectly safe, and the evening
.bn 376.png
.pn +1
bids fair to be lovely. What do you say? is there
a moon?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have a bonfire anyway, and tea at the
cottage.”
“All right,” he said.
“Then come to the telephone with me, and let
us decide whom to ask. There’s nothing going on,
and everybody will come.”
Mrs. Colonibel felt better. With considerable
energy, after a sufficient number of guests had
been invited, she, seconded by Valentine, who began
to show some interest in the matter, made
arrangements for the evening and then went to the
dining room.
An unusual air of animation pervaded the table
when Armour came in and found Valentine carving
in his stead. He glanced about inquiringly
while his brother was surrendering his seat.
“We‘re going to have a small skating party,
Stanton,” said Judy. “There’s no harm in that, if
it is Lent, and everybody is tired of the rink. Will
you come?”
“I am sorry to say that I have to return to the
office.”
Vivienne’s face clouded slightly, and his glance
rested on her in almost idolatrous affection. “You
wish to go, do you not?” he said.
“What a question!” snapped Judy. “You
.bn 377.png
.pn +1
know she’s an enthusiastic skater, and you sha‘n’t
deprive her of it, Stanton. Besides, I’m going to
venture on the ice this evening. You know I
don’t skate in the rink.”
“Very well,” he said; “Vivienne shall do as she
chooses. Perhaps I may get out before your party
breaks up. What have you been doing this afternoon,
Judy?”
Between the intervals of satisfying the demands
of a wonderfully good appetite, Judy gave him a
humorous description of some hours spent at the
Pavilion, and set everybody laughing at her account
of the mingled ingenuousness and shrewdness with
which Stargarde dealt with some of her troublesome
protégés.
Apparently they were a very happy family.
Vivienne and Judy were as lighthearted as two
children; Armour’s coldness and sternness were
almost lost in the grave happiness that had seemed
to envelope him since his engagement to Vivienne;
Mrs. Colonibel’s private worries had for some time
kept her from afflicting the household with outbursts
of impatience; and Valentine for once lost
his sullen and reserved demeanor, and the two
angry red spots that had so frequently showed
themselves in his cheeks died away.
The dinner was somewhat hurried, and at its
close the different members of the family scattered
in various directions, all with some commission from
.bn 378.png
.pn +1
Mrs. Colonibel to execute, except Armour, who
went immediately to the library after requesting
that the Micmac should be sent up to him.
With a noiseless, catlike tread the Indian, a few
minutes later, knocked at the library door and
after waiting for Mr. Armour’s “Come in,” advanced
slowly into the room, and stared at his master
with lazy, observant eyes, his hands hanging
straight by his sides.
“You are prompt, Joe,” said the gentleman;
“you were not off to your wigwam?”
A fiction politely kept up in the family for Joe’s
gratification was that he every evening crossed the
Arm to his solitary camp in the woods, when as a
matter of fact he, on cold nights, occupied a snug
and warm retreat at the cottage.
“Too early,” said he sententiously. “Go later,
when moon shinum.”
“Mrs. Colonibel is going to have a skating party
to-night,” said Mr. Armour.
“Yes; me busy,” said Joe.
“Are you; I am glad to hear it. I sent for you
to ask that you give some assistance in preparing
for it.”
“Mr. Valentine askum,” said Joe. Then he added
with a gurgle in his throat resembling a laugh,
“He likeum bear in trap now.”
Armour’s face darkened, then as quickly lightened
again at a deliberate proceeding on the part
.bn 379.png
.pn +1
of the Indian, whose eyes during a slow voyage of
discovery about the room revealed to him a photograph
of Vivienne on the mantelpiece at the sight
of which he crossed himself devoutly.
“Why do you do that, Joe?”
“She likum Wirgin Mary.”
“I’m afraid your ideas of religion are rather
mixed, Joe.”
“She likum Wirgin,” repeated the man.
“Do you really think so?” said Armour softly.
“Um,” and the Indian grunted half-contemptuously.
“Me likum Wirgin girl when you cold like
fish. Joe watch her always. She say, ‘Joe, in wigwam
you freezum; you go some warm place; me
pay.’ Joe say no, then Wirgin girl makeum this,”
and throwing open his coat he displayed a bright
vest of fine red cloth embroidered with gold, by the
presentation of which Vivienne had won his heart
forever, for she had gratified his savage fondness for
gay colors, a fondness strictly repressed in his dependence
on Colonel Armour for cast-off garments
of sober, gentlemanly hues.
Armour’s face flushed in deep gratification. He
was also much interested in the curious fact that
the Indian should display ten times more attachment
to Vivienne, whom he had only known for a
few months, than he ever had to Stargarde, who
had been a devoted friend to him for years. Probably
Stargarde, with her leveling doctrine of the
.bn 380.png
.pn +1
brotherhood of all men, did not appeal to his semi-civilized
nature as did Vivienne, with her aristocratic
habit of treating dependents kindly, and yet rather
as if they belonged to a different order of beings
from herself.
“You marryum soon?” said Joe, who, in spite
of his press of work, was in an unusually loquacious
mood.
“Not for a good while, Joe—four whole months.”
A sound of guttural disapproval issued from
Joe’s throat. Then with a sardonic smile he inwardly
reflected: “Cunnel wishum Miss Debbiline
marry Mr. Val; Joe’s heart say, ‘No, Cunnel, Miss
Debbiline likeum Mr. Stanton.’ Joe guessum Mr.
Stanton know.”
Mr. Stanton did know. There was a look of
white, suppressed rage on his face. Strange to say
his thoughts had gone in the same direction as
Joe’s. He was at that moment reflecting for the
thousandth time on the bitterness of the unnatural
struggle that he had carried on with an unnatural
parent for so many years.
“You not feelum bad,” said Joe consolingly, as
he observed his emotion. “Me watchum like dog,
always.”
Armour instantly recovered himself and turned
his despairing eyes from the photograph. “That
is all, Joe. You may go now.”
The Micmac buttoned his coat over the sacred
.bn 381.png
.pn +1
scarlet vest. “You never loseum, Mr. Stanton.
Me watchum. Mr. Val get out of trap—sore paw
heal—he snarl, but not much hurt. Ging,” and
with this invariable parting salutation, he glided
from the room.
With a face as devoid of expression as one of
the blocks of wood that he was cutting, Joe laid
the foundation of a substantial bonfire on a gravel
walk close to the frozen shore of the Arm. A
number of garden seats he placed near by, and a
few small tables. Then walking along the path, he
surveyed the jagged cakes of ice shouldering each
other up the bank, and selecting the clearest place,
chopped a cutting to lay a plank walk to the
smooth ice. This done, he examined the sky
where a pale and sickly moon was reluctantly
climbing above the trees, a hazy cloud hanging on
her skirt.
“No wind—crows much chatter this sundown—big
snow ‘fore morning,” muttered Joe; then he
sauntered to the cottage to see that the fires were
burning brightly and watched the house-servants
who were bringing down china and eatables in covered
baskets, and large kettles for heating tea,
coffee, and soup.
An hour later the snapping, crackling bonfire
sent up a cheerful blaze that brightly illumined the
frozen declivity, the walls of the little cottage
against the evergreens, and the sheet of bluish-white
.bn 382.png
.pn +1
ice spreading itself out under the pale rays
of the moon. Groups of guests came hurrying
down in detachments from the house, laughing and
exclaiming at the pleasures of an impromptu skating
party, and Joe, standing a little aside, watched
them. To his Indian mind, the obsequious manner
in which the gentlemen of a party always served
and ministered in every possible way to their
“squaws,” was the most remarkable thing in the
social intercourse of white people.
“Makeum no good,” he soliloquized, surveying
a little lady’s delicate foot extended for a skate
that Valentine was putting on with an empressement
as great as if kneeling at her feet were the most
supreme happiness that could be bestowed upon
him.
Though talking and laughing with the little lady,
Valentine kept one eye on the path to the house,
and Joe knew that he was watching for Vivienne,
who had not yet appeared. Presently she came
lightly over the gravel, Judy hanging on her arm.
Valentine had just finished his task and springing
up was about to offer his services to Vivienne,
when Joe strolled out from the trees.
“Me puttum skates on, Miss Debbiline?” he
said inquiringly.
“Yes, Joe,” and she seated herself a little apart
from the others.
“Here, Val,” said Judy mischievously, taking the
.bn 383.png
.pn +1
seat that had just been vacated. “I’m very fidgety
about my boots. If you don’t get them on right
you’ll have to unlace them again.”
Joe had never done such a thing before as to
put on a lady’s boots, and it was a great honor for
Vivienne that he should offer to do so. If it had
been the simple clasping of a pair of spring skates
his task would have been more simple, but Vivienne,
in common with many Canadian skaters, wore
steel blades that were screwed to the soles of a pair
of boots.
Joe took off the little slippers in which she had
run down from the house, carefully fitted her boots,
right and left, then proceeded to grapple with the
long laces which he reflected would be sufficient to
fasten on two pairs of moccasins. Carefully he
drew the black strings in and out till his task was
done, when he drew his hand over the smooth firm
leather that fitted over the ankles so neatly, and
had some kind of a conceit pass through his mind
similar to that of the classic Mercury with winged
heels.
Vivienne rose, thanked him, and walked over the
planks down to the edge of the ice where Judy
was waiting for her.
“Joe, Joe,” exclaimed the latter looking back at
him, “bring some chairs out on the ice and get
that one with runners. Mrs. Macartney will be
here later on.”
.bn 384.png
.pn +1
“La voilà,” said Vivienne, as a loud, jovial voice
was heard in the distance, and presently Captain
Macartney and Patrick were lifting their caps to
the two girls, while Mrs. Macartney roamed to and
fro, looking apprehensively at the heaped-up ice
floes, and the plank walk to which she was by no
means inclined to trust herself.
“It’s like the man that ran away with Lord
Ullin’s daughter,” she vociferated in her jolly way.
“He couldn’t get across—that is, the father couldn’t—and
he said, ‘My daughter, oh, my daughter.’”
Vivienne came swiftly back, and seized both her
hands. “Dear Mrs. Macartney, I am so glad to
see you.”
“And sorry that we came,” said Patrick, pretending
to cry. “Come away, Geoffrey.”
“Naughty boy,” and Vivienne shook her head
at him, then with Captain Macartney and Judy
busied herself in getting Mrs. Macartney out on
the ice and into the chair with runners, on which
the lady sat for the remainder of the evening, being
pushed hither and thither by any man who felt the
spirit moving him to do so.
Camperdown arriving half an hour later, stood
high up on the bank struck by the strange beauty
of the scene. The moon, as if still uncertain of
herself, shone with rays more pale and more tremulous,
and shed a weird and peculiar light over the
dark hills and the white breast of the Arm. There
.bn 385.png
.pn +1
was a strange hush in the air, and not a breath of
wind, and it was hardly freezing. Assuredly a
storm was brewing and a thaw coming on.
Immediately below him the bonfires and torches
stuck in the ground threw a broad, bold glare of
light for some distance out on the ice, and the
skaters for the most part were keeping pretty well
in the bright space, and away from the semi-darkness
of the regions beyond, where a few adventurous
boys were madly careering. Their frolicsome
shouts and exclamations Camperdown could hear
but confusedly in the velvety softness of the air, but
beneath him he could distinctly distinguish Patrick
Macartney’s voice.
“Dr. Camperdown, my mother begs to inquire
whether she has your gracious permission to partake
of a cup of tea.”
“Three-quarters only, a whole cup later on,”
said Camperdown, who, by means of rigid dieting
had so reduced the weight of his patient that she
had made a vow never to leave Nova Scotia.
“Camperdown, Camperdown,” called some one
who espied him on the bank, “make haste; we want
one for a set of sixteen lancers.”
Thus appealed to, he quickly put on his skates,
passing on his way to the place where he was in
demand, a little group consisting of Judy, Patrick,
and Vivienne, who was giving them instructions in
the art of skating.
.bn 386.png
.pn +1
Valentine skated swiftly up to them as he went
by. “You are victimizing yourself,” he heard him
say in a low voice to Vivienne, “Come with me
for a spin.”
He saw the girl hesitate, but Valentine laughed,
peremptorily seized her hand, and away they went
toward the mouth of the Arm like two birds that
had taken wing.
Vivienne was not pleased. Valentine’s action
had been abrupt, almost rude, and it annoyed her
to be treated with so much unceremoniousness.
And yet in her heart there was such a profound
and sorrowful compassion for the young man whose
unhappy state of mind she realized only too fully,
that it kept her from any outward display of resentment.
He was laughing and talking somewhat wildly,
and there was a reckless gleam in his eye that made
her avoid meeting his glance.
They were both excellent skaters, swift and
graceful of foot; and for a few minutes Vivienne
had a kind of painful enjoyment in the rapid rushing
through the air, but at last she said gently:
“Had we not better return?”
“Not yet!” he exclaimed, and his grasp of her
fingers tightened.
The girl had one of her quick, unerring intuitions.
Valentine had fallen into one of his rash
humors, in which he was a slave to the impulse of
.bn 387.png
.pn +1
the moment. Without sufficient hardihood to plan
a deliberate misdeed, scarcely a day passed without
his falling heedlessly into one.
The eastern bank of the Arm that they were close
to seemed to be rushing by them like the dim and
hazy outline of some huge beast tearing along in
the opposite direction from that in which they were
going. The light and noise of the skating party
were far behind them. Away in front was the
smooth, black ice, dark and treacherous, that they
would soon be on. Then beyond the ice, where
it grew thinner and thinner, was the icy, open water.
“Valentine,” she said calmly, “what are you
doing?” and she again strove to draw her hand
from his.
He laughed wildly, made a sudden turn, and was
skating backward, his desperate eyes looking into
hers, his left hand outstretched to seize her right.
He would make sure of her other hand in order
that she might not escape him.
She saw the mocking, reckless devil looking out
of his eyes, and the hot, French blood rose in her
veins. She held back her hand from him; dangling
from it was a stout leather strap by which she
had been pulling Judy about. At the end of the
strap was a buckle.
“Coward!” she exclaimed in bitter contempt,
and swinging the strap in her hand, she struck him
on the forehead.
.bn 388.png
.pn +1
The sudden shock, the sting of the metal, and
the blood that trickled down his face confused him.
He threw both hands to his head, staggered, and
fell backward. Vivienne stood looking at him, and
as he groped blindly for his pocket, skated to him
and dropped a handkerchief between his fingers.
With a low cry of rage like that of a wounded
beast, he sprang to his feet, stretched out his hands,
felt himself pulled from behind, and again fell to
the ice.
He was a sorry spectacle as he lay raving and
swearing there. “You better go, Miss Debbiline,”
said Joe, who in a pair of long racing skates had
appeared just as he was needed. “I takeum care
him.”
Vivienne turned and went slowly up the Arm.
“Where is my strap?” asked Judy when she rejoined
her. “I want you to drag me about a little
more, if you are not tired.”
“I threw it away,” said Vivienne. “Here is my
necktie,” and she drew a voluminous tie from the
bosom of her short skating jacket.
“Why, it is dripping wet,” exclaimed Judy.
“I am very warm,” said Vivienne with a faint
smile. “Give it to me, Judy.”
“But, Vivienne, it looks as if you had been in
the water.”
“I assure you I have not. Give me the tie.
Now take my hand.”
.bn 389.png
.pn +1
At ten o’clock, when servants were running to
and fro from the cottage to the ice, and the skating
party was refreshing itself with various meats and
drinks, an acquaintance of Mrs. Colonibel suddenly
lifted up her voice:
“There comes Mr. Armour, running down the
bank like a boy.”
He was in great good humor, and saluted her
with the utmost cheerfulness. “Yes, Mrs. Fairlee,
I did think I was going to miss this; and I haven’t
been on the ice this winter. Will you have a turn
with me?” and standing beside her, first on one leg
and then on the other, he fastened his skates to the
heavy soles of his boots with two decisive clicks.
“No, I won’t skate with you,” she said, rolling
her eyes at him over her coffee cup. “I don’t
believe there’s a woman here cruel enough to do
such a thing—is there, ladies?” and she took in the
party with a mischievous, inclusive glance.
“No, no—no cruelty here—don’t know what it
is, but we won’t persecute Mr. Armour,” and similar
laughing ejaculations were heard.
“I want to see Major Heathcote on a matter of
the last importance,” she continued loudly; “does
any one know where he is, and will you, Mr. Armour,
find him for me?”
“I will,” he replied, simultaneously with a voice
announcing that Major Heathcote was explaining
something to Miss Delavigne.
.bn 390.png
.pn +1
“Ocular demonstration, probably,” said Mrs.
Fairlee. “Off you go to find them, Mr. Armour;
here’s a currant bun for refreshment,” slipping it
from her saucer to his pocket.
He smiled at her—she never could tease him—and
turning his face toward the north he skated
from her with long, powerful strides. Not twenty
paces distant he met the two people whom he was
in search of.
“No, we have not been to Melville Island,” said
Major Heathcote, stopping short. “Would you
have cared to go, Miss Delavigne?”
“I did not think of it, thank you.”
“Perhaps you would like to skate in that direction
with Mr. Armour?”
Miss Delavigne did care to do so, after a deliberate
survey of Mr. Armour’s face, and Major
Heathcote went smilingly in search of his wife and
refreshments.
Through the faltering moonlight they skated,
rapidly skirting the dusky shore where one comfortable
residence succeeded another; all standing
in grounds trending down to the inlet of the sea.
Keeping close to the trees, they struck across to
the opposite side, where on tiny Melville Island is
perched the house of the keeper of the prison,
dominating the prison itself, a long, low red building
situated close to the Arm on the shores of a
tiny cove.
.bn 391.png
.pn +1
This cove Armour skated slowly around, holding
Vivienne by the hand and confiding to her reminiscences
of boyish days hoarded for many years in
his own breast. She listened with great attentiveness,
understanding well, in the quiet intensity of
her love for him, what a relief it was for his over-burdened
mind to have at last found one being in
the world to whom its secrets could be partly confided.
That she did not have his whole confidence
she knew well, but she was willing to bide
her time.
At last he stopped, and looked searchingly at
her. “Tu as les yeux fatigués,” he murmured in
the French that it was such a pleasure to her to
hear him speak, and he guided her to a fallen tree
that lay near the old prison. They sat down on it
and he again scanned her face.
“You are quiet and pale,” he said uneasily.
“Is there anything the matter with you?”
“Not now,” she said softly. “What is this
round thing that you have in your pocket? Ah, a
bun,” and taking it out she began to eat it, offering
him an occasional currant.
Armour sat beside her laughing and talking happily,
and at intervals lapsing into the serious by a
discussion of the history of the prison, among
whose captives had been some American officers
taken in the war of 1812.
Vivienne listened silently but appreciatively to
.bn 392.png
.pn +1
him till a low sob of wind and a few flying snowflakes
warned her that they must hasten home.
Armour’s high spirits suddenly left him. “Vivienne,
I hate to return to that house,” he said. “I
wish I could take you and turn my back on it forever.
Would you be willing to leave Nova Scotia?
Would you like to live in France?” and he put his
arm around her as he skated slowly beside her.
“For what reason, Stanton?”
“I am sick to death of Halifax, and do you
know, darling, that I have, without consulting you,
found out that the old Lacy d’Entreville château is
for sale? Will you go and live there with me by
that French river that you love so much?”
Vivienne stopped skating, and looked up in surprise
at him. They were in the midst of a deathly
solitude. Not a creature was near, not a sound
was heard, now that the swift striking of their skates
against the ice had ceased.
“Stanton,” she said dreamily, “I told you about
Orléans, then later on of the other place still dearer
to me for my mother’s sake, of the strange mass
of buildings heaped up beside the Loire, and the
little village crouching below. Perhaps I said too
much of my pleasure when I beheld those walls,
and saw the tapestried chambers of my ancestors,
and the great tower with its sloping ascent, where
a carriage and pair could start from the town and
drive up into the château——”
.bn 393.png
.pn +1
“Vivienne,” gently, “it was not any grandeur in
your picture that touched me. It was the homeliness
of it; the comfort of Madame la Princess’
apartments, the loneliness of the servants, the care
they were giving even to the dogs of their absent
mistress, the interest of the villagers in you——”
“Yes,” said Vivienne, “when we went into the
lodge of the concierge, the dogs of the princess
occupied all the comfortable chairs in the room,
and the old man and woman sat on the stone window
ledge. Ah, those white hounds! They were
charming, Stanton, and they licked my hands.”
“The princess will sell the château, reasonably
too,” said Armour kissing Vivienne’s abstracted
face. “You will go, sweetheart? We can live in
Paris for half the year.”
“Stanton,” said the girl with startling emphasis,
“did I tell you that it was like home to me?”
“No, my child, but I guessed that it might
easily become so.”
“Never, never! France is beautiful, but this is
my home,” gazing about her. “This Canada, that
France so basely deserted. The English conquered
us, protected us, and now the British flag is
mine. We are Canadians, Stanton, you and I;
do not talk of France, and yet—and yet,” losing
her enthusiasm and speaking with a sweet and
feminine softness, “if it is for your good I will go
to a desert with you.”
.bn 394.png
.pn +1
He opened his mouth to reply to her, but she
laid a finger across his lips. “Stanton,” eagerly,
“are you sure you would be happy to leave here?
You have great cares, great worries; but reflect—you
are no longer a boy. Can you tear yourself
from your native land, and become happy in
another where you know no one? I think perhaps
you might even long for some of the old
anxieties. Are you sure that you would not regret
the change?”
“I am sure of nothing except that I love you,”
he said passionately; “and I will not do anything
that you do not approve of.”
“Then you will at once cease embracing me,”
she said, and darted away from him.
He soon caught up to her, and folding her fingers
securely within his, went flying before the north
wind over the ice and arrived at the Pinewood
bank to find the skating party a dream. Every
trace of it had vanished—even the smoking embers
of the bonfire had been carried away. On coming
nearer they found one solitary seat that had
been left, and on it Vivienne’s slippers laid conspicuously
by her cloak.
“Stanton, I wish to do something for Joe,” she
said.
“Well, darling, what shall it be?”
“Will you always keep him, Stanton? He is a
watchful servant.”
.bn 395.png
.pn +1
“We will keep him,” with gentle emphasis.
“And now do you think you can do without an
escort up the bank? I wish to see Joe about
something at the cottage before he curls up for the
night.”
“It looks dark up there,” said Vivienne wistfully.
“Oh, sweet story-teller!” said Mr. Armour
with a low, happy laugh. “You fear nothing on
earth, and you cannot play Desdemona, so do not
try. You don’t wish me to see Joe,” and catching
her up in his arms he hurried up the gentle acclivity,
bending his face teasingly down to hers.
“If I ask you what Joe has been doing and why
you are so subdued this evening, shall I hear another
pretty prevarication?” he inquired, putting
her down at the veranda steps.
“No,” she said gravely, and as he stood beside
her in the now rapidly falling snow, she mentally
ran over her painful experience of the evening.
Should she shock Armour with an account of the
treachery of his wayward brother? No, a thousand
times no.
“I am disturbed about something,” she said at
last deliberately, “but I do not care to talk about
it.”
“Will you tell me to-morrow?” he asked
eagerly.
“No, nor the next day, nor any day,” she replied.
.bn 396.png
.pn +1
“I beg that you will not make a mystery
of it. Some one has offended me—and been forgiven.
After to-night I shall put the matter out
of my thoughts.”
Armour’s face grew dark as he listened to her.
“Perhaps it is as well not to tell me,” he muttered:
“I should not forgive so easily.”
.bn 397.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXX | LOVE WILL BUILD HIS LILY WALLS
.sp 2
Late in the afternoon of St. Patrick’s Day,
Camperdown, in a smart new buggy that he
had bought to please Zilla, but with Polypharmacy—whom
he had refused to give up—harnessed to
it, was driving along Barrington Street, that runs in
a wavering line through the town and out into the
country.
Since early morning there had been several
kinds of weather—as is usually the case in Halifax
on the seventeenth of March. The parade and
demonstration in honor of the saint had been held
in a driving snow-storm. Then followed brilliant
sunshine and a high wind that rattled the masses
of wires suspended over the streets, and tossed to
and fro the banks of dead white snow heaped
in billowy ridges against the black and muddy
earth.
When Camperdown set out, another change had
taken place. The wind had died away, and reluctant
snowflakes were beginning to fall from dark,
smoke-colored clouds that were slowly rolling in
over the harbor.
.bn 398.png
.pn +1
The walking was slushy and disagreeable. Pedestrians
in rubber footgear passed along the sidewalks,
looking in the shop windows, where pots of
pseudo shamrock were freely displayed, or entering
stores and offices to transact business in the
leisurely, unhurried fashion peculiar to the inhabitants
of the city by the sea. Every Irishman wore
a large tuft of green in his hat or his buttonhole,
and many horses showed the nationality of their
masters by proudly shaking their heads, whereon
was the emerald rosette.
A crowd of boys on a street corner, rapturously
engaged in watching one of their number, who was
rubbing green powder on the back of the unconscious
Mrs. Macartney, as she stood waiting for a
horse car, attracted Dr. Camperdown’s attention.
“You rascals!” he called to them, and suppressing
a smile as they scampered away, he took
off his hat to the lady and drove on. Past the
City Hall he went, and steep Jacob Street, once
the terminus of the ancient palisade wall that enclosed
the early settlement of Halifax, and beyond
which it was not safe for a white man to go unless
he were willing to be scalped by the ever-watchful
Indians, and entered into the dingy part of the
street, where traffic to and from the railroad station
is loudest and noisiest.
Below him was the dockyard with its arsenals,
magazines, parade ground, and houses for officials,
.bn 399.png
.pn +1
and its few remaining trophies of the war of 1812.
He looked grimly toward it; called up some of
his father’s stories of the day so many years ago,
that the lads of the town ran to see the “Shannon”
and the “Chesapeake” coming up the harbor with
their decks stained with blood; and then smiled as
he reflected on the ardent diatribes against war that
he had heard from Stargarde and Vivienne.
Polypharmacy deliberately drew his hoofs in and
out of the snow and mud in the street, and soon
had his master to the suburb of Richmond and the
contraction of the harbor, where the lovely, sudden,
and beautiful view of the basin burst upon
him.
Calm and quiet, surrounded by bold hills and
dusky forests, it lay. Drawn half-way across it, as
if giant hands had begun to stretch it there, and
then had ceased, growing weary of their task, was
a covering of white ice; where the ice ended
abruptly the water was dark and tranquil. Five
miles from him, at the head of the basin, nestled
the little village of Bedford; and on the west shore
his eyes sought and rested on lonely Prince’s Lodge,
a melancholy souvenir, with its ruined gardens and
lawns, of a once gay place of sojourn of His Royal
Highness, the Duke of Kent.
His survey of the basin over, Camperdown
brought back his gaze to his immediate surroundings.
Just across from him, by the broken piers of
.bn 400.png
.pn +1
a former bridge over the Narrows, were ships laid
up for the winter.
“Potato ships probably,” he ejaculated. “Get
on, Polypharmacy; here’s a train coming.”
Polypharmacy crept on slowly, though his master
had drawn him up between the railway track and a
high, snowy bank with overhanging trees, up which
he would find it impossible to go, no matter how
frightened he would be. But Polypharmacy did
not mind a train. When it came shrieking around
the curve beside him, he merely flicked the ear
next it in temporary annoyance, and proceeded
philosophically on his way.
“Why, there’s Stargarde!” exclaimed Camperdown,
surveying a figure some distance ahead of
him on the narrow road. “On some Quixotic errand,
of course,” frowning and hurrying after her.
Polypharmacy had shed his fine peal of bells
with the sleigh, and Stargarde not hearing the carriage
wheels in the soft mud, started slightly on
hearing her name pronounced.
Such a rosy, laughing face she turned to him!
But his annoyance did not pass away. “What
foolishness is this? where are you going?”
“To see a sick friend near the three-mile house.
And you?”
“Young man fell off a barn while shingling it;
brain fever, and I’m attending him.”
“That’s my friend,” said Stargarde.
.bn 401.png
.pn +1
“Then we’ll go together,” putting out a hand to
assist her into the carriage.
“I think I would rather walk, Brian.”
“I don’t see why you should go rambling all
over the country alone,” he said, all his dissatisfaction
coming out in one burst of irritability. “It’s
abominable. Where is your dog?”
“I didn’t think I was coming out and Vivienne
took him to the park.”
“Will you come with me?” he asked in patient
exasperation.
“Yes,” and she stepped into the buggy.
He was in a wretched humor; but she was in one
so gay, so light-hearted, that she gradually charmed
him out of it.
Then, having yielded, he fell into an opposite
humor, for he had long ago given up as impracticable
the transparent fiction that he had ceased
to love her with his former devotion.
“I am glad that we have arrived,” said Stargarde
laughing and blushing, as Polypharmacy of
his own accord stopped short on the snowy,
country road before a dull red farmhouse flanked
by a yellow barn.
Camperdown, splashing through snow and water
in his big, rubber boots, opened a long gate and
looked at Polypharmacy, who accepted the mute
invitation to come in and be tied to a “hitching
post.”
.bn 402.png
.pn +1
Stargarde walked up the little path which in
summer time was bordered by flowers, and tapped
softly at the door. A neighbor opened it and
bestowed on her sundry confidences in half-tones
with regard to the sick man, whose mother, she said
was “clean distracted.”
They sat for some time in the old-fashioned
kitchen of the house, by an open fireplace in which
sticks of wood burned and sputtered in a subdued
way, till the farmer’s wife came in from the sickroom,
tears running down her cheeks. The doctor
was going to stay a little while to observe her son’s
symptoms, she said, and she begged that Miss
Turner would wait for him as the roads were too
bad for her to walk home.
The neighbor rose, and busied herself in drawing
a many-legged table from the corner of the room,
spreading a white cloth on it, and putting deftly in
their places a number of blue, willow-patterned
dishes. When everything was in order on the
table, she approached the fireplace, and swinging
toward her the crane suspended over the blaze,
poured boiling water from a teakettle hanging to
it into a brown teapot that she placed in a corner
of the brick hearth.
Refusing all entreaties to stay and partake of the
meal, by saying that she must return to her family, she
took leave of Stargarde, of the farmer’s wife, and of
the farmer himself, who at that moment came in.
.bn 403.png
.pn +1
The long twilight began to close, and still Camperdown
lingered. The mother had been with him
some time in the sick-room. Stargarde sat quietly
consoling the farmer as she had consoled his wife.
“My son, my son, my only son,” were all the
words the old man could utter till Dr. Camperdown
stood quietly beside him and laid a hand on his
shoulder. “Mr. White, your son is going to get
well, with God’s blessing.”
The old man started up, wrung his hand, ejaculated,
“God bless you, sir!” and hurried from the
room.
“They won’t leave him,” said Camperdown looking
away from Stargarde who was wiping sympathetic
tears from her eyes. “Mrs. White says for
us to take some tea before we go. They’ll be
offended if we don’t.”
He lifted the enormous brown teapot to a stand
on the table, and while waiting for Stargarde to sit
down, walked noiselessly about the room scanning
with curious eye the high cupboards, the ancient
latches on the doors, the brass candlesticks on the
mantel shelf, and the long oven set in the wall and
arched over with brickwork.
Finally he came to a standstill at the table, and
surveyed the various dishes that the farmer’s wife
in her gratitude had offered to them.
“Potted head, that she has made herself,” he
said; “rolls also. Her own brown bread, such as
.bn 404.png
.pn +1
bakers do not dream of; beans grown by themselves;
pork from a porker off the farm; preserve
of berries from her own little garden; eggs from
her biddies; cream from her cows; doughnuts frizzled
in the lard of her own swine. Come, Stargarde,
will you say grace and pour the tea?”
“Yes, Brian,” taking the chair that he placed for
her, and examining approvingly and with feminine
minuteness of observation the spotless cleanliness
of the little table.
“You have picked up wonderfully,” said Camperdown
a few minutes later, moving the lamp in
order that he might have a better view of her
features. “I was worried about you two weeks
ago.”
“I am in excellent health now, thanks to your
doses,” said Stargarde with a laughing grimace that
revealed to him the two rows of teeth that Zilla in
her vile slang called “white nuns.”
“Your tea is ready,” she went on, holding out
one of the big, blue teacups that he had sent to
her to be refilled for the third time.
He had fallen into a sudden reverie, and seeing
that he sat with eyes bent abstractedly on his knife
and fork, Stargarde got up and took the cup around
the table to him.
When she set it down he glanced up quickly,
and was about to ask her pardon, but stopped
short, the words arrested on his lips by the expression
.bn 405.png
.pn +1
of her face as she stood looking down at him.
At last it was a pleasure to her to minister to him,
at last his “bird of free and careless wing” had
been caught.
He grew pale, drew his breath hard and fast
and laid his hand masterfully over hers.
She started, and drew her fingers from him.
Then with her throat suffused with color, and
streaks of red across her white cheeks, she walked
to the window and gazed out at a drizzling rain
that had begun to fall.
Camperdown raised the cup to his lips once or
twice without tasting the tea, then set it down, and
with a last glance at the straight, lissome back of
the disconsolate figure by the window, returned to
his patient.
Stargarde glanced over her shoulder in a startled
manner when the door closed behind him. “I must
get away; I cannot go back with him. Mrs.
White,” to the farmer’s wife, who came gliding like
a happy ghost to her side, “I cannot wait any
longer for the doctor; don’t tell him I’ve gone.”
The woman, hardly conscious of what she was
doing in her rapturous state of mind at the prospect
of her son’s recovery, wrapped Stargarde’s
cloak about her.
“Tell him that I don’t mind the rain and the
darkness,” said Stargarde hurriedly. “I need the
walk; I will come again to-morrow to see you. I
.bn 406.png
.pn +1
am praying for your boy; good-night,” and with
feverish haste she slipped away.
Over the wet and sloppy road she went, sometimes
breaking into a run, then walking so slowly
that she scarcely seemed to be moving, her tortured
face bent on her breast, or lifted inquiringly
to the dripping sky above her. The road was
almost deserted, but once or twice she shrunk
aside to allow belated Negroes to pass her, who
were urging on their horses in the direction of their
homes in Hammonds Plains.
She did not choose the way by which they had
gone to the farmhouse, but turned into the long
stretch of road leading past the cotton factory, and
skirting the wide common where military parades
are held.
It was a highway cheerful enough on a bright
day, but unspeakably lonely and dreary on a dark
night, when sky and earth were alike mournful.
Soon she sank down on a stone by the roadside,
and burst into a flood of passionate tears. “I cannot—I
will not—it is not right! O God, show me
my duty.” Then kneeling on the ground with her
head against the stone, she prayed long and fervently.
It was some time before the struggle was over,
the battle fought, but at last she arose, self under
foot, as it usually was in her conflicts. She tried to
shake the water from her garments, then patiently
.bn 407.png
.pn +1
plodded on in the direction of the town, the electric
lamps shining like signal lights before her.
A splashing sound behind made her pause suddenly
and look back. There were the two lights
of the carriage, Polypharmacy looming between
them like a mountain of a horse. Her heart beat
violently. How acutely her lover had guessed that
she would take this road to the town. A wild first
impulse to hide from him made her slip into the
shadow of a building that she was passing.
He was driving slowly, and at every few paces
was putting out his head and narrowly inspecting
the road. “Stargarde, Stargarde,” she heard him
say softly when he was at a little distance from her.
Something impelled her to go to him despite
herself. “Here I am, Brian,” she said with a final
convulsive sob, and wearily dragging her limbs over
the miry way.
He dropped the reins, put out both hands and
assisted her in beside him. “Poor child, you are
very wet,” he said in his ordinary tone of voice;
“you should not have run away from me.” Then
seeing that she turned her face to the cloth-covered
side of the buggy, he forebore further question or
remark, and they drove in silence across the Common
and down through the town to the Pavilion.
There he sprang out and assisted her to alight,
then followed her to her room where she sat down
beside a bright fire and shivered slightly.
.bn 408.png
.pn +1
“You will at once change your wet things,” he
said.
She blushed deeply, but neither spoke nor looked
at him till his hand was laid on the door. Then
she turned her deep, blue eyes toward him. “Good
Brian, dear patient Brian.”
He drew a little nearer to her as if fascinated.
“So long you have had to wait,” she said with
an adorable smile. “Now——”
“You confess that you love me,” he said quietly.
“Yes, with my whole heart and soul.”
“You made a brave fight, Stargarde.”
“Oh, I did not know what it was,” she said
ardently. “I knew love was not selfish, yet I
thought it would crowd my people out of my affections
to love you. Then I did not want to give up
my will. I thought I had chosen my life-work.”
“And what do you think now?” he asked, folding
his arms and coming a little nearer to her.
“The love that I feel for you,” she exclaimed,
clasping her hands over her beautiful breast, “it
makes me love humanity not less but more, a thousand
times more. Every man is dearer to me for
your dear sake, every woman because she is part
of man——”
As she spoke she lifted her face to a photograph
of the gemlike Garvagh Madonna that hung on the
wall above her. The large hat, slipping from her
golden head, showed numberless little rings of hair
.bn 409.png
.pn +1
curled tightly by the damp air of the evening. Her
parted lips, her rapt expression, instead of drawing
her lover nearer, made him suddenly retreat
with a gesture of inexpressible pain.
Her features at once lost their unearthly expression.
“Brian,” she said, holding out her hands
to him, “Brian, my dear boy——”
And still he hesitated. “What is wrong with
you?” she asked in most womanly anxiety.
“You are so much above me,” vehemently and
brokenly, “I am not fit for you. You are like
something holy. I dare not touch you.”
“You will get over that,” she said, shaking her
head and smiling happily; “and I wish I were half
as good as you fancy me. Come, dear lad, I will
make the first advance. Here is a betrothal kiss
for you; and then you must go home.”
She got up, and for the first time the dimpled
cheek was laid willingly against his, her arm slipped
around his neck, and like a man in a trance of painful
ecstasy he pressed his lips to the beloved head
laid upon his breast, and heard her sweet lips murmur
a tender prayer for a blessing on their united
lives.
Then with a passionate embrace and a heartfelt
cry of “Unworthy, unworthy,” he hurried in his
tumultuous fashion from the room.
.bn 410.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXI | MACDALY’S LECTURE
.sp 2
Various apocryphal stories are told of Brian
Camperdown’s doings on the night that Stargarde
Turner promised to be his wife. It is said
that his blood being in too much of a tumult to
allow him to enter his house and go to sleep, he
started on a joyful and eccentric pilgrimage around
the peninsula on which the city of Halifax is built.
Not satisfied with tramping over the dark and
muddy roads of the Park, and the quiet streets of
the city, he is said to have proceeded along the
shores of Bedford Basin, and on the spot where
more than a hundred years ago dead French soldiers,
unhappy members of the expedition of 1746,
were discovered sitting under the trees, their useless
muskets by their sides—he, by a fitful gleam of
moonlight, carved his own and Stargarde’s initials
on the smooth-coated bark of a maple.
A story also exists of his having been seen eight
miles farther on, and of his startling a watcher by
a sick-bed by a glimpse of his ecstatic face looking
through the cottage window; but this one is uncertain,
and has never been corroborated.
.bn 411.png
.pn +1
Certain it is, however, that at daylight he returned
home neither footsore nor weary and still in his state
of exaltation. He let himself in by means of a latch-key,
made an elaborate and prolonged toilet, then
restlessly haunted the lower rooms of the house,
waiting for some one to wake up to whom he could
impart his joyful intelligence.
Old Hannah was the first person to come downstairs.
To her, blear-eyed and affectionate, he,
with an agonized twisting of lips, in order that he
might not shout his news to the entire household,
announced the fact that he was shortly to be married.
His ancient nurse staggered back as if she had
received a blow, and fell in a rickety heap of bones
on the hall floor. He lifted her up, administered
restoratives, and presently had the mortification of
seeing her burst into tears and stumble down to the
basement.
“And she professes to adore Stargarde,” he
muttered, backing in discomfiture into the dining
room to avoid the two smart maids, who were tripping
down the staircase in snowy caps and aprons.
Warned by his experience with Hannah, he said
nothing to Mrs. Trotley and Zilla beyond a polite
“Good-morning,” till they were well on with their
breakfast. Then, with a diminished spirit, he cautiously
informed them of the approaching change
in his condition.
.bn 412.png
.pn +1
Zilla had been talking volubly, but at his words
she snapped off a sentence on her lips, let fall her
porridge spoon, and gave him a look that made him
quail.
Mrs. Trotley was more to be pitied than Zilla.
At the close of a long and unhappy life the lines
had fallen to her in pleasant places, and these
pleasant places she naturally supposed she must
forsake should her patron marry. Yet she had
command enough over herself to endeavor to hide
her feelings. Camperdown’s keen eyes, however,
pierced through her disguise, and even while she
was uttering her congratulations to him, and wishing
that Stargarde might enjoy every happiness, he
saw the two salt tears come rolling slowly down
her cheeks.
She knew that he saw them, and was overcome
by confusion. “We have been very happy together,”
she murmured apologetically.
Zilla made no pretense at self-control. Pushing
herself violently away from the table she ran upstairs,
where Camperdown knew she would cry till
she made herself ill.
“What a monster I am!” he soliloquized, excusing
himself from the table and hastily making his
way out of the house. “Only the author of all
these troubles can heal them.”
He walked rapidly toward the Pavilion, stopping
once on his way there to order a gift of fruit and
.bn 413.png
.pn +1
flowers to be sent immediately to Mrs. Trotley and
Zilla.
Stargarde was at breakfast, and laying a bunch
of roses, flowers that she passionately loved, beside
her, he drew up a chair and with a dismal face
begged for a cup of chocolate.
“I have to give you up,” he said, swallowing the
scalding liquor with alarming taste and rolling his
twinkling eyes at her.
“Have you?” tranquilly.
“Yes; my family doesn’t approve,” and he related
his domestic troubles to her.
“Dear things, how they love you!” and she
gazed caressingly at him.
“I wonder what would make me give you up?”
he muttered.
“I will go and see Mrs. Trotley and Zilla and
poor old Hannah,” she said thoughtfully.
“You don’t wish them to leave my house, do
you?”
“Oh, no, no; I am accustomed to a large family.
We shall all live happily together.”
“Are you ever going to stop eating bread and
butter?” he asked impatiently. “That is your
fifth slice.”
“Why should I?” with a mischievous dimple
showing itself in her cheek.
“This is malice aforethought,” he said firmly,
sitting down beside her, and withdrawing a morsel
.bn 414.png
.pn +1
of bread from her hands. “Now,” holding her
wrists, “give me a kiss, sweet, passionate soul in a
passionless body.”
“Don’t speak in that way,” she said, kissing him.
“It sounds as if I had no feeling.”
“Well, you haven’t. You say ‘dear Brian,’”
mimicking her, “and then it is ‘dear granny,’ and
‘dear Bobby,’ and ‘dear everybody.’”
She laughed merrily. “Would you have me
striding to and fro and glaring at you, and looking
daggers over my shoulder as you do?”
“No; but you might be a little more demonstrative.
Women don’t know how to love. You’re
nothing but a proper old maid. The time was
when I would have cut my throat for a kiss. Lord,
what agony!”
She looked at him sweetly, and as he would not
release her hands gently laid her cheek against his
face.
“You are a beauty and I am a beast,” he said
abruptly; “aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Why should I be afraid of you, Brian? You
don’t love me for what you are pleased to call my
beauty, nor do I love you for what you are pleased
to call your lack of it. There is something beyond
that.”
“Yes, yes, my angel; I do thank the Lord that
I have found one woman that can look into my
soul.”
.bn 415.png
.pn +1
“In sickness and in health, in prosperity and in
adversity, in life and in death we are for each other
now,” she said. “How lovingly you would cherish
me were I suddenly to become old and ugly and
unattractive. Brian, last night at the three-mile
house when you looked up at me at the table——”
“Yes, darling.”
“I had been thinking about your patient; then
the thought suddenly came to me, ‘Suppose this
man too, should become ill—should die?’ My
heart seemed to stand still. I thought I should
suffocate. Oh, Brian, take good care of yourself.
I fear that I could not say, ‘the Lord’s will be
done,’ if anything should happen to you,” and
burying her face in his shoulder she began sobbing
violently.
“Come now, this is idolatry,” he said, looking
down at her with a radiant face; “rank idolatry,
and you will be punished for it according to your
own pleasant theory. I wanted you to be demonstrative,
sweetheart; but not along this line. When
will you marry me?”
“Whenever you think best, Brian. I have given
up worrying about this place. The Lord will provide
some other person to take care of the people.
We are none of us indispensable to him.”
“No,” he said gravely. “When will you marry
me?”
“In three months, Brian.”
.bn 416.png
.pn +1
“In six weeks, beauty; and when shall I see
you again?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
“This evening, my charmer.”
“Brian,” she said, clinging lovingly to his arm,
“I suppose nothing would induce you to live in the
Pavilion.”
He made a wry face. “I’ll come if my wife refuses
to live in any other place.”
“Your wife will do as you wish,” said Stargarde.
“You sweet creature, and blessed man that I
am!” and with a final embrace he left her.
Stargarde spent as usual a busy day, and at six
o’clock sat down to a brief and lively repast that
Vivienne and Judy came in to share with her.
After the tea things had been put away, she invited
them to go with her to a large room used for general
assembly purposes by the tenants of the Pavilion
and called the kitchen.
The two girls gladly accompanied her, for the
cheering and consoling of the different members of
Stargarde’s enormous family had become their
chief occupation. They walked along to the large
apartment, glancing across as they did so to the
bathroom, washhouses, and co-operative baking establishment,
in the courtyard, with the working of
which they had become quite familiar.
“Isn’t this jolly!” exclaimed Judy when the
kitchen door was pushed open.
.bn 417.png
.pn +1
At one side of the extensive and irregularly
shaped room, heaped-up logs blazed in a vast
cavern of a fireplace. No other light was needed.
The floor was a painted one, and the furniture consisted
of a number of plain wooden rocking-chairs
for children and grown people, a few small tables,
and a piano situated in a dusky corner.
At this piano a red-coated soldier was seated,
singing amorously, “I’m so ’appy; so terrible
’appy,” to a maiden hovering sentimentally over
him. Some children sprawling on the floor were
tossing jackstones, and two gray-haired men at a
table were intent on draughts.
An old woman, known as “granny,” sat knitting
by the fire. There was alway a granny in the Pavilion,
for when one died Stargarde immediately
got another, saying that the spectacle of an aged
person among young ones, beloved and waited on
by all, was one of the most humanizing experiments
she had ever tried.
She gave a kind “good-evening” to the people
in the room and then approached the old woman.
“How are you, dear granny?”
The venerable knitter was in a bad frame of
mind, and at first would vouchsafe no answer, but
pretended to be greatly occupied with picking up
a dropped stitch. In response to another appeal
she said irritably that she was “cruel poorly,” and
there was “death in the wind.”
.bn 418.png
.pn +1
“Draw the curtain behind granny,” said Stargarde,
motioning one of the children to a window.
“She doesn’t feel well. What can we do to cheer
her?”
“Make some sweet stuff,” said Judy, who was
philosophically inspecting the drawn and crabbed
face. will tickle her palate—and her vanity
too," in a lower key.
“Happy thought!” said Stargarde. “Dick and
Mary, will you go to my rooms and get a saucepan?”
Ten minutes later a pot of candy simmered on
the coals sending out a fragrant cloud of steam
that the old woman sniffed appreciatively.
Soon other people began to come in—more
soldiers and more girls, happy in the knowledge
that they might carry on legitimate love-making in
shadowy corners under Stargarde’s vigilant but
sympathetic eye.
The boys of the Pavilion took turns at doorkeeping,
for the kitchen was kept open at all hours.
This evening a small red-eyed lad officiated, and to
his shrill remarks Vivienne and Judy listened in
concealed amusement.
“You can’t come in,” he said abruptly to a lad
of his own size who was shouldering his way past
him.
“Why not?” fiercely; “you ain’t Miss Turner.”
“I’m her doorkeeper, and she’ll not have you.”
.bn 419.png
.pn +1
“Why not?”
“Cause you’re dirty.”
“Yer lie.”
“Can’t I smell?” said the other indignantly.
“If you don’t go and take a warm bath, which you
can have for nuthin’,” pointing to the courtyard,
“you can’t come in here. Now get.”
“I sha’n’t; I’m comin’ in.”
The doorkeeper stood his ground. “You don’t
need fine duds to come here,” he said eloquently;
“Miss Turner’ll stand rags or anythin’, but you’ve
got to be clean. She hates dirt.”
The boy silently withdrew, but presently came
back his face shining with a cleanliness that was
evidently unusual and painful to him.
Just as the door closed behind him Dr. Camperdown
and Mr. Armour entered, both irresistibly
drawn thither by the presence of the women they
loved.
Camperdown stepped in boldly and confidently.
He was a frequent visitor to the place. Armour
came in more quietly and looked about him with
some curiosity.
It was an interesting scene. The flames of the
enormous fire brightly illumined the faces and figures
of Stargarde, Vivienne, Judy, granny, and the children,
who were in the foreground, and the groups
at the various tables in the middle of the room.
The retiring few who had withdrawn to the window
.bn 420.png
.pn +1
seats and corner benches were not so plainly to be
observed.
All were on an equality. There was no sharp
drawing of class lines possible in Stargarde’s vicinity,
and every face in the room was for the time a
contented face.
Armour and Camperdown sat down near Stargarde
and looked about them while listening to
the overpowering strains of a melancholy swan
song that came sobbing and crying from the fiddle
of a blind man who sat in a corner of the room.
A club-footed boy, hitching himself over the
shining floor, occasionally stirred the molasses in
the pot on the stove, and after a time, to the great
delight of the children, poured it out in a number
of shallow buttered plates and took it out to the
veranda to cool.
Shortly after the exit of the taffy plates, the
doorkeeper, who was a lad not deficient in a sense
of humor, caught sight of a new guest, and with
an exaggerated flourish announced in his shrillest
tones, “Lord Skitanglebags!”
MacDaly stepped gallantly forward, smirking
and bowing to the assembled company and taking
in good part their subdued laughter and humorous
salutations.
He had arrayed himself in white stockings and
tan shoes, a faded red military jacket, a parti-colored
sash and a pair of shiny black trousers. In
.bn 421.png
.pn +1
one hand he carried a sword, and in the other a
black silk hat. This hat he adroitly turned upside
down, thereby allowing to fall upon the floor in
front of Stargarde a small roll of manuscript.
“MacDaly,” she exclaimed, surveying in amusement
his beaming face and the gray locks brushed
smoothly upon each side of his gleaming bald pate,
“You don’t mean to say that you wish to give us
another lecture?”
“A topical lecture, lady,” meekly.
“It is better to be frank, isn’t it?” she continued.
“Yes, lady; oh, yes. Frankness is the privilege
of great minds.”
“Your last lecture was too long,” she said.
“Two mortal hours we had to sit here and listen
to you. It wasn’t fair, MacDaly, for we are all
tired people and come to the kitchen for relaxation.
We don’t want a formal programme, and
though it is very interesting to hear about Napoleon
and St. Helena, you shouldn’t entrap us into
listening to you when our minds aren’t in a receptive
condition.”
“True, lady, true, most unfortunately true; but
yet,” depositing his tall hat and his sword on the
table, and tentatively unfolding his manuscript
with a roguish gleam in the tail of his eye, “yet if
I might be graciously vouchsafed just one humble
corner wherein to amble away in figures of speech
.bn 422.png
.pn +1
those listening who felt in that manner disposed,
those not attending who felt in any way so inclined,
I might, could, would, and should——”
“Go on, man,” said Camperdown with an imperious
gesture, “and don’t bore people to death.”
MacDaly blinked maliciously at him, stationed
himself against the wall at a short distance from
the fire, and drawing a reading desk toward him
placed his manuscript on it.
“Does the time serve my presumption?” he
asked presently, peering about the room through a
pair of spectacles.
No one heard him. The soldiers were playing
games at the tables with their sweethearts, and the
other men and women were engaged in conversation.
Stargarde, Vivienne, and Dr. Camperdown
were talking to a sad-faced girl who had just come
in; Judy had slipped to a cushion on the floor and
was being initiated into the mysteries of jackstones;
and Mr. Armour was absently stroking his mustache
and looking into the fire.
Nothing daunted MacDaly cleared his throat
and began, “Be it known to all men that somebody
said something about Lady Stargarde Turner
and her systematic family——”
“Hear him,” said Dr. Camperdown; “he’s talking
about you, Miss Turner.”
“MacDaly,” called Stargarde in her clear sweet
voice, “you mustn’t be personal.”
.bn 423.png
.pn +1
“Oh, no, lady, no, not for worlds.”
“It is better not to mention names,” she went
on.
“To hear is to obey, lady, as the Turks say when
their wives talk to them. We’ll conclude that the
subject of this brief discourse is a person called
Nameless, otherwise Bombo Elephanto.”
“Very well,” she replied turning back to the girl.
MacDaly, sighing heavily, ran his finger down
his manuscript, obliged by Stargarde’s dictum to
skip a paragraph of proper names. “Well, time
rolled on,” he said at last, “and as it is customary
in the finishing-up dance, be it as it may, war dance
or otherwise, some one has to pay the piper, this
great Mohawk or Mogul as I may call him,
Bombo Elephanto, ferociously sets to work teeth
and toenails to kill a crow for himself.”
“What under the sun is he at?” growled Camperdown.
“Hush,” whispered Stargarde; “I fear he is on
the subject of Colonel Armour. MacDaly has a
grudge against him because he sneers at this establishment
of the Pavilion, and this is the way he has
of settling it. If he is too explicit I shall have to
stop him.”
“Bombo Elephanto,” resumed MacDaly, “being
aroused into some of the mental affections to
which he is recently subject, professionally entitled
to be periodical hemidemicrania——”
.bn 424.png
.pn +1
“H’m; this sounds interesting,” muttered Camperdown.
MacDaly eyed him cunningly. “Ha, the gentleman
with the beetling brows is more interested
now than he was at first.”
“Does he mean me, the rascal?” growled Camperdown.
Stargarde, suppressing a smile, laid a finger on
his arm, and MacDaly in high glee that he had begun
to attract the attention of the people in the
room, hitched his desk a little nearer to the fire
and continued rapidly. “This is firmly believed
on account of his many times talking aloud incoherently
to himself, and showing a triumph by
swaying his hand with great violence as he walks
along in company with some unsightly sprite or
other in commune with him. Shame, shame, I
say, as all do say, upon him who would foully and
peevishly urge wrong from his rancoured breast to
falsely gratify his own appetite and earthly wicked
desires by such assiduous passions.”
“Oh, oh,” groaned Dr. Camperdown; “said the
pot to the kettle, thou art blacker than I.”
“Such a being,” pursued MacDaly with uplifted
voice, “cannot expect much else than to meet a
bad end. Yea, melt like butter before the sun.
Only picture the awful end of such a man and in
comparison with the terrific state of Turkey, where
there is to come an overpowering smashup and
.bn 425.png
.pn +1
the dethroning of the sultan. How will this
country be governed? I prophesy that on
account of the graceful form, figure, and noble
bearing of Lady Stargarde Turner,” he felt himself
now far enough in the favor of his awakened
audience to disregard the command about proper
names, “her chances are many of being made
sultana.”
The habitués of the kitchen highly approving of
the honor proposed for their patroness interrupted
MacDaly by such a clapping of hands that he
paused for an instant to mop his gratified face.
“Anticipating her ruling such a barbarous, uncouthed
people with a steady rod,” he hurried on,
“and reducing the price of raisins and figs, I would
cast a prophetic glance into that future and prophesy
again that Mr. Stanton Armour——”
Armour withdrew his eyes from the fire and cast
a haughty glance at the speaker, which was totally
disregarded.
“Will be prime minister,” MacDaly.
“And Dr. Brian Camperdown,” he pronounced
the words with a mischievous relish and a gasping
emphasis, “will be chosen by the sultana as her
sultan.”
Deafening and violent applause broke out, for
the news of Stargarde’s engagement to Dr. Camperdown
had spread through the city with almost
incredible rapidity.
.bn 426.png
.pn +1
Blushing slightly she noted the grim, contented
pride displayed on Camperdown’s face, then listened
to MacDaly, who was hastening on.
“Oh, what a mighty change will be in that
realm! I may say that cruel Turkey will be divided
and subdivided into a large number of provinces
and that a parliament will be produced by
the brilliant ascendency of its future sultana.”
“Stick to your text, man,” interpolated Camperdown.
“We don’t want to hear nonsense about
Turkey. Keep to Halifax.”
“Now, my most noble and illustrious audience,”
uttered MacDaly suavely, “before I close, may I
express the humble hope that as in the contingency
of future events we may not all of us ever meet
again under this ardent and hospitable roof, yet
we may confront each other where high and low
society are also not visibly recognized, but where
all who are immaculate enough to get there get
into good society, where, to use a homely and
worldly phrase, Jack is as good as his master, oftentimes
better, my friends, that is, if poor Jack has
got a depraved individual for his master, as many
of us have. Here, in this most noteworthy family,
where again to use a domestic and wooden proverb
as I may call it, signifying that every tub
must stand on its own bottom, poor Jack can never
hope to be as good as his master, for he has been
felicitous enough to have for master the Lady Stargarde
.bn 427.png
.pn +1
Turner, who always speaks in the most
amply persuasive and gentle tones to her inferiors
at all times and who is bountiful in the largeness
of her heart and the wonderful magnificence of
her nature.”
MacDaly paused here to bow profoundly to Stargarde,
then casting an observing glance upon his
amused audience, decided that a further dose of
her praises would be acceptable.
“Before exclaiming farewell,” he said, again lashing
himself into a state of ardor, “let me ask what
further thing I can say of this noble lady who has
ever wielded the battle-axe of moral suasion on behalf
of helpless and attenuated humanity. Perhaps
I should not use the word battle-axe in connection
with a lady of such refinement who has so
long protected the weak, fed the hungry” (here he
looked over his manuscript with a grin and said, “I
can prove that”), “clothed the naked” (he grinned
again and said, “I can prove that too”), “and magnificently
struck out for the right. Therefore trusting
that she may pardon her humble and obsequious
servant when he says that the mighty things
she has accomplished have struck terror into the
hearts of evil-doers, comparatively speaking, and
can only properly be compared to work done with
an axe—yea, and a mighty work at that. In conclusion,
I may say that I hope we shall meet many
times more in health and wealth, happiness and
.bn 428.png
.pn +1
abundance of affectionate recollections of our past
and present meetings. So farewell for the present;
and believe me to be, ladies and gentlemen, your
very well-wishing and obliged servant, Derrick
Edward Fitz-James O’Grady MacDaly. Thanks,
very much.”
The lecturer bowed, put his manuscript in his
pocket, and mingling affably with his hearers received
with modesty the joking compliments
showered upon him.
Stargarde watched him in intense amusement.
“Why is he fiddling with that sword?” asked
Camperdown, sauntering up to her.
“Oh the entertainment is only half over,” and
she framed an announcement that she wished him
to make.
Camperdown rose and proclaimed in a stentorian
voice, “The future sultana of Turkey orders an exhibition
of sword exercise by Professor MacDaly.”
Everybody sat down, and the Irish Nova Scotian
modestly retiring behind the reading desk from
which a perfectly clear view could be had of his
proceedings, stripped off his red jacket and drew
his sword from its scabbard. Striding to the
middle of the room he looked in Stargarde’s direction,
and began prancing on one foot and then on
the other ejaculating, “Right guard, left guard, cut,
thrust, parry,” etc., and swinging himself backward
and forward with such startling rapidity that the
.bn 429.png
.pn +1
lookers-on were obliged to tumble into corners and
nearly fall over each other into the fire to avoid
what seemed to be an avenging weapon.
It was a frolic for MacDaly, and the fun grew
fast and furious, till Stargarde, noticing Armour sheltering
Vivienne and Judy behind a heap of chairs,
and looking as if he thought the performance a
trifle undignified, gave the signal to stop.
The children present were shrieking with laughter,
but their faces were sobered when the doorkeeper
flung the startling announcement into the
room that the candy had been stolen from the
veranda.
“Buy more,” exclaimed Camperdown. “Off to
the restaurant with you! Here’s money—and order
cake and coffee for the grown-ups.”
MacDaly approached Stargarde with a mincing
step and murmured something about his confident
audacity that would seize the passing moment.
“Certainly,” she replied, “but coppers only.
I’ll take the silver away from you.”
The delighted man accordingly made a circuit
of the room, his heart gladdened by the clash of
Canadian cents descending into the capacious receptacle
of his tall hat.
Upon the arrival of the refreshments a time of
feasting began in the kitchen. The soldiers, with
the efficiency of trained waiters, took charge of the
coffee and cake. The children revolved huge lumps
.bn 430.png
.pn +1
of taffy in their mouths, and Armour with something
like dismay watched the alarming disposition
of sweets by the aged granny.
Stargarde was just about to send the rioting children
bedward, when her attention was attracted by
a commotion at the door.
Camperdown sprang up, but he was too late.
What he had dreaded for weeks, with an agony of
shame and dread, had come to pass. Of no avail
now his lavish bribes and ceaseless supervision.
The astonished doorkeeper had received a blow
on the chest, and had gone spinning into a corner
of the fireplace, whence he skipped nimbly and
stared at his assailant; tattered, unspeakably dirty,
Mrs. Frispi, who towered in the doorway wrathful
and menacing, mumbling something in a drunken
fury at him, which no one understood.
With a low, joyful cry Stargarde sprang up and
went to her. At last the woman had come to the
Pavilion of her own accord.
“You be a beauty, bain’t you?” said the woman
thickly, “barrin’ the door to yer own mother.”
Stargarde did not quite catch her words. Camperdown
did, and tried to draw his fiancée back.
“No, Brian,” she said firmly. “I have waited
a long time for this. Let us get her in by the fire.”
Close at the woman’s heels, like a cowed, sulky
dog, walked the small man, her husband. “Come
in too,” said Stargarde, extending a hand to him.
.bn 431.png
.pn +1
“We be turned out,” he said, with a covert
glance about the room, and hanging his head as if
the bright light hurt his eyes. “No money; big
man say, ‘You go to de streeta.‘”
The woman in exasperation at the withdrawal of
attention from her, seized Stargarde by the shoulder.
“Don’t you hear?” she gasped hoarsely.
“I—be—your—mother.”
The words were audible, though indistinct. A
surprised, incredulous look overspread Stargarde’s
beautiful face. “Brian,” she said, turning to him
as if she could not trust the evidence of her own
sense of hearing, “what does she say?”
He would not repeat the words, but in his
ashamed, mortified face she received confirmation
of her own half-born idea.
“My mother!” she exclaimed, still in a dazed
state of semi-belief; “my mother that I have
searched for so long!”
“Yes; you be my daughter, and what be daughters
for but to work for their mothers?” snarled
Mrs. Frispi, suddenly collapsing and sinking into a
chair. “And—who’s that?” she stammered, turning
her swollen, distorted face toward Stanton Armour,
who stood in handsome, deathly pallor, and
as motionless as a statue beyond her.
“Oh, my God!” and mouthing, swearing, unutterably
foul and repulsive, she groveled from her
chair to the floor.
.bn 432.png
.pn +1
“Oh, tell me, some one,” cried Stargarde wildly,
“what is it she says? Is it true?”
“It be true,” said Frispi eagerly. Then stepping
forward he plunged his hand among the rags
over his wife’s broad chest and withdrew a filthy
envelope, out of which he drew a photograph that
he handed to Stargarde.
It was a picture of Mrs. Frispi, taken in her
palmy days. Stargarde laid a hand on her own
fluttering breast. There was a counterpart of this
florid, sensuous face that she had treasured for
years.
She drew out her own photograph. It was exactly
like the other; her intense blue eyes darted to
the floor. There in that tall form, in the evil face,
she could see a faint, disfigured likeness to herself.
“O God, I thank thee!” she said, and fell on
her knees to put her arms about the degraded
creature before her.
Where was the terror, the repulsion, the anguish
that the sight was to cause her? Camperdown
gazed at her in distracted astonishment, then hopelessly
surveyed the hushed, motionless ring of people
beyond them.
“Brian,” said Stargarde, in tones of ineffable
love, “we must take her home.”
At the first shock of her words, he started back
with a gesture of utter detestation. He loved her,
but he could not touch her mother.
.bn 433.png
.pn +1
Then he sprang forward, but he was too late.
Neither disappointed nor surprised by his refusal,
Stargarde gathered the loathsome and disgraceful
specimen of fallen womanhood to her own tender
bosom, and lovingly enwrapping it in her arms
went out in the night.
.bn 434.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXII | HE KISSED HER AND PROMISED
.sp 2
The spring was long, cold, and trying. The
sun shone brightly, but the north wind
sweeping over the ice-fields in the Gulf of St.
Lawrence breathed chill and disconsolate on shivering
Nova Scotia until well into May.
Then to the great delight of the robins, that had
come back rather earlier than usual, and had been
greeted by a snowstorm, there was a change in the
weather. One leap and they were into the jolly
summer, clad in his “cassock colored green,” and
having on his head a garland. Swelling tree-buds,
bursting flowers, and universal greenness prevailed.
During the latter part of May, energetic work
was carried on in field and garden in preparation
for the brief but lovely season which lasts in the
seaside province through June, July, and August,
until the golden days of September and October
come.
The twenty-first of June is the natal day of Halifax,
and on this day an annual concert is held in
the lovely Public Gardens. The flower beds are
roped off, electric lights shine far overhead among
.bn 435.png
.pn +1
the treetops, and lines of Chinese lanterns and rows
of torches glow nearer the earth. Two or three
military bands play favorite airs to thousands of
people, who saunter to and fro listening to the
music, haunting ice-cream booths, or watching the
effect of fireworks set off from a small island in the
center of a pond from which unhappy ducks and
geese fly, quacking and gabbling their disapproval
of proceedings so disturbing.
From one of these annual concerts held on a
perfect June night, Mrs. Colonibel, Vivienne, Judy,
and Mr. Armour were returning. Judy, exhausted
by much walking to and fro on the Garden paths,
had fallen asleep in the carriage with her head on
Armour’s shoulder. Mrs. Colonibel and Vivienne
sat with faces upturned to the dull blue of the sky
listening, the one absently the other intently, to
Armour’s description of the wonderful Wolf-Rayet
stars.
His voice was calm and measured, yet Vivienne
had known all the evening that something had
happened to worry him. When they reached the
house, and Mrs. Colonibel and Judy went upstairs,
she lingered an instant as she said “Good-night.”
There was no response to her glance of inquiry.
Whatever his trouble was he had resolved not to
impart it to her, and she slowly proceeded to her
room, and putting aside her hat, sank on a heap of
cushions by her open window and looked out in
.bn 436.png
.pn +1
the direction of the Arm, which lay like a dull,
solid expanse of crystal at the foot of its lines of
wooded hills.
It was a dark night, and she could see nothing
very distinctly. There was a slight murmur in the
pines about the house, but beyond that the stillness
was perfect. Her thoughts were on the cottage,
though she could see nothing of it. Things were
not going well there. Valentine had finally taken
up his abode with his father, and they rarely saw
him up at the larger house. This evening Vivienne
knew that Colonel Armour was entertaining some
of his friends. Probably that was the cause of
the shadow on her lover’s brow, for she knew that
he strongly disapproved of his father’s midnight
parties.
“Then why does he not say that they shall not
take place?” she uttered half aloud, as she thought
of the burdens that Stanton Armour was obliged
to carry. “I would not endure it were I in his
place.”
“A woman only has power over Ephraim to
weep and implore and make supplication unto
him,” said a voice behind her.
Vivienne scarcely turned her head. She had become
fully accustomed to having Mammy Juniper
creep upon her at all times and seasons. Ever
since the day that the old Negro woman had seen
Stanton Armour’s magnificent diamond ring flashing
.bn 437.png
.pn +1
upon Vivienne’s finger she had changed her
tactics with regard to her. The girl was to be
taken into the family, hence she must be treated
with respect, and strange to say, in a very short
time she was as much fascinated by Vivienne, and
as completely under her influence, as she had formerly
been antagonistic and threatening to her.
Her insane prejudice, which had been largely a
matter of duty, entirely passed away. The girl’s
slight imperiousness exercised the same charm over
the Maroon woman’s half-crazed mind that it did
over Joe’s stolid one, and she followed her new
mistress about with offers of service and petitions
for the privilege of performing some of her ancient
duties of lady’s maid, that sometimes amused and
sometimes annoyed Vivienne.
To-night she stood motionless for some time beside
the reclining figure, then seeing that the girl
did not wish to be disturbed, moved softly about
the room, turning up the wicks of the different
lamps, arranging the furniture and gathering up
books and papers, till finally coming back to Vivienne,
she saw that she had fallen asleep.
Deftly, and with a gentle touch, the woman drew
out the large pins that confined the girl’s hair, and
allowed it to fall in a dusky mass over her shoulders,
then dropping a rug over her sat down and
watched her.
“To-day the chaff driven by the whirlwind came
.bn 438.png
.pn +1
into my room,” she muttered, “and the doves went
mourning about the house. The anger of the Lord
is about to come upon us; woe to him that sets his
nest on high. Shall they not rise up suddenly that
shall bite thee? Ephraim has brought shame to
his house by cutting off many people. For the
stone shall cry out to the wall and the beam out
of the timber shall answer it. Woe to him that
buildeth a house with blood.”
The night wore on and Vivienne, undisturbed by
Mammy Juniper’s mutterings, still slept. There
was no sound to break the deathly stillness inside
and outside the house, till shortly after one o‘clock
the girl started up with a low cry of “Stanton!”
Mammy Juniper went over to her. “Awake,
my princess, the hour of the Lord is at hand.”
Vivienne’s dazed glance took in the black figure
standing over her, the bright lamps of the room,
the darkness outside, then she shuddered. “I
have had a distressing dream. Is Mr. Armour
here? I thought that he was hurt.”
“Mourn not for the elder but for the younger
branch, O princess,” chanted the old woman.
“Ephraim is a proud man. He transgresseth by
wine, neither keepeth at home. He enlargeth his
desire as hell and as death, that cannot be satisfied.”
“Hush, Mammy,” said Vivienne.
“Can you not hear the feet of him that bringeth
.bn 439.png
.pn +1
bad tidings?” rejoined the woman. “Howl, O
fir trees, for the lofty cedar has fallen—howl, ye
oaks of Bashan, for the forest of the vintage has
come down. Woe, woe to him that buildeth a
house with blood!”
Vivienne shuddered again, and to avoid looking
at the blending of wrath and suffering on Mammy’s
ugly face, leaned far out of the window. Down in
the direction of the cottage a sudden confused
noise had arisen, followed a few seconds later by a
sound of footsteps hurrying over the walk to the
house. She listened intently till the person below
came up to the veranda steps and rattled a key in
the door of the back hall. “There must be something
wrong at the cottage,” she said, getting up
and walking across the room, “and that is Joe.”
“Joe goes as a snake by the way, my princess,”
said Mammy seizing a lamp and following her. “It
is Vincent.”
Vivienne went out into the hall and looked down
over the railing of the circular opening at the night-light
burning outside Armour’s door.
Vincent was coming quietly upstairs. His feet
made no sound in passing over the thick carpet
and he had only to tap at Mr. Armour’s door to
have it thrown open to him.
He said a few words in a low voice that they
could not hear, then disappeared as quickly as he
had come. In a very few minutes Armour
.bn 440.png
.pn +1
emerged from his room, thrusting his arms into his
coat as he hurried after his servant.
“O Ephraim, he that dasheth in pieces is come
up before thy face,” mumbled Mammy Juniper in
a choking voice. “Keep the munitions, watch the
way!”
“What is it?” exclaimed Vivienne; “what has
happened? You speak knowingly.”
The old woman suddenly became calm. “Come
and see,” she said quietly.
Vivienne followed her down the staircase. The
house was intensely still. No other persons were
stirring. When they reached the lowest hall Vivienne
paused. “Mammy, I shall not go down there
among those men. Do you go and bring me back
news of what has happened.”
Mammy looked at her regretfully. “The Assyrians
led by Ephraim bring reproach upon themselves.
Only a princess of the house can warn and
deliver.”
“I know what you mean,” said the girl proudly;
“but I cannot be sensational. I will speak to
your master. Now go and see if you can be of
any use.”
She walked into the dining room, and the old
servant carefully placing the lamp in the middle of
the long table, left her alone.
There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and with
a dull and heavy sense of apprehension Vivienne
.bn 441.png
.pn +1
watched the hands scarcely moving over its face.
Twenty, thirty, forty minutes passed, and still
Mammy did not come.
At the end of that time there was a step in the
hall and she hurried to the door to be confronted
by Stanton Armour.
“Are you here, Vivienne?” he asked in a kind
of subdued surprise.
“Yes,” and she anxiously scanned his gloomy,
dispirited face.
“You had better go to bed. Why did you get
up?”
“I had not gone to bed. I fell asleep by my
window after I came home, and waked up when I
heard Vincent coming for you.”
He made no reply and she went on: “What was
the trouble, Stanton?”
“Valentine got himself into a scrape.”
“That unhappy boy!” she said mournfully.
“Do not worry,” said Mr. Armour, trying to clear
his face, “it may not be so bad as we think.”
“How bad is it? why do you hesitate?” she
said in a low, disturbed voice.
“I do not like to tell you disagreeable things,
Vivienne.”
“Am I a doll or a child that I can endure
nothing? I do not like to be so treated, Stanton.
What was Valentine doing?”
“You know that he has been drinking lately?”
.bn 442.png
.pn +1
“Yes.”
“This evening when my father and his guests
were at supper Valentine came in and made some
remarks that they considered insulting.”
“Indeed!”
“And they drove him into a corner, and some
one threw a wineglass at him; I hate to tell you
this, Vivienne.”
“That is no surprise to me.”
“They had all been drinking,” he went on a little
doggedly; “and in some way or other they have
hurt Valentine’s eyes. I fancy that he continued
to be irritating, as he knows well how to be, and
they continued shying wineglasses at him. They
didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“And Vincent heard them and came for you to
break up this pleasant party?”
“Yes.”
“How are they leaving here?”
“Vincent is driving them.”
“And he is taken from his rest to do so?”
“Yes, unavoidably so.”
“Have you sent for Dr.
“I have.”
“And Mammy Juniper is with Valentine?”
“She is.”
“And you are half annoyed with me for coming
down,” she said, seizing a handful of her long,
hanging hair and pushing it back from her face.
.bn 443.png
.pn +1
“No, only worried about Valentine.”
“Is there nothing more than that?”
“Nothing more that I care to tell you,” he said
evasively.
“You are pale, you suffer,” she said in a low
voice.
He gently put back her masses of perfumed hair
so that he might see her face more distinctly.
“What a simpleton I used to be,” she suddenly
exclaimed; “so young, so deplorably ignorant!”
“Why do you say this?”
“Because I thought that engaged people entered
upon a dream of bliss; while you—the more intimately
I know you the higher rises some dreadful,
dreadful barrier between us. Stanton, tell me, tell
me why you are so moody and restless with me
lately? Do you not wish to marry me?”
He stooped and kissed her lustrous eyes. “You
are mine, mine,” he repeated in accents of repressed
passion. “Would to God that you were
my wife now.”
“I feel like a restless wave beating against a
rock,” she said mournfully. “Am I never to share
your troubles?”
The hand resting on her shoulder trembled, and
she saw that he was wavering in his hitherto fixed
resolve not to confide in her.
“Now—now,” she said eagerly; “tell me tonight.
If you love me, trust me.”
.bn 444.png
.pn +1
“I am racked with anxiety,” he muttered.
“What you ask me to do is the right thing, yet
you may shrink from me; you may never marry
me.”
“Have you ever done anything dishonorable
yourself?”
“No; but I have shielded my own flesh and
blood; more from instinct than from affection, perhaps,
I have done it.”
“Then I will never give you up,” she murmured.
Her beseeching arms were around his neck and
he could no longer resist. In halting accents, that
were sometimes angry, sometimes ashamed, he told
her all she wished to know, and she listened, still
clinging to him, but with her hair bound about her
face so that he could not see its expression.
When he finished she drew a long sigh, and he
found that she was crying.
“Well,” he said, “are we to be husband and
wife, or must we separate?”
“We shall never separate, if it rests with me,”
she said gently. “But why, oh, why did you dislike
my mother?”
“I will make it up to the daughter,” he said, and
vehemently. “Can you not see, Vivienne, that if
things had not been as they were I would have
been spared my worst anxiety?”
“I am so shocked at the wickedness of the
.bn 445.png
.pn +1
world,” she said, “so shocked! I never dreamed
of it when I was at school.”
“Yes,” he said gloomily, “it is a bad world.”
“But there is much goodness,” she went on
with a sudden radiance of face; “and I am not one
to say that the world becomes worse instead of
better.”
His face brightened. “Yes, men and women
do each other good as well as a frightful amount
of evil.”
“And you feel better for telling me this, do you
not?”
“Yes; I have been carrying on a wearisome
struggle these last few weeks. You will preserve
my confidence. There is no one else to whom I
talk; no one who knows me. You, my dear innocent
lamb,” and he suddenly became loverlike and
tender, “are the only being in the world that understands
me.”
“You will find my father for me?” she said
softly.
“If it is a possible thing; there is no news yet.”
“And when he comes you will try to clear him?
Yet stay, Stanton; can you do nothing in his absence?”
“I scarcely think so.”
“Is there no one who knows? What about
Mammy Juniper and MacDaly, who talk so
strangely about your father? You are silent. Remember,
.bn 446.png
.pn +1
Stanton, I too have a father. Tell me,
would you clear him to-morrow if you could, though
at the expense of disgracing your own parent?”
“Yes, I would,” he said.
“That is enough,” she said in a low, intense
voice. “Have no more scruples about marrying
me. I take the responsibility.”
She gave him her hand like a princess, and leaving
him standing, a lonely figure in the half-lighted
room, went toward the hall to Mammy Juniper,
who was waiting for her.
He stood for some time after her departure,
staring at the floor, till he heard in abrupt language:
“Where is Mammy Juniper?”
“She is upstairs,” and he lifted his head to see
Camperdown pawing the hall carpet like an impatient
horse.
“I want some linen, and I wish that she would
come down to the cottage. By the way, Stanton,”
and he paused as he was about to fling himself out
of the doorway, “how much longer are you going
to let this thing run on? Fristram and Shelly were
here this evening gambling with your worthy sire;
the young scamps ought to have been at home with
their wives.”
“I know,” wearily; “but what can a man do?
I am reproached now with having thrust my father
out of doors.”
“Nobody that understood the facts would blame
.bn 447.png
.pn +1
you,” said Camperdown seriously. “But can’t you
hedge him around with restrictions?”
“If I draw too sharp a line he will leave here.”
“And you don’t want him injuring the family
reputation elsewhere. But isn’t there any way you
can devise of keeping these silly young flies from
him? Let him amuse himself with old spiders like
himself.”
“He must do it in future,” said Armour.
“Who made you promise?” asked Camperdown
curiously.
“Vivienne.”
“I thought so; good little girl!”
“I have decided to send Valentine away till after
our marriage,” said Armour; “can you suggest any
one to go with him?”
Camperdown frowned, hesitated, and muttered:
“Better wait a bit.”
“You do not think that his eyes are seriously
injured, do you?” said Armour quickly.
“I think nothing, and what I know I’ll keep to
myself,” and Camperdown again made an attempt
to leave the room, but turned on his heel to come
back and say, “Your ancestors were Puritans,
weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Strictest of the strict and fastidious about Sundays,
and would scarcely smile on week days?”
“Yes.”
.bn 448.png
.pn +1
“And they grew rich and were high in favor with
God and man?”
“So the family history assures us.”
“Then they waxed self-indulgent. Your great-grandfather
began a merry dance that is culminating
with your father and Valentine, and you—poor,
dull, and misanthropic clod—would dry up and
sterilize but for that lovely little simpleton upstairs,
who is probably dreaming that you are a Prince
Charming.”
An indescribable air of animation took possession
of Armour’s heavy, handsome features. “She
probably is,” he said with a smile.
“If you‘ve any sense at all,” continued Camperdown
with assumed disdain, “if you‘ve any idea of
perpetuating a decent family line, agree to anything
she says. In her fine-spun, aristocratic, philanthropic
notions, which are strictly opposed to all that is
earthly, sensual, and devilish, is your only salvation.”
And with a volley of menacing glances he vanished,
and shortly afterward crunched under foot the
gravel below as he walked toward the cottage
muttering: “Blind, blind! Poor fools, how will
they stand it? Better Puritans than Sybarites!”
.bn 449.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXIII | A WAYWORN TRAVELER
.sp 2
For eight weary weeks Stargarde had, in the
opinion of her friends, been afflicted by the
terrible being who undoubtedly was her mother.
But to Stargarde it was no affliction. From the
night that she had taken the miserable creature in
her arms, washed and fed her and laid her on her
own bed, it had seemed rather a joy and privilege
than a duty, to wait upon her. Cheerfully and uncomplainingly
she placed herself at the disposal of
her unworthy parent, guarding and restraining her
as far as she possibly could, and making no ado
when she was missing, but patiently seeking her in
the lowest haunts of the town as a shepherd would
seek a lost sheep and return it to the sheepfold.
After Mrs. Frispi had been with Stargarde for
four weeks her wanderings suddenly ceased. Her
evil genius might prompt her to roam, but it was
no longer in her power to do so. Her frame,
strong as it had been, suddenly yielded to the
effects of disease brought on by her irregular life.
She lay on her back in Stargarde’s bed with no
thought in her guilty soul of preparing for that
.bn 450.png
.pn +1
longer, more mysterious flight than any she had yet
taken, but raving day by day in obscene and abominable
language that made Camperdown look in
despair and admiration at Stargarde, who in an
agony of compassion hung over the unhappy woman
and urged her to repent.
Day by day he entered the sick-room, sometimes
greeted sullenly by the sufferer, at others hailed by
a torrent of abuse that made him turn from her
with a shudder of disgust; but gradually there came
a change. During the past ten days his patient
had lain in a sullen, stoical silence, apparently indifferent
alike to her sufferings and to Stargarde’s
tender ministrations. That she used no more reckless
language was something to be thankful for, and
with a sense of relief to think that he was no longer
in the den of a wild beast, Camperdown stepped
into the room one Sunday morning.
He held his fiancée’s> hand one instant in his own,
then went to the bed and glanced sharply over Mrs.
Frispi’s attenuated features. She did not look at
him, even when he laid his fingers on her bony
wrist, for her big blue eyes, slowly revolving in their
sunken sockets, were following Stargarde as she
moved about the room.
“Let me take your temperature,” he said.
Mrs. Frispi shook her head impatiently.
“Mother,” murmured Stargarde appealingly,
coming to stand beside her.
.bn 451.png
.pn +1
At this the woman submitted, and when she
turned her head toward Camperdown he noticed
that a softened look had overspread her features,
and that tears were stealing down her cheeks.
In order to give her time to compose herself he
affected to be busy with his instrument case.
A side glance presently cast in her direction
showed him that the tears were still on her cheeks
and also that she was not anxious to avoid his
scrutiny.
“Are you going to throw her over?” she asked
quietly.
Camperdown stared at her.
“Are you going to throw her over on account
of me?” asked Mrs. Frispi, again indicating Stargarde
by a motion of her head.
“No, I am not,” he said decidedly.
She made a sound of satisfaction in her throat
and went on coolly: “She forgives me, but you
will not. You would have kicked me back in the
mud. She pitied me. She reminds me of the good
people that I was with in New York for a little
while when I was a girl. No one has cared for me
since. I couldn’t help myself. Suppose she had
been brought up where I was.”
Camperdown frowned at the horrible possibilities
suggested. Yet he took comfort in the
sturdy character of his betrothed. “She would
have been good anywhere,” he said stoutly.
.bn 452.png
.pn +1
“Have you lived in the slums?” said the
woman with a sneer. “Could an angel be good
with a thousand devils after her?”
He did not reply to her otherwise than by a
shrug of his shoulders.
“And you won’t forgive me for disgracing you,”
she went on in a kind of languid surprise; “and
you call yourself a Christian.”
“Brian,” said Stargarde with a passion of entreaty
in her voice.
“I do forgive you,” he said not unkindly, and
after a short struggle with himself; “but you can’t
expect me to admire you.”
“Admire me!” she exclaimed, burying her face
in the pillow. “Oh, my God!”
A few minutes later he left the Pavilion and went
to his home.
The next day and the next and the next Camperdown
saw Mrs. Frispi, but she did not speak to
him. He saw that she was becoming weaker, and
also that she was in a quieter, calmer mood.
“To-night she will probably die,” he said on
the evening of the third day, “and I shall take Mrs.
Trotley and go to Stargarde.”
While he was at dinner a message came from
the Pavilion for him and for Zilla. The end was
coming sooner than they had imagined it would.
Zilla hesitated about going; not that she feared
death, for she had seen many people die, but from
.bn 453.png
.pn +1
purely selfish motives. It was a rainy evening, and
she would rather stay at home and read one of her
beautiful books than to go out to witness the end
of a person who was utterly uninteresting to her.
“I cannot wait,” said Camperdown, “and I think
that you ought to come with me. There is a cab
at the door; you won’t have to walk.”
Zilla flashed him a swift glance, darted upstairs
for her cloak, and went with him.
It was certainly not a hateful sight that they witnessed
when they left the rain and darkness of the
street and entered Stargarde’s cheerful rooms.
Every light was shining brightly. Mrs. Frispi’s
sight was almost gone, and to enable her to see
some objects in the room that she dearly prized,
Stargarde had even had additional lights brought in.
The woman lay quietly among the pillows of her
snow-white bed, the gaunt framework of her bones
almost piercing through the thin covering of skin.
Stargarde sat by the bed and in a recess was a girl
dressed in the uniform of the Salvation Army.
“It is no use,” Mrs. Frispi was uttering in short
gasping breaths, as Camperdown and Zilla paused
in the doorway; “I can’t see them—tell me.”
Around Stargarde’s room hung a number of
paintings illustrating an old hymn that she was fond
of Two years before an English artist,
poor and drunken and expelled from his native
land, had found a shelter till his death in the Pavilion.
.bn 454.png
.pn +1
In gratitude for Stargarde’s kindness to
him, he had painted a series of pictures for her,
representing the adventures of the wayworn traveler
that he had so often heard her singing about
to a quaint, wild tune.
On these paintings hanging around her bed Mrs.
Frispi’s eyes had often rested, and Stargarde, thinking
that no more applicable story could be framed
to suit her mother’s circumstances, had, in talking
to her, woven biblical truths with the progress of
the weary traveler. The striking pictures and the
graphic words had impressed themselves upon the
sin-worn mind. Even now, when her earthly vision
was dulled, the dying one had before her mental
gaze the representations of the traveler toiling up
the mountain, his garments worn and dusty, his
step slow, his eyes turned resolutely from the enchanting
arbors where sweet songsters invited his
delay to the top of the mountain, beyond which
were the heavenly vale and the golden city.
.pm start_poem
“While gazing on that city,”
.pm end_poem
repeated Stargarde gently,
.pm start_poem
“Just o’er the narrow flood,
A band of holy angels
Came from the throne of God.
They bore him on their pinions
Safe o’er the dashing foam,
And joined him in his triumph;
‘Deliverance will come.’”
.pm end_poem
.bn 455.png
.pn +1
Her voice died away, and Zilla sank into a chair
while Camperdown stepped softly to the bedside.
There was nothing that he could do for his patient;
the shadow of death was already upon her face.
Yet she lay quietly, as quietly as a child about to
fall asleep, and giving no sign of distress or emotion
except in the hurried and labored rise and fall of
her chest.
“I believe in God now,” she said solemnly, and
moving her almost sightless eyes toward him. “I
believe in everything. Oh,” with a sudden great
and bitter cry, and straining her gaze in Stargarde’s
direction, “what a wrong I have done her!”
Stargarde held one of her mother’s hands in her
own. At her despairing words she seized the
other and folded them both between her strong,
fair palms with a consoling clasp.
“I wish to go to heaven because she will be
there,” said the woman, starting up in bed with a
last exertion of strength. “I cast her off when she
was a baby, and she kisses me!”
Camperdown hastily pushed more pillows behind
her and moistened her lips with drops of a stimulant
beside him.
“I can see plainly now,” she went on, opening
wide her blue eyes with their strange and touching
expression. “Zeb, mind what she says and don’t
vex her. Take good care of her, you,” she continued,
addressing Camperdown. “I forgive you
.bn 456.png
.pn +1
now; I could have killed you before. I hated
every man. I forgive all”—brokenly—"as I hope
to be forgiven—even him."
Her breath fluttered convulsively for a few minutes,
then she sprang forward: “I hear them—the
song of triumph they sing upon that shore. Jesus
hath redeemed us—to suffer nevermore,” she added.
“O Jesus, do not despise me—I am sorry.”
Her last words were spoken. She fell back in
Camperdown’s arms and he laid her head on the
pillows.
Stargarde’s face was shining like that of an angel.
For many days he had seen her kneeling by that
sick-bed, had heard her pleading voice, “O God,
give me this soul; save my mother and take her
to heaven.” Now her heart’s desire was gratified,
and he feared that after the long weeks of watching
and confinement to the house a collapse would
come; but there was no sign of it yet. Very
calmly she asked Zilla if she would care to stay
in the room while Camperdown left it. Zilla remained;
and Stargarde, while performing the last
tender offices for her mother in which she would
receive only a small amount of assistance from her
friend of the Salvation Army, talked sweetly to the
child of the triumphant entry of their mother’s
spirit into heaven, and of the putting away of the
deserted body under the grass and the flowers
where it would lie till the joyful resurrection.
.bn 457.png
.pn +1
Death had before this been connected with all
that was squalid and mysterious and unlovely in
the child’s mind—not a thing to be feared among
people who led reckless lives, but rather to be
hated and shunned.
When she at last left the Pavilion and put her
hand in Camperdown’s for him to take her home,
she remarked sagely, “I shall not mind dying, now
that I am rich.”
.bn 458.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXIV | A FOX CHASE
.sp 2
It was just dinner time at Pinewood. All the
house doors and windows were open, and the
sound of the gong reached the ears of a man who
was mincing down the avenue. “Ha,” he said
stopping short, “the honorable lady will be partaking
of some comestibles. It will be advisable
that I dally away the time till she shall be lured
without by the refreshing delightsomeness of the
evening.” And skirting the edge of the lawn and
perceiving Joe he made his way down to the sunny
slope.
“A handsome day, Mr. Lo,” he said, saluting the
Indian, who raised his head to stare at him.
Joe responded by an “Ugh!” and bent again
over a small rent in his upturned canoe. After a
short silence his curiosity got the better of his
reserve, and he said, “Why you call me Lo? I
Joe.”
“‘Lo, the poor Indian,’ don’t you know the
poetry?” asked MacDaly. “With me it is the
generic and epidemic name for the aborigines of
this province.”
.bn 459.png
.pn +1
Joe gave him a sleepy look from his dark eyes
in which there was no hint of displeasure. “What
you want?” he asked bluntly.
“I am about to enter upon, or in some way
engage in a private interview with a certain favorably
disposed personage distinguished by many
gifts and graces, but whose name I will not take
upon my unworthy lips,” said MacDaly; “but
what have we here? The honorable Lady Stargarde
must be in the vicinity, judging by the appearance
of her scout.”
Mascarene, delighted as only a city dog who is
kept in a close street can be when removed to
open fields, came frisking and jumping down the
incline. His frolic over, he fawned on Joe, who
was intensely fond of him but scarcely glanced at
him, and sniffed in a friendly manner around MacDaly
who, while lauding him to the skies as a captivating
canine, cared for him not at all.
“What you gottum for Miss Debbiline?” asked
Joe of MacDaly, who was pirouetting to and fro to
keep out of the way of the dog.
MacDaly, rather taken aback, mumbled that in
the event of not seeing the young demoiselle he
had a small communication addressed to her that
he would be obliged to have some one deliver, and
he twirled between his thumb and finger a soiled
three-cornered note.
He did not offer it to Joe, nor did Joe take it
.bn 460.png
.pn +1
from him, yet in a somewhat bewildered fashion
he saw that the sly Christmas had it, and was transferring
it to his pocket.
“Ah, well-a-day, it is of small import,” he muttered,
while watching the Micmac draw his canoe
up on the grass.
“Me hot,” said Joe; “workum no more till morning.
You want money?” he added inquiringly.
MacDaly’s eyes brightened. Money! was he
not always wanting it?
“You come with me,” said the Indian mysteriously,
and MacDaly fearing no treachery followed
him.
If he had heard an order that the Indian had
received from Mr. Armour a few days previously
his heart would not have been so light as it was.
“Joe,” Armour had said, “that man MacDaly is
troubling Miss Delavigne. If you see him about
here send him away.” And Joe, who in his heart
despised MacDaly, had grunted acquiescence.
Trippingly MacDaly stepped after him to the
shore immediately behind the cottage, where a
long black rock ran out so far that if the cottage
were dropped off the end of it the tops of the
chimneys would not be seen above the water.
“You come here,” said Joe, going to the end of
the rock and kneeling down.
“Buried treasure, eh?” said MacDaly gloatingly,
“or perchance something sunken in the rock
.bn 461.png
.pn +1
and the savage unaware of its value wishes to receive
the opinion of an expert and—what are you
doing, you rascal?” he spluttered as he felt the
Micmac’s hand on his collar.
“You dirty, me washum,” said Joe playfully, and
still gripping the astonished Irish-Canadian by the
back of the neck he swung him off the end of the
rock and soused him up and down in the water.
“I’m not dirty,” pleaded MacDaly piteously,
“and for the love of mercy do not let go your hold
of me or I shall sink like a stone.”
“You bad man,” said Joe; “you teaseum Miss
Debbiline. You say, me don’t speakum her more.”
“I promise; ye gods and little fishes hear my
vow!” cried MacDaly, when Joe allowed him to
come far enough out of the water to clasp his
hands. “Oh, let me out, let me out!”
“You been bery bad,” said Joe seriously. “Me
priest now. You sayum sins quick.”
MacDaly with alarming rapidity rattled off a
number of venial transgressions. He had recovered
from his first alarm and was reflecting that the
Indian did not wish to hurt him but only to frighten
him, that the water was agreeably cool, and that he
had on his second-best suit of clothes.
“You done worse than that,” said Joe. “Tellum
worse thing you done,” and he let MacDaly
down in the water till his ears and eyes were
covered.
.bn 462.png
.pn +1
“Oh, mermaids and cuttle fish, I can‘t!” his victim
gurgled and spluttered.
“Must,” said the Micmac, dipping him again till
the crown of his head was immersed.
“I burnt a building,” gasped MacDaly in real
fright. “Now let me out,” and for the first time
making resistance he clung to the rock with his
hands.
Joe allowed him to clamber up beside him.
“What you burnum?” he asked.
“A building,” groaned MacDaly, patting his dripping
sides. “Alack, alack, I’m very wet.”
“You ever hunt fox?”
“No.”
“Great sport; you be fox, me hunter. This be
dog,” pointing to the bewildered Mascarene, who
had been in the water swimming around MacDaly
waiting for a chance to rescue him, and who was
now sitting staring at him. “Run,” added Joe.
“But there would be no confidence existing,”
said MacDaly protestingly.
“Run,” said Joe, who had not the slightest idea
of his meaning, and MacDaly with a sigh skipped
nimbly over the wall. Away up at the top of the
hill he looked back and fancied that he was to be
allowed to escape, for Joe stood motionless with
the dog beside him. MacDaly could not resist
making a derisive motion of his hand, but repented
immediately and bitterly, and with a plaintive
.bn 463.png
.pn +1
squeal of dismay fled in the direction of the town,
for hunter and dog bounding like two stealthy
panthers were after him.
A few minutes later Joe was shaking his small
remaining amount of breath from him. “What
you burnum?”
Still MacDaly would not tell him, again Joe let
him off, but only to resume his chase, till at last
the unfortunate fox, bedraggled, exhausted, and
overcome, told him the secret of his life.
Joe with a noiseless step returned to the cottage,
and lay in wait under a larch for Mr. Armour, who
always came down to see his brother some time
during the evening.
“Mr. Val sleepum,” he said an hour later when
Mr. Armour was about to pass him, “and cunnel
away. This for Miss Debbiline, from Daly,” and
he held out the three-cornered note. “Daly say,”
he went on, “that he burnum warehouse. Miss
Debbiline’s father not do it. Daly happen go
early to warehouse. He go in office, find cigar, he
smokeum. He no business there, hearum noise,
run out. He ‘fraid some one catchum. He drop
cigar—must sparks fall, he not know. Not do on
purpose. He ‘fraid tellum.”
“Where is MacDaly?” asked Mr. Armour
sternly.
“Gone home. I tell him go see you in morning.”
.bn 464.png
.pn +1
“Do you think that he will do so?”
“He sartin come,” and Joe, laughing musically,
withdrew and left his master standing as if spellbound
under the trees.
Stargarde and Vivienne walking to and fro on
the lawn waited a long time for Armour to return.
Finally he came slowly toward them. “Here is a
note for you, Vivienne, from MacDaly,” he said.
The girl took it from him. “It is too dark here
to read it. Let us go into the house. His productions
are so amusing. ‘Miss Delavigne!’” she
read when they three stood beside a lamp in
the drawing room; “‘if it had pleased an all-wise
Providence to place me in a different walk of life
and I saw a black man—a thoroughly black man—at
any period of time I should really consider him
worthy of the intrinsic offering of one solitary lucifer
match for a slight midsummer present. Though
simple as it may appear, it would be as truly acceptable
by my honorable self as it would by the black
man, and it would by all means show you a lady
undoubted. With a profundity of respect, Derrick
Edward Fitz-James O’Grady MacDaly. P. S. This
wonderful match would be to illuminate a fellow’s
pipe.’”
Vivienne turned the paper over with a bewildered
face. “It is enigmatical. Does he wish matches,
Stargarde?”
Stargarde clad in a long black gown that made
.bn 465.png
.pn +1
her seem paler than usual and her hair brighter,
softly drew her fingers across Vivienne’s cheek.
“He wishes a dollar, my child.”
“You have given this man a good deal of money,
have you not?” asked Armour.
Vivienne blushed. “Not very much. He talks
to me of my father.”
“Will you not leave him to me? I promise not
to hurt his feelings. I will give him some work.”
“Yes, I will,” said Vivienne; “but why do you
look at me so peculiarly. He has something to
tell me,” turning vivaciously to Stargarde, “and
he won’t say it.”
“Not to-night,” he replied with a sigh and a
smile and a look of inexpressible affection.
.bn 466.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXV | HER WEDDING DAY
.sp 2
“A wild bird in a cage; a trapped beauty and a
disconsolate beast,” muttered Camperdown
late in the evening of the day of his marriage.
He sat in a corner of his drawing room, his eyes
riveted on Stargarde’s back as she stood holding
aside the lace window curtain and gazing out into
the street.
“It seems to me,” he went on grumblingly,
“that I’ve seen a picture called ‘Alone’ or ‘At
Last’ or some such rubbishy name, where a bridegroom,
and bride having got rid of all their dear
friends and relatives are hanging on each other’s
necks; this isn’t much like it,” grimly. “What is
it now, Stargarde?”
“I thought I heard a child crying in the street,”
she said, coming to rest on the sofa beside him.
“You are nervous,” he said, smoothing back the
curls from her brow, and noting with a pang at his
heart the unearthly pallor of her face, from which
every vestige of its usually delicate color had fled.
“Your entire specialized apparatus for receiving
irritation is up in arms.”
.bn 467.png
.pn +1
“I am usually counted a steady, firm person,
Brian.”
“You’re like all women; you want careful treatment
at times. Look at this fine hair, this thin
skin, these muscles, small, though they are strong;
and don’t tell me that you haven’t a nervous temperament.”
“I wonder how they’re getting on at the Pavilion?”
she said dreamily.
He looked down at the head lying on his
shoulder with an aggrieved expression. “The
Pavilion, the Pavilion, always the Pavilion. It
doesn’t matter about me.”
“I am afraid to think of you,” she murmured.
“Why?”
“I am frightened, nay, terrified at my own happiness,
when there are so many sore hearts in the
world.”
“She’s lying, sweet soul,” he communed with
himself as he stared at her; “there’s no happiness
in her heart. She’s nearly frantic in this decently
furnished house and on this quiet street away from
her offscourings. It’s like tearing her soul from her
body to give them up. Stargarde!”
She did not hear him.
“Am I to lose her now?” he reflected with sudden
anguish; “now, on the threshold of happiness?
She’s dropping into one of her ‘misery of the world’
agonies, and if she goes off this time! Stargarde,”
.bn 468.png
.pn +1
he said almost roughly dislodging her head from
his shoulder and jumping up, “I’m going for a
walk.”
“Are you?” she said with languid surprise.
“Yes. Getting married and being in a crowd
indoors all day doesn’t agree with me. Do you
know where I’m going?”
“No.”
“Up to Rockland Street, to look at the house
where you have slept for so many years, with your
narrow white bed dragged against the wall so that
even in your sleep you might be near the people
who passed on the street.”
She smiled faintly at him.
“You come too. Your namesakes are all out.
It is a lovely night.”
She hesitated, but he went to the hall and seizing
a cap and a shawl from the hat-rack, came back and
put them on her.
“I feel as if I should fall,” she said rising unsteadily.
“Nonsense, my dear girl; nerves again. Take
my arm and you’ll be all right when we get into
the street. You’re better now, aren’t you?” he
asked as they strolled along the flagged pavement.
“Yes,” she murmured absently.
“Don’t dawdle,” he said, “but let us go briskly,
and breathe all the fresh air we can, and don’t go
to sleep but talk to me. Stay, I’ll do something
.bn 469.png
.pn +1
amusing. Lean against this wall for a jiffy till I
see if I can jump this barricade. If I can’t, you
shall have twenty dollars for your soup kitchen.
Now, Camperdown, distinguish yourself,” and to
Stargarde’s mild amazement he proceeded to the
middle of the street where some repairs were being
carried on, and running back attempted to leap
over an erection of planks.
Again and again he went at it, stumbling, falling,
and never once clearing it, though it was a marvel
to Stargarde that with his great agility he could
not do so.
While she stood smiling at him, some one came
around the corner of the street. “Ha, ha!” she
heard in a laughing voice, “how much for the exhibition?
Has matrimony gone to your head or
your heels, Camperdown? I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Camperdown, I did not see you,” and a young
man who was a friend of Valentine’s took off his hat
with a flourish.
“Hurrah, I’ve cleared it!” vociferated Camperdown
with a final leap, after which he approached
them; “but your soup kitchen sha’n’t lose, Stargarde.
How do you do, Dana?”
Mr. Dana saluted him with a succession of teasing
remarks. “Is it an eviction? If not, what do you
mean by dragging your wife through the streets at
this hour? This comes of setting yourselves up to
be models for your neighbors—refusing wedding
.bn 470.png
.pn +1
presents and not taking a honeymoon trip. You’ll
come to a bad end. Why don’t you leave him,
Mrs. Camperdown?”
“Any news, Dana?” inquired Camperdown
agreeably.
“Nothing but your marriage, with which the
town is ringing. All the little newsboys are running
about patting their stomachs in satisfaction.”
“My wife wished to give everybody a feast,”
returned the physician, “though she did not feel
much like entering into it herself on account of her
recent affliction.”
“She looks horribly pale to-night,” said the
younger man, lowering his voice so that Stargarde
who was standing at a little distance from them
should not hear.
“That’s why I have her out,” said Camperdown
with a sudden burst of confidence; “I feel like those
classic fellows who used to get entangled with goddesses,
thinking that they were mortal women.
That wife of mine is so ultra-human that though
she is happy herself she can’t go to sleep till she
knows that everything is straight in her old home.”
“I’m glad you haven’t been beating her,” said
Mr. Dana serenely, “for as you say, she is beyond
the human. Who takes charge at the Pavilion
now that she has left it?”
“The Salvation Army—it is too much for one
woman.”
.bn 471.png
.pn +1
“What was your objection to a wedding tour?”
asked the young man curiously.
“There it is again,” said his companion in an
aggrieved voice, “everybody is badgering me
about it. I’ve no objection to tours of any kind,
but I can’t go proclaiming through the city that
my wife isn’t fit to travel. People are utterly
senseless about traveling, which is one of the most
fatiguing things on earth. They come to me saying,
‘Doctor, I’m run down, no appetite, can’t
sleep—where shall I go?’ ‘Go to bed, you idiots,’
I say, ‘and sleep and eat and take your journey
when you recover.’”
Mr. Dana laughed at him and held out his cigar
case. “Have one, you will find it composing.”
“No, thank you,” and Camperdown threw a
keen glance at his wife. He saw that Mr. Dana’s
chatter had partly roused her from the state of
deadly languor that always preceded her severe
paroxysms of pain, and in intense relief he ejaculated,
“Glad we met you, Dana. Good-night,”
and offering Stargarde his arm, he proceeded along
the street in a leisurely fashion.
Arrived on Rockland Street, they paused outside
the dark windows of her deserted room, then walking
softly inside the courtyard, skirted the walls of the
long building. The lights were nearly all out and
the people were asleep. Here and there a feeble
gleam told of a sick-bed, and Stargarde, who knew
.bn 472.png
.pn +1
the condition of all, murmured a prayer as she
passed such places. Finally her silent adieux were
said and there was no longer an excuse for her to
linger.
“Remember Lot’s wife,” said Camperdown dryly
when she paused under the archway to look back.
She turned to him with a troubled face. “Never
mind, Philanthropia, I am only joking,” he said,
suppressing a laugh. “It is a satisfaction to you
to see that they are all resting quietly without you,
is it not?”
“Yes; my work is done here,” she murmured.
“But you can still come back, sweetheart. Here
is one gnarled sinner that will be greatly edified by
pilgrimages to the Pavilion.”
She clung to his arm without speaking, and as
they sauntered out to the street he muttered, “I
mustn’t bother her with talk. She won’t slip back
into that state again.”
Passing quietly by one door after another, they
came suddenly upon a slight, gentle-faced young
man with a weak, irresolute mouth, who stole like
a ghost around the corner and put his foot on the
lower step of a small house with dormer windows.
Camperdown looked at him narrowly without
speaking, but in an instant Stargarde’s hand was
on his shoulder. “Charlie, you are not going in
there!”
He blushed, frowned, and bit his lip.
.bn 473.png
.pn +1
“Now for the last time I speak to you about
it,” said Stargarde. “I want you to decide tonight.
Will you not promise me—this is my wedding
night, you know. One can refuse nothing to
a bride.”
A bride, and such a bride—and on those upper
streets by those stealthily closed houses. The boy,
for he was scarcely more than that, looked
strangely at her. The cool night wind came
sweeping down the street blowing to his ears the
striking of a distant bell.
“Charlie,” breathed Stargarde in tones of supplication,
“you must promise me. You were once
such a good boy; and your father—I think,” she
said, putting up one of her white hands to her face,
“that he was one of the best men that God ever
made. Every one loved him.”
The young man saw with manifest distress the
tears trickling down between her fingers. “For
Heaven’s sake, Miss Turner, compose ,”
he said. “Come, I will walk back a little way
with you.”
“Promise her, boy,” said Camperdown, coming
up and clapping his hand on the young man’s
other shoulder.
“Your sister and your mother,” whispered Stargarde,
“you are breaking their hearts.”
At the mention of his mother the young man’s
lip quivered. He hid his face in his hat that he
.bn 474.png
.pn +1
held in his hand, and Camperdown, withdrawing to
a little distance, saw a hand uplifted to the quiet
sky, and heard the muttered, “So help me, God.”
Stargarde caught the attesting hand in her own.
“May God bless you, Charlie; let us go a little
way with you. You have made me so happy.”
Side by side the three people went quietly to a
house in the northern part of the town. As they
stopped before the door, Stargarde said: “You will
come to see me to-morrow evening and bring your
sister, will you not?”
“Yes, I will,” and the voice had a new ring of
truth and cheerfulness in it.
The distinct tones reached the ears of a woman
in a widow’s cap who knelt by an open window
above. With dry eyes from which all tears had
long since been shed, she strained her gaze after
Stargarde and her husband, and when they had
vanished she threw herself on the floor, and with a
sob of thankfulness prayed for the best of blessings
on their married life.
Not a word was spoken between them till they
reached the parade in the center of the town.
There, in the shadow of the City Hall, Camperdown
eyed one of the benches on the grass and guided
Stargarde’s footsteps to it. “You are tired,” he
said. “Let us rest a bit.”
In three minutes she was sound asleep with her
head on his shoulder. Camperdown drew the
.bn 475.png
.pn +1
shawl more closely about her, then sat thinking, not
at all of the historic spot that they were on, with
its old-time memories of feux de joie and drilling
of troops, nor of the lords and the ladies of ancient
days whose fair faces used to brighten the old stone
building that stood on the site of the present City
Hall, nor of the terrible year of 1834 when the parade
was dotted with tar barrels sending forth volumes of
smoke to purge the air from the trail of the cholera
demon. Neither did his thoughts wander to the
old parish church across the street whose frame was
brought from Boston in the year 1750, and whose
timbers, if they could talk, would tell many a tale
of gay weddings, and pompous buryings of gallant
soldiers, whose bones now lie mouldering beneath
its aisles. No, he thought only of the woman
by his side, of her incomparable worth and goodness,
of the little claim that he could put forth to
deserve so great a treasure, until a shadow, falling
across her face, caused him to look up.
A policeman, who had been observing them at
a distance, had at last drawn near.
“Evening, policeman,” said Camperdown. “Situation
is peculiar, but can explain. I’m not a
tramp, and I think you know my wife.”
“Know her,” said the man lifting his helmet
from his head, “I have cause to know her, sir.”
“She’s been walking and is tired,” said Camperdown.
“We’re just on our way home.”
.bn 476.png
.pn +1
“’Tis too heavy a contract she’s been under,
sir,” said the man respectfully; “one woman can’t
reform a city; but she’s done a powerful lot.
Since she came and the Salvation Army followed
her, they say the badness has dropped off wonderful,
and there’s been less for the police to do.”
“How long have you been on the force?”
asked Camperdown, putting an end of the shawl
over his wife’s face.
“Three years, sir; ’twas your wife as got me
on. I’d thrown up a good job in the country and
come to the city, where I thought I’d better myself.
I might have been in a heathen country for
all the notice I got. Then my wife died and my
little girl got fever and I was going to the bad
when one day there was a rustlin’ beside me just as
if an angel had dropped down from the sky——”
“The angel, I suppose, being my wife,” said
Camperdown with interest.
“Yes, sir, and she found me in work, and I’m a
happy man to-day, and if there ever was any mischief
a-going to happen to her, I’d like to be on
the spot,” and replacing his helmet on his head the
man ejaculated, “Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing
you,” and stalked away.
Camperdown smiled and gently shook his wife.
“Come, we must go; you’ll get a stiff neck.”
Stargarde pulled the shawl from her face, blinked
her eyes at the electric lights staring at her, and
.bn 477.png
.pn +1
gazed at the back of the retreating policeman.
“Where am I? Brian, why did you allow me to
fall asleep? That is John Morris, isn’t it? Mr.
Morris, how is your little girl?”
The man turned and came back. “Well and
hearty, ma’am, thank you.”
“She’s a dear little girl, and so fond of you,”
said Stargarde. “Take good care of her. Good-night,
good-night,” and she smiled kindly at him.
The man stood with hands crossed behind his
broad back until she was out of sight. “Looking
at her it seems as if ’twas easy to be good,” he
said with a sigh.
“How kind you are to me,” Camperdown heard
in his wife’s musical tones as they were about
rounding a corner.
“Am I?” meekly. “What is the latest proof
of my goodness?”
“Bringing me out to-night. You did it on purpose
to make me more contented.”
“Is a similar excursion to take place every
night?” he asked, trying to hide a yawn from her.
“No, no; you ridiculous boy,” and stopping
short she put up her other hand and rested her
cheek against his encircling arm. “I don’t believe
that there is another man in the world who would
be so indulgent to me.”
“This is joy double-distilled!” he exclaimed.
“We are acting that picture.”
.bn 478.png
.pn +1
“What picture, dearest?”
“One that I saw somewhere,” and he favored
her with a brief description of it.
“You mean ‘Married Lovers’?”
“Yes, that’s it,” he said excitedly. “Go on,
please; keep your position and talk some nonsense
to me; you are irresistible when you talk
nonsense, Stargarde. Come now, you think me
handsome, don’t you?”
“Superlatively handsome, Brian,” and she
laughed gently at him.
“And sweet-tempered?”
“Exquisitely so; and personally I have no objection
to continuing this,” she said, lifting her
head from his arm, “but there is a dear old man in
a night-cap at that window over there who is peeping
at us in petrified astonishment.”
“Ugh! you brute,” said Camperdown, turning
to shake a fist at him, “go and get married.”
“You absurd boy,” said Stargarde, pulling at
his arm; “come home; the poor creature may be
married already.”
“Poor creature! Stargarde, do you think marriage
an affliction?” And then Camperdown’s conversation
became of a nature too personal and
sentimental to be of interest to any one but to
the woman who loved him so devotedly that in
her opinion, “even his failings leaned to virtue’s
side.”
.bn 479.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXVI | BLIND
.sp 2
Very quietly the warm weeks of July slipped
away. Valentine had long since recovered,
but had not yet been seen beyond the precincts of
the cottage.
On a calm Sunday afternoon Vivienne left Mrs.
Colonibel’s room and went to wander about under
the pines. Absently straying nearer the cottage
than she was in the habit of doing, for she knew
that Valentine did not wish to see her, she suddenly
came upon him lying on his back on
a grassy knoll, his hands crossed under his head,
his face turned up to the sky, and in “a voice as
sweet as the note of the charmed lute” caroling
cheerfully the old song:
.pm start_poem
“’Twas I that paid for all things,
’Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine.
’Twas I that beat the bush,
The bird to others flew;
For she, alas, hath left me,
Felero, lero, loo!”
.pm end_poem
.bn 480.png
.pn +1
With a pained face the girl stood for a minute
looking at him, then softly attempted to withdraw,
but his ear, sharpened to unnatural quickness, caught
the sound of her step, light as it was.
“Who is that?” he asked. “Joe, is it you?”
“No, it is I,” said Vivienne, advancing after an
instant of hesitation.
“Oh!” and he listlessly dropped his head on the
grass.
“May I come and talk to you?” she asked.
“I have longed to see you.”
“Yes, oh yes,” and he raised himself to a sitting
posture. “I would get up and find you a seat if
I could.”
“I can sit on this rug, thank you,” said Vivienne
a little unsteadily.
She placed herself a short distance from him
and looked at the sombre trees, the blue sky, the
bluer Arm, where a tiny boat was crossing to the
other side—anywhere but at the handsome, weary
face, with its disfiguring spectacles.
“Have you on a white dress?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you have your favorite perfume about
you,” he said with a half-smile; “or are they real
roses?”
“Real ones,” and she put between his fingers a
cluster of long, white, rose-shaded Rubens buds.
“You are crying,” he said abruptly.
.bn 481.png
.pn +1
“Only a little,” she murmured, trying to compose
herself. This she could not do; for once she
lost all self-control and burying her face in her
hands she wept bitterly.
The young man’s face softened as he listened to
her. “Stanton has told me that you were breaking
your heart about me. It is pitiful, isn’t it?
Twenty-five and at the end of everything. But don’t
worry; I’ve given that up. At first I raved and
beat my head till it was sore against the bars of my
bed, but it didn’t do any good. I’ve got to submit,”
and with a painful smile he again stretched
himself out on the grass.
“This is unpardonable in me,” said Vivienne,
resolutely wiping her eyes. “I am ashamed of
myself. I shall not offend again. You can see a
little, Valentine, can you not?”
“Not a glimmer.”
Vivienne’s lip trembled, but she pressed it
with her teeth and went on: “When are you coming
up to the house? It is forlorn without you.”
“Never,” he said gloomily. “What do you
want of me there?”
“If I can hear your exquisite voice singing
words of encouragement I think that I can bear
any burden,” said the girl wistfully.
“Oh, you wish me to keep you in good humor.”
“It would be an important mission. I have
learned the accompaniments of all your songs.”
.bn 482.png
.pn +1
“Have you?” and his face grew bright. “I
will come up—perhaps this evening. Were you
planning to go to church?”
“Yes; but I would rather stay at home with
you.”
“Even if Stanton goes?”
“Yes.”
He laughed shortly, and with none of the fierce
jealousy of former days said: “We shall be good
friends, you and I, when I settle down to this darkness.”
“May I read to you sometime?” asked Vivienne.
“How clever you are,” he said. “You have
found out that I hate to have any one do anything
for me and you want to wheedle me into getting
accustomed to it. No, my dear belle-s[oe]ur, you
shall not read your Bible and psalm books to me.”
Vivienne smiled hopefully. “Sometime you will
allow me to do so, and while we wait for that time
there are other books. Now I must return to the
house. Au revoir, my brother; God will make you
happier.”
“There is no God!” he exclaimed.
She looked down at his mocking face and then
up at the serene vault of the sky above them.
“No God! Valentine; no Creator of the world!
I had hoped that by this time you would think
differently.”
.bn 483.png
.pn +1
“Prove to me that there is one,” he said excitedly,
“and I will believe you.”
She stooped and laid a finger on his sightless
eyes.
He understood her. “Do you think that your
imaginary God has afflicted me willfully?”
“Not willfully, but lovingly.”
“This is infuriating,” he exclaimed, his face flushing
violently. “A loving God who casts a created
thing into a dark pit!”
“Oh no, no,” said Vivienne sadly; “the creature
does that. We cast ourselves into dark pits because
we will not see the light of the world shining
above us.”
“But we are created with evil propensities that
take us pitward, according to you.”
“Evil propensities that we must not follow, for
God will also give us strength to overcome them if
we ask him.”
“This is Stargarde’s doctrine,” he said sullenly.
“I want none of it. You Christians are most
illogical people. Primitive traditions, handed down
through eighteen centuries and starting among
ignorant, unlettered peasants and fishermen, are
your rule of life. You can’t prove a single one of
your statements to be true.”
“What is proof?” asked Vivienne.
“Proof? Why it is enough evidence about a thing
to convince one and produce belief.”
.bn 484.png
.pn +1
“And you think that Christians do not have
that?”
“Decidedly not.”
“I think that you are mistaken. Have you read
the Bible through?”
“No.”
“I believe that is often the case with people who
criticise it,” she said thoughtfully. “But you are
acquainted with portions of it. Can you read without
tears the Sermon on the Mount and the account
of the crucifixion?”
He made no reply to her, and she continued,
“If you take our Bible away, what will you give
us to keep our feet from stumbling in the darkness
of this world?”
“Let us rely on ourselves,” he said proudly.
“Man needs no surer guide than his own internal
conviction of right and wrong. That is better than
trusting to a fable.”
“I do not think that we get on well when we
take charge of ourselves,” she said gently.
“I don’t set myself up for a pattern,” he said
hastily; “I’ve been bad—you don’t know how bad
I’ve been.”
“Poor Valentine,” she murmured.
“You need not pity me. I was perfectly happy.
You goody-goody people talk a lot about sinners’
consciences troubling them. They don’t. One
isn’t afraid of anything but being found out.”
.bn 485.png
.pn +1
“If a conscience sleeps, how can it guide?”
“Well, I intended to let mine wake up some
day, then I would sober myself and lead a steady
life. Don’t go yet. Tell me more about your beliefs.”
She cast a pitying glance at his restless, unhappy
face, and again sat down beside him. “I cannot
argue learnedly with you, Valentine. I can only
say that I believe in God and in his Son our
Saviour, who will forgive our sins if we ask him,
and that I believe in the Bible as his revealed
word, and that I know I shall go to him when I
die. It is a very comfortable belief.”
“Comfortable! yes, for you; not so comfortable
for the poor fellows whom you damn.”
“‘God sent not his Son into the world to condemn
the world, but that the world through him
might be saved,’” repeated Vivienne.
“An attractive myth,” he said lightly; “and you
Christians won’t expose it.”
“Why should one doubt a thing that one is sure
of?” asked the girl with a puzzled face. “Here is
proof enough for me: our glorious faith has been
the light of the world; apostles, prophets, and
martyrs have died triumphantly for it; Christians
are the salt of the earth, and if you had your way
and cast every Bible into the sea, our land would
become a dreary wilderness of shame and confusion.”
.bn 486.png
.pn +1
“Fanaticism!” said Valentine; “the Mohammedans
talk as wildly as you do.”
“Do not compare Mohammedanism with our
holy religion. Christ came with peace on his lips,
Mohammed with a sword in his hand. And what
has Mohammedanism done for the countries where
it is even now decaying?”
“It solidified them,” said Valentine lightly.
“So I have read. And all Mohammedans don’t live
up to the precepts of the Koran, you know.”
“Mohammedanism is rent by frightful quarrels,
and if you have read about it you know the immorality
of many of its religious teachers——”
“So are Christians immoral.”
“That is because they do not live up to the
teachings of our divine model. But I do not know
that it is of very much use to argue with you, Valentine.
You misunderstand so sadly. I have heard
you reasoning with others—notably, one evening
when you spoke of the crucifixion. You said that
Jesus Christ could not have died in six hours on
the cross, that he was only unconscious when they
bore him away to the tomb. I wished to say, his
broken heart—broken by the sins of the world;
you forget that—but I was too much agitated. I
think that we can only pray for you——”
“I do not wish your prayers,” he said quickly;
“and I am not unhappy as you think I am—that
is, about religious matters. You mistake me.”
.bn 487.png
.pn +1
“If you think that my religion is a delusion my
prayers will not affect you,” said Vivienne; “but
have you not a lingering belief in the creed of your
forefathers?”
“No,” he said stoutly, “I have not.”
“Stanton has,” she murmured happily; “I could
not marry him if he had not.”
“You are young,” pursued Valentine; “do you
ever feel a horror of death? What do you think
would become of you if a thunderbolt should fall
from the sky and strike you dead ten minutes from
now?”
“What do you fancy would become of me?”
she asked softly.
“I do not know.”
“But I know,” said the girl, looking with joyful
eyes on the splendor of the setting sun. “I know
whom I have believed, and I do not fear death,
because I know that when my soul leaves this body
there is prepared for it a dwelling more glorious
than anything I can imagine. That is the end of
my belief, ‘I know,’ and the end of yours is, ‘I do
not know.’”
He turned his blind face toward hers and pictured
to himself its transfigured expression.
“Will you not come to the house now?” she
said quietly. “Stanton will be delighted to find
you there for tea.”
“I suppose you think that I am too wicked to be
.bn 488.png
.pn +1
left alone,” he said as he stumbled to his feet and
put his hand in hers.
“No, I do not,” she said.
“You and Stargarde are as much alike as a pair
of twin doves,” he grumbled as he moved slowly
along beside her.
Stanton, returning home half an hour later,
stopped short in the hall, struck by the long unheard
sound of music in the drawing room.
“Cast thy burden upon the Lord and he shall
sustain thee,” came welling on a soft sweet volume
of song through the house.
He drew back the portière. Valentine stood
leaning on the piano, his face calm and peaceful,
his unseeing eyes in their glasses turned toward
Vivienne, who sat with downcast eyelids playing
for him.
At the close of the song Armour entered the
room. “Is it you, old man?” asked the singer.
“Your pretty bird lured me here. Don’t be jealous
of me,” he continued childishly, and feeling his
way toward the place where Armour stood with
features painfully composed. “I’m tired of women—except
as sisters,” he added with an apologetic
gesture in Vivienne’s direction.
“Let there be no talk of jealousy,” said Armour,
laying his hand affectionately on Valentine’s shoulder.
“You and Vivienne will henceforth be brother
and sister.”
.bn 489.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXVII | ADIEU TO FRISPI
.sp 2
Zilla Camperdown was strutting up and
down Hollis Street after the fashion of a
small peacock airing itself. Back and forth she
went, now in front of the shops, now passing hotels
where gentlemen smoking and lounging stared
curiously at the well-plumaged little creature in
her white and black garments.
She was doing wrong to be parading the streets
alone, that she very well knew, but she was enjoying
herself so hugely that she made no haste to go
home, and continued to complacently spread the
tail of her little white dress while sunning herself in
the glances of admiration bestowed upon her dark,
piquante face.
Her only fear was that her adopted brother
might suddenly come upon her. If he did she
knew that she would receive a sharp scolding and
would probably be sent to bed, but willing to snatch
the present moment she did not allow this to interfere
with her enjoyment. A strict rule with regard
to her was that she must never set foot in the street
alone. Her idle, dissolute father still haunted the
.bn 490.png
.pn +1
streets of Halifax, and although he was too wise to
attempt any interference with her, knowing that
he might stop the supplies of food and clothing
that he received from Camperdown, he often lurked
about waiting for a chance to hold some conversation
with her. Hence the order that she should
always be accompanied during her walks abroad.
The child’s punishment came swiftly upon her.
Sauntering up the hill from Water Street with his
monkey on his shoulder and a troop of children at
his heels, Gilberto Frispi suddenly appeared and
came face to face with his daughter.
“Ah, little bird,” he ejaculated in Italian patois,
while the monkey screamed and chattered in delight
and clutched its tiny hands toward Zilla’s lace
hat; “is it thou at last? I have longed to see
thee, but thou art not allowed to fly far from thy
nest.”
Scarcely knowing what she did the girl turned
and walked back toward the hotels. Her mortification
was intense, and if a glance could have killed
the smiling Frispi he would have fallen dead by the
side of the daughter whom he presumed to address.
She was exasperated too, almost beyond endurance,
at the children who were hooting and shrieking
with delight at the acrobatic feats of the monkey on
Frispi’s shoulder.
“Send them away,” she exclaimed, stopping
short.
.bn 491.png
.pn +1
“Scatta, my children,” said Frispi in English,
“go roun’ de corna. I come lata.”
“With your organ?” inquired his expectant
youthful followers, to whom an Italian with a
monkey and minus an organ partook of the nature
of a phenomenon.
“Yes, yes. I got organ,” said the man mendaciously.
“Five, six organ. I bring. Go ’long.”
They looked at him as trustingly as if they expected
to find musical instruments issuing from his
pockets, then went to peep around the corner and
listen surreptitiously to the conversation between
him and his elegant companion.
“What do you wish?” asked Zilla sharply.
“Oh ze beauty clothes!” exclaimed Frispi
spreading his hands over her in delight. Then
relapsing into Italian he told her in eager tones
of his longing to have her with him. “Could she
not leave her fine friends and run away with him?”
“Hold thy tongue,” said Zilla scornfully interrupting
him. “I wish no more of thee. Thou
must leave this town.”
“No, no, my loved one, not till thou canst go.”
“Thou shalt go alone—at once, never to return,”
she said, hissing the words through her pointed
white teeth that looked as if they might bite him.
“I hate thee and thy poverty; and art thou not a
thief?”
“Si, si,” he said blandly; “and thou also?”
.bn 492.png
.pn +1
“Thou art worse,” she said furiously, but in a
low tone, for she was desperately aware that she
was being surveyed curiously not only by the
children, but also by some of the gentlemen in the
hotel windows.
“I am thy father,” said the man with a flash of
anger, for he rarely relapsed into a passion unless
he had been drinking.
“Who stabbed Constante?” breathed the girl.
“Ah, thou startest! I did not always sleep when
thou entertainedst thy friends. And if thou dost
not leave here, I write at once to the Mafia and
thou wilt be declared infamous. A cross will be
drawn on thy door,” and she made gestures with
her hands signifying the choking of a person.
The man’s olive skin turned to a greenish pallor
and he kept his small black eyes fixed pleadingly
on her face. “Surely thou wouldst not do that,
my daughter. The Mafia is implacable and the
companions would consider me a traitor and put
me to sleep for what was a mistake. It was not in
my heart to kill Constante.”
“Thou hast soft shoes; thou canst walk backward,”
said Zilla inexorably. “By sundown if thou
art here I write to Guglielmo Barzoni, and thou art
doomed.”
“Enough,” replied the man with a gesture of
resignation. “Thou art thy mother’s child. Thou
canst do all and more than thou promisest. Thou
.bn 493.png
.pn +1
wilt never see me more,” and with no other sign
of emotion beyond his unusual pallor, he noiselessly
left her and in polite broken English postponed his
engagement with the children until the next day,
at which time they would return and wait anxiously
for the man whose shadow would fall no more on
the streets of Halifax.
Zilla began to tremble as soon as he left her.
The interview with him had been a terrible strain
on her, yet she courageously tried to make her
way home. At the street corner she paused and
leaned against a house. One of the gentlemen at
the window seeing this, left his station there and
came slowly sauntering up to her.
“Good-morning,” he said kindly. “Do you
remember me?”
“Yes; you are Mr. Patrick Macartney’s brother,”
she said, “and I am Dr. Camperdown’s little girl,
and that bad beggar-man frightened me.”
“Will you come into the hotel and rest?” he
asked, noting in some anxiety that her two small
feet were braced against the pavement to keep her
from falling.
She drew herself up suspiciously: “No, thank
you.”
“There is a ladies’ entrance,” he said, pulling
severely at his moustache.
“I am going to see my brother,” she said loftily,
and leaving him without a word she, by a severe
.bn 494.png
.pn +1
effort, managed to walk as far as the door having
on it the brass plate, “Dr. Camperdown, Surgeon.”
Arrived there, she tottered inside and seated herself
on the lowest step of the staircase, while Captain
Macartney, passing by the open doorway,
knew that she would be safe now, and went on his
way muttering thoughtfully, “Poor child!”
After she had rested sufficiently Zilla, with lips
firmly compressed, climbed the steps to the waiting
room and seated herself among her adopted brother’s
patients.
The next time Camperdown opened the door he
saw her and called her into the inner room. “Now,
birdling, what is it? Be quick, for I am rushed this
morning. What’s the matter with your cheeks?
Have you seen a ghost?”
“I have done a bad thing,” said the little girl
deliberately.
“Indeed! An unusual confession for you. I
thought that you and the pope had the infallibility
of the world between you. Out with it.”
“I have told my father to leave Halifax.”
“H’m—well, yes, that was bad—for you. What
was the occasion of it?” and by means of questions
he drew from her an account of her meeting with
Frispi after she had run away from Mrs. Trotley,
who had gone shopping with
“What do you know about the Mafia, Zilla?”
With a reluctance that she would not have displayed
.bn 495.png
.pn +1
three months earlier in her career, Zilla gave
a child’s account of low brigandage according to
her observation of her father and his associates.
“Stop,” said Camperdown at last, when she was
describing the disarticulation of the fingers of the
“picciotti” so that they might be more expert at
stealing, “never mention this again, Zilla. Don’t
let a living soul know that you were familiar with
such iniquities. The Lord in his mercy has delivered
you from them. Now, what do you want me
to do about your father?”
The child hung her head. “Tell him to stay,
for I do not wish Stargarde to know that I would
do so bad a thing. Tears will come in her eyes
and she will say: ‘Your father is all that you have;
do not send him away as a dog’.”
Camperdown’s thoughts ran back to the day
when he had acquainted Zilla with her relationship
to Stargarde. The child’s passion of astonishment
and joy when she found that she was connected
with a woman whom she not only loved and admired,
but who was the acme of respectability to
her, had not seemed to decrease as time went by.
She still loved him more intensely perhaps, but
Stargarde was her pride and delight, her own
blood relation, and the person in the world for
whom she had the most reverence.
“Run home and tell her all about it,” said
Camperdown softly. “In the meantime I will look
.bn 496.png
.pn +1
up Frispi,” and patting Zilla’s relieved face, he sent
her away.
“Ha, sir, were you addressing me?” said his
next patient fiercely, as he hobbled into the room.
Camperdown stared blankly at a choleric old
gentleman. “No—was talking aloud as I have a
habit of doing. What was I saying?”
“‘Low, stealthy brute,’ sir, you said, ‘and a constant
worry to me.’”
Camperdown threw back his head and laughed
heartily. “I crave your pardon. I was thinking
of a pensioner of my wife’s—a miserable foreigner
that I hope has been frightened from the town.”
Long after his usual lunch time Camperdown arrived
home to find Stargarde and Zilla waiting for
him—the latter hanging about her half—sister with
red eyes and glances of suppressed adoration.
“Have been all over the town,” said Camperdown;
“there’s no trace of Frispi to be had. He
went to his lodging, gathered up his few belongings,
and left. The police are on his track——”
“He will not be found,” said Zilla quietly and
despairingly. “He knows how to run away.”
“I propose,” said Camperdown, seating himself
at the table, “to have something to eat now. Subsequently,
to take my wife and Zilla and Mrs. Trotley
for a drive to Cow Bay. Don’t carry your
bathing suit, Zilla; it’s too late in the day for a
plunge in the breakers. We’ll have a run over the
.bn 497.png
.pn +1
sands. Then I propose two weeks hence to take
my wife and Zilla vagabondizing—that is, in the
earliest sense of the word. We’ll stroll about this
continent and see if we can’t pick up some trace
of the runaway——”
He was interrupted by Zilla, who precipitated
herself into his arms.
“A little girl with a sleeping conscience is rather
a ticklish possession, isn’t she?” he said, addressing
his smiling wife over Zilla’s bent head. “A
little girl with an awakened conscience is something
very precious and must be treated with very great
care.”
.bn 498.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXVIII | THE GHOST FLOWER
.sp 2
“Me no diggum up,” said Joe decidedly.
He stood knee deep in pale green ferns
growing among heavy shadows formed by the interlaced
branches of trees overhead, his eyes fixed on
a group of etherially white flowers springing up
from the richest of leaf mould on a mossy bank at
a little distance from him.
Vivienne knelt by the wax-like cluster of flower
interrogation points in speechless delight, while
Armour stood above her saying in quiet amusement,
“Why don’t you dig it up, Joe?”
“Callum ghos’ flower,” said Joe doggedly;
“spirits angry when touchum. Come ’way, Miss
Debbiline.”
His voice was really concerned, but Vivienne
looked at him with a gay laugh and continued to
touch with caressing finger tips the beautiful, unearthly
flower, which was furnished with colorless
bracts in place of green leaves.
“If I were to wear a few of these to the ‘drawing
room’ my decoration would be unique, would
it not?” she said to Armour.
.bn 499.png
.pn +1
“Decidedly unique,” he said. “Have you ever
heard any poetry about this curious flower?”
“No, never.”
“Then let me repeat to you some exquisite lines
by a Canadian poet, impressed by observing that
the stalks and blossoms form interrogation points.
Remember that this determines the cast of the
sonnet,” and he recited with great taste:
.pm start_poem
“Like Israel’s seer I come from out the earth,
Confronting with the question air and sky,
Why dost thou bring me up? White ghost am I
Of that which was God’s beauty at its birth.
In eld the sun kissed me to ruby red,
I held my chalice up to heaven’s full view,
The August stars dropped down their golden dew,
The skyey balms exhaled about my bed.
Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light;
The deadly shadows, not the bending blue,
Spoke to my trancëd heart, made false seem true,
And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night.
O Painter of the flowers, O God, most sweet,
Dost say my spirit for the light is meet?”
.pm end_poem
“Alas, the poor flower!” said Vivienne. “Like
some mortals it loved the darkness rather than the
light. And yet how touching the final question.”
“Yes,” said Armour quietly, “a regret has been
born even among ‘the deadly shadows.’”
“Will you not repeat to me some more of those
things that you repeat so well?” asked Vivienne
demurely.
.bn 500.png
.pn +1
Bareheaded and standing with his back against
a tree, Armour murmured to her the praises of
another fairy glen in far-distant Wales, a place
peopled with shy winds,
.pm start_poem
“Whose fitful plumes waft dewy balm
From all the wildwood, and let fall
An incommunicable calm.”
.pm end_poem
Then dropping on his knees on the ground he
said, “Give me your clasp knife, Joe.”
“Me no give you big knife,” said the superstitious
Christmas; “me ’fraid for Miss Debbiline.
Spirits killum if touch ghos’ flower,” and he retreated
farther among the ferns.
Armour laughed as he bent his light head over
the flower that he was about to wrest from its home
among the “sweet wood’s golden glooms.”
“Do you think it will grow if we plant it in the
greenhouse?” asked Vivienne, as she watched her
lover carefully insinuating a sharp-pointed stone
among the decayed leaves of many seasons.
“I scarcely think so, but we can try it,” and
Armour carefully carrying the fragile ghost flower
in his handkerchief walked by her side down the
woodland path to the shore of a tiny cove where
Joe’s canoe lay drawn up on the grass.
“Where is that Indian?” he said, looking
about him when after the lapse of a few minutes
Joe did not appear. “He is as subtle as a snake.”
.bn 501.png
.pn +1
“One can’t expect obedience from a Micmac,”
observed Vivienne gently.
“No; he hates coercion, and too many orders
would drive him from us. I don’t suppose there
is another Micmac in Nova Scotia who serves
white people as he serves us. It is phenomenal
to get anything from them beyond assistance in
hunting. We had better go on. He is evidently
afraid to venture in the canoe with this flower.
Ah, there he is. Joe, aren’t you coming?”
The Indian was lazily drawing his long legs over
the pebbly beach. “No; me stay.”
“Surely you are not afraid of this,” said
Armour, teasingly holding up the ghost flower.
“Me no ’fraid for Joe. Me ’fraid spirits makeum
Miss Debbiline bad luck.”
“Say a prayer to keep the trouble away. You
are a good Catholic.”
“Wirgin no hearum. She angry when spirits
angry.”
“You have your new religion mixed with old
superstitions, Joe,” said Mr. Armour as he assisted
Vivienne into the canoe and placed himself in the
stern. “I’ll send Jerry back for you,” and he
pushed out from the shore.
While they were crossing the Arm, Armour
looked thoughtfully from the flowers at his feet
across to the Pinewood beach where Mrs. Colonibel
was walking up and down in the warm sunlight.
.bn 502.png
.pn +1
“Suppose the Indian is right,” he said jestingly,
“what new calamity do you suppose is overshadowing
us?”
“The postponement of our marriage.”
“No, Vivienne; this day fortnight we shall be
away from here.”
“Ah, yes; do not let us think of the contrary,”
she said wistfully. Then wishing to change the
subject she continued, “Flora seems quiet and
distraite lately.”
“She is ashamed of herself. I think that she is
going to be a better woman in the future.”
“She does not seem unhappy,” said Vivienne
thoughtfully.
“No, nor does she make you unhappy; if she
did——”
“You would forgive her,” said Vivienne quickly.
“How fortunate for Valentine that she will be here
while we are away; and she must not leave when
we come back.”
“She will not; you need not fear. She is too
comfortable here, and while she is agreeable to you
she may stay.”
“Why are you so kind to me?” asked Vivienne
with a sudden accession of mischief.
He looked steadily at her. “There has been a
good deal of mutual kindness between maids and
men since the world began. It is the natural
thing.”
.bn 503.png
.pn +1
“And when one grows old,” pursued the girl,
“how is it then? Do old people love each other?”
“Sometimes, not always.”
“Often, very often they do, misguided man,” she
said warmly. “Love does not end with youth.
When I am old and feeble, and sitting helpless in
my chair, you will still call me ‘darling’ and will
wrap me in shawls and bring me cups of tea.”
“If I am able to get about,” he said with a comical
grimace. “Remember that I am the elder.”
The girl was sitting cross-legged in the canoe, the
tips of her shoes just peeping from beneath her
white gown. At his words she laid a hand on her
side, leaned back, and burst into gay and spontaneous
laughter.
“I forgot,” she said; “you will be in the chair.
It will be I who must serve you and call you my
dearest of old men. I will do it, Stanton,” demurely
sobering herself; “and when you wish to
hobble to and fro I will offer you my shoulder to
lean upon.”
“Thank you; I have no doubt but that we shall
be an amiable pair.”
“It seems strange, does it not?” said Vivienne
wonderingly, “to think of the time of old age. We
are both young and strong now, yet the day will
come when we must give place to others. I think
that I shall enjoy being an old lady, Stanton, your
old lady, not another man’s.”
.bn 504.png
.pn +1
He opened his mouth to answer her, then closed
it again and began paddling more vigorously, for
on lifting up his eyes he had seen his father standing
beside Mrs. Colonibel and watching them. He
could no longer enjoy Vivienne’s girlish chatter, and
in silence steered toward the landing place.
The girl too saw her prospective father-in-law
and slightly shivered. His affectionately familiar
manner since her engagement was not pleasing to
her, and she avoided all intercourse with him beyond
that which was strictly necessary.
“I must become sober,” she said, “in preparation
for this evening. It is a very solemn affair
that we are to attend, is it not?”
“Not solemn, but a trifle ceremonious. You do
not dread it, do you?”
“A little. You know that I have not cared to
appear in public since my unhappy experience the
night of your ball.”
“I know, but we are rarely honored by the presence
of our governor-general, and I thought the
opportunity of being presented too valuable a one
to lose. However, if you do not care to go, we
shall stay at home.”
“I wish to go, Stanton.”
“And remember, your father will soon be reinstated
in public opinion. MacDaly sticks to it that
he accidentally burnt the warehouse, though he will
tell me nothing more. As soon as I work up this
.bn 505.png
.pn +1
latest clue to your father’s whereabouts I shall make
public MacDaly’s confession and state that I have
good reason to believe that your father is guiltless
of the other charge against him.”
“But will you be believed, Stanton?”
“I think so.”
“You are so much respected,” she said, “every
one will trust you, though you have no positive
proof.”
“Yet I wish I had it, Vivienne.”
“You sigh,” she returned, “and yet you are not
unhappy, are you?”
“Unhappy? No; I was never so near happiness
in my life.”
“Near it and not quite there,” she responded,
as they glided into the shadow of the boat-house.
She it was who usually did the talking when
they were together. Armour had a way of listening
to her and looking unutterable things. Just
now he took her hand and held it a minute in
silence.
“Just think that thought aloud,” she said curiously.
He seemed to be overcoming some scruple to
voice his emotion, then he said in a choking voice:
“I may be foolish, but there is a horrible suspicion
upon me that we are at a crisis in our affairs. I
may have to give you up. If I do—if I do, Vivienne,
it will kill me as surely as if——”
.bn 506.png
.pn +1
“Stop, stop,” she said, playfully putting her
hands up to her ears. “I will not hear such tragic
nonsense. Who is there that would come between
us?”
“Your father.”
“Then he will be no father of mine.” And
proudly tossing her dark head, she sprang from
the canoe and ran away from him to hide her tearful
eyes.
A few hours later Judy Colonibel was tiptoeing
about a group of three people who stood with more
or less agitated faces in the Pinewood drawing room.
They had not yet become fully accustomed to Valentine’s
blindness, and upon this, the first occasion
of leaving him to go to one of the scenes of festivity
in which he had formerly taken so much pleasure,
two at least of the group of three felt their hearts
wrung with compassion.
His face, however, was perfectly calm as he sat
astride a chair listening to Judy’s description of
their appearance.
“They are all in white, Valentine,” she said enthusiastically,
“and they look, as MacDaly says,
‘deliciously delicate and palatably perfect.’ What
are you saying? That you think it must be rather
trying to Stanton? Foolish boy, he has on his usual
evening clothes. Mamma’s dress is satin, Vivienne’s
silk, and they both have little white plumes in their
hair—mamma three with lace, and Vivienne two
.bn 507.png
.pn +1
with a veil. Why, Flora Colonibel, where are your
diamonds? You ought to be in a blaze, to-night.”
A painful color overspread Mrs. Colonibel’s face.
“Flora,” said Armour, “go and put on your
jewels. I insist.” And his eyes followed her in
satisfaction as she slowly left the room.
“And our dear blackbird wears her pearls,” continued
Judy, squeezing Vivienne’s hand, “a beautiful
string that I fancy a man soon to become a
relation by marriage has given her, and——”
“Has she no flowers?” inquired Valentine with
animation.
“My ghost flowers!” exclaimed Vivienne.
“Where are they?”
“I was hoping that you would forget them,” said
Armour with a laugh.
“Have you too become superstitious?” asked
Vivienne. “What did you do with the plant?”
“I sent it to the cellar to be kept cool. I will
ring for it.”
“Here is the carriage,” said Judy skipping to
the window; “and here comes Uncle Colonel. Let
me put on your cloak, Vivienne. Good-bye, Miss
Polar Bear from the frozen North, you are all white
and glittering. Take good care of her and mamma,
Stanton. Valentine and I are going to have a good
time practising.”
It was a very gay and excited city that the Pinewood
party drove through on their way to the Provincial
.bn 508.png
.pn +1
building. Nowhere is there a more loyal
province than Nova Scotia. Any representative
of her majesty is duly honored, but on this occasion
the citizens had risen with one accord to welcome
a man who was popular among them not
only on account of his social position, but because
he had shown himself to be a true and wise friend
to the Nova Scotian people.
Therefore houses were illuminated, decorations
were displayed, and troops of citizens and country
visitors paraded the streets, or sat at the windows
awaiting the arrival of a torchlight procession that
was escorting the vice-regal party about the city.
On nearing the Provincial building the Armours’
carriage was obliged to move more slowly on account
of the dense throng of sightseers, and upon
a sign from a policeman the coachman drew up his
horses and they came to a standstill.
Lusty cheering and a salute from a guard of
honor explained the cause of the delay to the occupants
of the carriage. Their excellencies were
arriving, and Mrs. Colonibel, who had participated
in several functions of the kind before, drew back
to allow Vivienne to see the striking effect of the
entrance into the old stone building of the representative
of royalty, his wife, and his suite, and
their reception by the premier of the province and
the members of the government.
As soon as there was a passage made through
.bn 509.png
.pn +1
the crowd, Armour preceded the two ladies up the
crimson-decorated stairway to the dressing rooms.
Very soon they were with him and Colonel Armour
again, and as they stood waiting for the line of
people before them to pass on, Armour whispered
to Vivienne, “You are not nervous, are you?”
“No, not very,” she replied smilingly.
“Keep behind Flora, and do as she does. The
first aide-de-camp will pass up your card.”
Vivienne had a dazzling impression of a lofty
apartment hung with large oil paintings and having
groups of plants and masses of flowers here and
there, a number of officers in brilliant uniform on
her left hand, and on the other a flock of snowy
dames and gentlemen in sombre garments who had
already been presented.
Immediately before her was the attraction for all
eyes in the room—a dais on which the central
figures were a dark, vivacious man in the court
uniform of an imperial councillor, and a bejeweled
woman, who was smiling and bowing her gracious
head not alone with precision and accuracy, but
with a quickness of intelligence and apprehension
that caught the individual characteristics of each
person that passed before her.
Lord Vaulabel, when he heard the clear, distinct
enunciation of Vivienne’s name, turned ever so
slightly toward the lieutenant-governor who supported
him on his right hand. There was an
.bn 510.png
.pn +1
almost imperceptible smile and a glance of intelligence
which Vivienne did not perceive while
making graceful courtesies before the dais.
Drawing a breath of relief she took her station
beside her chaperon and watched other people
going through the ceremony of presentation.
“There are some handsome gowns here this
evening,” murmured Mrs. Colonibel to Vivienne.
“And handsome women,” responded the girl,
surveying in approbation some of her clear-skinned,
finely proportioned countrywomen; “we are so
much out of doors—women here take so much exercise—their
appearance of perfect health is owing
to that, do you not think so?”
“I suppose so,” said her companion absently.
“What a delicious bow the consul’s daughter
makes, and her gown is a dream. I am so glad
that she is to be one of your bridesmaids. Do look
at old Daddy Fayley pulling his forelock at his
excellency. This is an omnium gatherum,” and the
lady looked about her a trifle disdainfully.
“A new country has not the polish of an old
one, Flora,” said Vivienne; "it would be unnatural
if it had, and Lord and Lady Vaulabel do not expect
“There is Uncle Colonel,” said Mrs. Colonibel;
“I thought he came in with us.”
“He stopped to speak to some one,” said Vivienne;
and her eyes followed Colonel Armour with
.bn 511.png
.pn +1
painful interest as he entered the room, remarked
by all on account of his handsome, courtly appearance
and the indomitable youthfulness of his old
age. When he paused to bow with inimitable grace
and respect before Lord and Lady Vaulabel they
observed him attentively, and Vivienne noticed their
glances subsequently wandering to him.
“A glorious devil,” quoted a gentleman behind
Vivienne, who was staring at Colonel Armour and
keeping up a series of remarks unheard by any one
but the friend into whose ears they were confided;
“large in heart and brain,” he went on, “that did
love beauty only.”
“Devil indeed,” murmured the other; “no saint
would live on as he does. He’s outlasted all his
generation. He reminds me of an old rat in one
of my father’s vessels plying between here and
Boston. Nothing would kill him, not even a
change of cargo to tar paper and paraffin oil, which
knocked off all the others. This old fellow wouldn’t
give in and never would be caught, till one day a
sailor found him behind a box in the forecastle, his
head nodding till finally he fell over dead.”
“No such luck with Holy Jim,” said the other
with a suppressed laugh. “He’s good for twenty
years yet. Have you heard his latest?” and he
began to retail a morsel of savory scandal.
Sometime after midnight the last presentation
was made; Lord and Lady Vaulabel were escorted
.bn 512.png
.pn +1
to the ballroom, and the official quadrille was
formed. A little later, when some members of the
vice-regal party had seated themselves in a number
of high-backed chairs provided for them, Lord
Vaulabel with one of his quick, eager gestures that
made him seem more like a French than an English
nobleman, bent over his wife and said in a low
voice, “Winifred, you will not forget?”
She smiled at him. “No, I will not.” Then as
he left her she turned and spoke to the lieutenant-governor,
who immediately started on what seemed
to be an aimless wandering about the ballroom and
the adjoining corridor. Presently he came upon
the person that he was seeking, as she stood with
upturned face looking at the paintings in the legislative
chamber.
“Mr. Armour,” he said politely to her companion,
“will you surrender Miss Delavigne to my
charge for a while? Lady Vaulabel expresses a
wish to see her.”
Very willingly Mr. Armour saw his fiancée led
away and sauntered closely enough behind her to
see her raise her dark eyes in reverence to the face
of one of the most distinguished women in the
British Empire.
Lady Vaulabel would not permit a second
courtesy, and taking the girl’s hand seated her beside
her own chair. Charmed with her sweetness,
her kindness, her unmistakable air of distinction,
.bn 513.png
.pn +1
and the affability of her manner, Vivienne gazed
at her in admiration and in pleased surprise at the
honor conferred upon her, an honor presently explained
by a few words from Lady Vaulabel.
“Your ancestors were the Delavignes of Orléans,
were they not?” she asked.
“Yes, your excellency, they were.”
“His excellency wishes to speak to you of them.
Possibly you may have heard some tradition of a
relation once existing between the two families—that
of my husband and the Delavignes?”
“No, your excellency, I have not; but I know
that the earls of Vaulabel are of French origin.”
Lady Vaulabel smiled graciously and was about
to make some further observations when she was
interrupted by a plaintive ejaculation that made her
raise her eyes quickly.
“Madeleine, Madeleine,” the voice was murmuring;
“Madeleine, my beloved.”
The sentimental tones issued from the mouth of
an old gentleman who had an air of being one of
the fathers of the town—a father who had evidently
not been confining himself to the ice cream and
cooling drinks served before the supper, but had
been indulging in something stronger.
“Madeleine, will you not come with me?” and
the foolish old figure straightened itself. “Delavigne
is dead. I have seen his ghost, and it had
white hair. Now you can marry me.”
.bn 514.png
.pn +1
What nonsense was Colonel Armour talking?
Vivienne looked in deep mortification at Lady
Vaulabel, who had laid a detaining hand on her
arm. Her excellency’s glance also detained two
watchful military aides-de-camp, who at a sign from
her would have thrust each an arm through those
of the senile disturber of her conversation and
walked him away. She had recognized the foolish
old man. It was Colonel Armour, who was suffering
from a state of collapse, both mental and physical,
and horribly changed from the gallant old man
who had been presented to her earlier in the evening.
“Your excellency,” murmured Vivienne, “Colonel
Armour is a very old man, and lately he has
been subject to strange lapses of memory. He
will recover himself presently.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when the
bent figure raised itself, and a voice rang like a
trumpet through the ballroom:
“Delavigne is a milksop and a fool!”
A kind of petrefaction seized the large assembly.
Every one stood still. The dancers about to
take their places paused in astonishment, and the
amazed orchestra held in embarrassment their
voiceless instruments.
A black-coated waiter went gliding like a snake
through the motionless groups. It was MacDaly
who had managed by a stroke of diplomacy to
.bn 515.png
.pn +1
have himself engaged as one of the servants for
the evening. He had reveled in the splendor of
the scene about him, and had gurgled frequently in
delight as he withdrew corks from bottles or ladled
ice cream from freezers, “This is auriferous; this
is golden.”
Now he saw a chance to distinguish himself;
now he would strike a blow for the honor and
glory of MacDaly.
“Your most serene and exalted magnificence,”
he cried in a shrill voice, which extended to the
farthest corner of the crowded room, as he dropped
on one knee before Lord Vaulabel, who had placed
himself beside his wife, “the notorious gentleman
known as Colonel Armour speaks the truth, for of
a verity the man called Delavigne was by him befooled
and gulled and ruined, and ’tis I, Derrick
Edward Fitz-James O’Grady MacDaly, once humble
corporal in the regiment commanded by your
late most glorious and regretted parent, the right
honorable the Earl of Vaulabel, that can prove—”
Greatly to MacDaly’s surprise he was obliged to
rattle off the latter part of his speech on the way
back to the tea room, whither he was guided by
sundry constraining hands laid upon his shoulders.
Colonel Armour’s eyes followed him in bewilderment;
then suddenly he drew himself up, looked
about the room, and ejaculated sharply: “What
have I been saying?”
.bn 516.png
.pn +1
No one answered him. But he caught curious
glances from staring faces, wonder and incredulity
from some, aversion and formless suspicion taking
shape from others. He was a ruined man; he
saw it, felt it. His day was over. His jaw shook;
his whole frame trembled. He had said something
that had put him outside the pale of honorable society
and had crystallized the brilliant, glittering
throng into wondering astonishment.
One parting, sweeping look he gave about the
room, his eyes coming finally to Vivienne, who
stood among the honored guests of the evening.
The Delavignes had triumphed. His head dropped
on his breast; he shuffled from the place disgraced,
ruined, and undone.
One step followed him, one firm, manly step
echoing down the wide stone hall. Stanton had
quietly committed the half-fainting Mrs. Colonibel
to the care of some friends and was on his way to
overtake the lonely old figure hurrying from the
building.
.bn 517.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXIX | AT LAST
.sp 2
Lord and Lady Vaulabel withdrew early from
the ball that evening, and accompanying
them to Government House went a very white and
unnaturally composed girl. Upon reaching their
own apartments, the two distinguished people sat
down near the young girl, whom they were treating
with a kind and exquisite consideration, which
at the same time consoled and surprised her in her
perturbed state of mind.
Their first endeavor was to draw her thoughts
away from her unhappy lover, whose pale set face
they knew was haunting her.
“Lady Vaulabel tells me,” began his excellency,
“that she was about to explain to you the
mutual obligations that the founders of our respective
families were able to render to each
other.”
“Yes, your excellency, she was.”
“I will explain to you the way in which it came
about,” said Lord Vaulabel with a lightness of
manner that would seem to belong rather to the
early time of the morning than to the late hours of
.bn 518.png
.pn +1
a fatiguing day. “In 1515, at the battle of Marignan,
Roland de la Vaulabelle went to the assistance
of a young foot-soldier, the son of a merchant
of Orléans, who was grievously wounded and was
trying to escape, and rescued him at the risk of his
own life. For this and other deeds of valor he
was made chevalier after the battle had been renewed
and won the following day.”
Lord Vaulabel paused, and Vivienne murmured
with pale lips that she remembered reading of the
battle in the history of France.
“Then you know all about the court of Francis
I.,” pursued Lord Vaulabel, "the roi des gentilshommes,
who spent the money of his subjects with
a free hand. De la Vaulabelle shared in the extravagance
of the court, and when King Francis,
after his sojourn in Italy, became impressed by the
marvels of the Renaissance, de la Vaulabelle took
part in his admiration and ordered some of the Italian
architects who had followed the king to France to
build him a château in the new style of architecture.
To do this he was obliged to raise a loan,
and applied to the elder Delavigne, who had been
full of gratitude for his rescue of his son. Delavigne
advanced him the money, the château was
built, and for more than one hundred years, until
Guillaume Delavigne came out to assist in founding
Montreal, there was much kindness between the
two families. The continued to lend
.bn 519.png
.pn +1
money to the de la Vaulabelles, and the de la Vaulabelles
continued to be powerful friends to the
Delavignes, protecting them from the rapacity of
some of the noblesse, who might have oppressed
them."
There was a short pause. Vivienne had taken
in the meaning of his words, but found herself unable
to make any remark. Lord Vaulabel flashed
a quick glance at his wife, as if he were seeking
advice.
With a sweet warning smile, Lady Vaulabel
slightly shook her head and looked at the girl’s
pallid face.
“Miss Delavigne,” said his excellency kindly,
“the Vaulabels do not forget. I often linger over
the romantic records of the days of old; the chivalrous
feats of the men of my family I do not consider
any more self-sacrificing than the patient help
that the Delavignes often gave them at great inconvenience
to themselves. You will therefore understand
my motive when I say that I should be very
glad to do something for you—to relieve any
anxiety that you may have.”
“Your excellency,” said Vivienne, clasping her
gloved hands nervously, yet speaking with unexpected
firmness, “I do not know where my father
is—it has seemed almost a sacrilege, in view of my
approaching marriage, yet we cannot find him. I
have a thought now that he may be in France. In
.bn 520.png
.pn +1
view of what has passed this evening, you can understand
my unhappiness—my distress——”
The girl was suffering intensely. Lady Vaulabel’s
thoughts ran away to Ottawa, to a baby girl
in a cradle there. Some day her child too would
have a woman’s heart. Her lips slightly moved,
and her husband caught the words, “Tell her.”
“Miss Delavigne,” he said with utmost gentleness,
“I can give you some news with regard to
your father; but,” he added, a little startled by the
sudden change in her, “you must compose yourself.”
Her breast rose and fell convulsively, she cast
down her eyes, then said falteringly: “I beg your
excellency’s pardon. You may tell me anything
now.”
Lord Vaulabel sprang up with a nervous gesture
and paced the carpet. “It was a long time ago,”
he said with assumed lightness, “nearly twenty
years—I was a lad traveling through Canada with
my father. We were on our way west on a hunting
expedition. Boylike, I restlessly wandered
through the train that we were on, delighted by the
freedom from constraint in railway traveling to
which I had not been accustomed in our English
carriages. We were on our way to Quebec, when
my attention was attracted by the unhappy, dazed
appearance of a young Frenchman, who remained
always in one attitude. I told my father about
.bn 521.png
.pn +1
him, and he questioned the guard, or conductor, as
one calls that official here. We approached the
man—found that his name was Delavigne. I
think, Miss Delavigne, that you promised to be
very calm,” he said, interrupting himself and gazing
in pretended quiet amusement at his listener.
His excellency however was not amused, he was
intensely interested and anxious.
Vivienne had fallen on her knees, and was sobbing
over Lady Vaulabel’s hand. “You know all—oh,
tell me more! May God bless you for your
kindness to my father.”
His excellency looked at the kneeling girl, a
suspicious moisture in his eyes—the heart of a
ruler is very much as the heart of another man—then
lightly turning he left the room.
“Compose yourself, my poor child,” murmured
Lady Vaulabel, “your father is with us. He has
been one of my husband’s secretaries for years.”
“Mon cher Delavigne, how often have I told
thee not to write till this hour,” said Lord Vaulabel
in French, as he entered a small adjoining room,
where a slender man with patient dark eyes, white
hands, and a head of thick, snowy hair, sat with all
the paraphernalia of a secretary about him.
The secretary pushed back his folding desk, and
rose respectfully. “I could not sleep, your excellency—not
if I were in bed. Not in this town,”
and he looked expectantly at his patron.
.bn 522.png
.pn +1
“Yes, I have seen her,” said Lord Vaulabel, as
if answering a question. “She is beautiful and
good, and she believes in her father.”
“Dieu est tout miséricorde et tout sagesse,” and
the man reverently bent his head as he thus spoke
of the divine compassion and wisdom. He had
suffered too long to be given to much outward
emotion.
“Some strange revelations have been made to
us,” pursued Lord Vaulabel; “but you will learn
all from your daughter.”
“Is she here?” asked Delavigne quietly.
“Yes,” and with a face more excited than that
of his secretary the nobleman led the way to the
drawing room.
He threw open the door. Delavigne looked in,
saw rising up before him with glad arms extended
a girl even more lovely than the wife of his youth.
He heard her eager cry, “My father!” made a
step forward and caught her to his breast, while
Lord and Lady Vaulabel softly withdrew from the
room.
.bn 523.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XL | THE FATE THAT PURSUES US
.sp 2
Joe Christmas was an unhappy Indian after
the discovery of the ghost flower across the
Arm.
He gazed mournfully toward the big house,
shook his head, and uttered a number of times a
long-drawn, musical “Ah-a-a-a,” of regret and dismay.
Then as if he were forced to it by some
power he could not resist, he gave most touching
proof of his affection and respect for Vivienne.
He waited until he had seen her leave the house
with the ill-omened flowers in her hand, then he
launched his canoe on the smooth, dark waters of
the Arm, and went through the blackness and softness
of the August night to the tiny cove that he
had visited with Vivienne and Armour through the
day.
Upon arriving there he drew his canoe from the
water, put his cap under his arm, dropped on the
ground, and took out his beads. Over and over
his prayers he went—it was not terrifying to pray
with the grass under his knees and the stars overhead,
but when it came to entering the spirit-haunted
.bn 524.png
.pn +1
wood his heart misgave him. Yet he persevered,
hobbling over the ground till he was
under the trees and among the ferns, and finally
beside the gaping rent in the leaf mould left by the
abstraction of the ghost flower.
Shuddering in every limb, and beseeching the
Virgin, the Saints, and the Great Spirit not to
avenge the theft, he detached the cross from his
rosary and dropped it into the hole as an offering
to the offended spirit of the plant. Then springing
to his feet he ran from out the dreadful
shadows, leaped into his canoe, and paddled quickly
and in a relieved manner, not to his camp among
the spruces, but back to Pinewood where he purposed
remaining till Vivienne’s return home should
convince him that he had been successful in his
effort to propitiate the spirits on her behalf.
He stationed himself among the pines in front
of the house, occasionally leaving them to investigate
the origin of sounds in other directions, but
always coming back and waiting with the patience
of a trained hunter.
Quite early in the evening two of the maids
came home exchanging with accompanying admirers
various confidences that he was privileged
to hear. Subsequently the admirers went home,
and the maids went to bed. He saw the lights extinguished
in their rooms, and traced Mammy
Juniper as she wandered from window to window,
.bn 525.png
.pn +1
with a candle in her hand. At one o’clock a sound
south of the house drew him to the road beyond
Pinewood.
Mr. Armour was bringing home his father, not
in their own carriage, but in a cab. With a stolid
face, and much inward bewilderment, Joe saw the
shrinking old figure assisted through the gate in
the wall, and put in the cottage.
“Ole man gone crazy,” he muttered, an opinion
which was confirmed when he descended to the
cottage half an hour later and saw his master sitting
at a table playing like a baby with an empty
wineglass and some teaspoons, and Dr. Camperdown,
Mr. Armour, and Mammy Juniper looking
at him with facial expressions hard to describe.
A little later the two gentlemen ascended to the
house, where Camperdown left Mr. Armour and
drove back to the town.
At two o’clock Joe, standing opposite the windows
of the library, was keenly watching Mr. Armour,
who was quietly pacing up and down the
room.
There was something wrong. Mr. Armour’s face
was too white and stern for an ordinary occasion,
and where was Miss Debbiline? Joe was uneasy,
yet true to his natural instincts he waited on, for
he would not ask questions so long as he hoped to
gain the information he wished by ocular demonstration.
.bn 526.png
.pn +1
Three o’clock came, and Joe was just about
creeping to the library window to address Mr.
Armour, when his practised ear told him that two
carriages were coming down the avenue. He drew
behind a tree trunk and watched until he saw the
cabs stop before the door, and five people leaving
them and entering the house.
Ah! here at last was his worshiped Miss Debbiline,
safe and well, her eyes only a trifle heavy
from her night’s dissipation. The spirits had
spared her, and he could now go happily to his
camp, but first he would take a final view of what
was transpiring in the library, for to that room
would Miss Debbiline probably repair.
The delicate rose curtains waving to and fro in
the night wind afforded him a sufficient screen, and
bending his supple body he lingered on, observing
what appeared even to his untutored mind to be a
succession of strange and unusual scenes.
Away at the other end of the room, with his
back against the bookshelves, stood Mr. Armour,
rigid and motionless, his eyes glued to the face of
the peaceful, white-haired stranger whom Dr. Camperdown
was ushering into the room.
“Stanton, you know this man,” Joe heard Dr.
Camperdown say in a harsh, resonant voice—then
his attention was distracted by a rustling near him.
Vivienne, with her finger on her lips, and holding
up the train of her white dress, was gliding
.bn 527.png
.pn +1
like a fairy to his side. “I saw you from the window
above, Joe,” she murmured. “Let me stand
beside you. Mr. Armour,” with a catching of her
breath, “will not allow me to enter the room,
but I shall go in this way presently. Do not
go,” and she made a commanding gesture as the
Indian was about to creep away, “I may want
you.”
“Me no stan’ beside ghos’ flower,” said Joe,
gazing at the darkened blossoms across her breast.
The agitated girl looked down at the flowers,
whose dainty heads, as if weary of asking fruitless
questions, had—unperceived by her—drooped and
blackened till they were uncanny and repulsive in
their appearance.
With something like a sob she caught them in
her hand and threw them far away.
“Ghos’ flower always turnum black,” said Joe,
“when pickum,” then immensely flattered at being
told to remain, he stepped a little nearer to her,
and resumed his scrutiny of the room.
Mr. Armour had become disturbed. His face
was no longer resolved and apathetic, but alternately
became crimson and deathly pale, and his
attention was still fixed on the undemonstrative
gentleman with the white hair, then on Dr. Camperdown,
who was hurling impetuous sentences at
him.
“Suppose your fabric of respectability has fallen
.bn 528.png
.pn +1
down—rear another about yourself. No one
blames you for this catastrophe. Can you not accept
the assurance of this man who offers your
family a pardon that is almost divine? Has he
not suffered? Aye, more than you.”
“I have been stunned,” said Armour in a hollow,
far-away voice. “I am going away.”
“Coward!” exclaimed Camperdown with assumed
anger. “Moral coward!”
Armour’s face brightened. Instead of resenting
the offensive epithet, he turned to his friend with a
smile so humble, so touching, that Camperdown
swung himself away, muttering discomposedly, “I
can make nothing of this fellow.”
Mr. Delavigne looked compassionately at Armour.
“I should have known you anywhere,” he
said in a dreamy voice; “you are like the little lad
whom I loved so much as he sat beside me at my
desk, and yet you have changed. Your expression——”
“Yes,” interrupted Camperdown furiously, “we
all know why the boyish expression went. His
father—that gibbering idiot down yonder—was
the one to frighten it away. Tell us, Stanton, you
suspected this bad business from the first.”
“Only suspected,” said Armour in a firm tone.
“Had I known surely——”
“But you had no proofs—we all know that,” interposed
Camperdown; “and you,” turning to Mr.
.bn 529.png
.pn +1
Delavigne, “why did you not put yourself in communication
with Stanton through all these years?”
“Because of the unnaturalness and the uselessness
of such a course,” said Mr. Delavigne mildly.
“But he has been looking for you—has spent
money. You might at least have told him that
you were alive.”
“I regret the expense; but my child—you forget
her. I did not know that she longed for her
father, yet I remembered her mother’s nature.
Had she had a hint of my existence a search
might have been instituted. Better for her to
think that I was dead than to link herself with one
who would disgrace her. To you,” and the elder
man turned impulsively to Armour, “my intensely
grateful acknowledgments are due for your care of
my child. By the kindness of one of the most
noble and admirable of men, I have been enabled
to receive accounts of her safe-keeping; occasionally,
with a heart wrung with thankfulness, to see
her. Your vigilance, your loyalty, I knew I could
trust; for this latter expression, this love for my
beloved daughter, I was unprepared. I felt that I
must hasten here, yet always with the feeling that
the boy of my earlier recollections would not prove
unworthy of the highest mark of my confidence.
At the moment of finding my child I am willing to
lose her again for her sake and yours.”
While Mr. Delavigne was speaking Mr. Armour’s
.bn 530.png
.pn +1
expression had again become one of insensibility
to either pleasure or pain, and Camperdown closely
observing him went to the door and sharply ejaculated:
“I can make nothing of this Obstinacy the
Second. I would give a thousand dollars if my
wife had not chosen to go orphan-hunting in the
country at this time.” Then he turned on his heel
and came back into the room. “What about
Vivienne?”
“It would be a crime to link her life with my
disgraced one,” said Armour heavily. “She must
forget me.”
“Is she a girl to do that?”
“To forget is the privilege of youth,” said Armour
drearily. “You may fancy that I am doing
a cruel thing; ten years hence Vivienne will be
happily married to another man. You cannot
tempt me,” he said with sudden energy. “I have
weighed the matter. The pang will be sharp and
short for Vivienne——”
“And for you?” said Camperdown eagerly.
“For me—it does not matter. I am going
away.”
“Going to blow your brains out,” muttered Camperdown.
Then he exclaimed with increased energy:
“Think of your God, your country, your
promised wife. You have been living for the good
opinion of your fellow-men. Your god Respectability
is a poor, rotten thing.”
.bn 531.png
.pn +1
“Stanton!” exclaimed a voice from the doorway.
They all looked in that direction and saw Mrs.
Colonibel, white and haggard. “What is this I
hear?” she went on, advancing into the room.
“Is your marriage broken off?”
“Yes,” he returned shortly.
“This is your doing,” she said affixing accusing
eyes on Mr. Delavigne.
A smile passed over his calm face. “No, it is
not; but all will be well yet, I hope.”
Behind Mrs. Colonibel, and pushing her aside,
came Judy. “What is all this fuss about?” she
cried in a peevish way; “the house in commotion
and everybody out of bed! Where is Vivienne,
and who is that gentleman?”
“Judy,” said her mother, turning sharply to her,
“this is Vivienne’s father.”
“Her father!” shrieked the girl. “What does
he do—where has he come from? Stanton, you
won’t give up Vivienne to him?”
“He came with Lord Vaulabel,” said Mrs. Colonibel
in a high-pitched, wrought-up voice, “who
has had him ever since he left here, and Lord
Vaulabel has suspected all the time that he had
been wrongly treated. He intended to make inquiries
while here. Mr. Delavigne would not allow
him to do so before now.”
“How extraordinary!” gasped Judy.
.bn 532.png
.pn +1
“And Vivienne has met her father,” pursued
Mrs. Colonibel, “and it has been discovered that
Uncle Colonel trumped up a charge of stealing
against Mr. Delavigne because he wished to get
rid of him.”
“I can well believe it,” said Judy contemptuously.
“I have never had a great opinion of Uncle
Colonel.”
“And in spite of this, Mr. Delavigne says he
will allow his daughter to marry Stanton, and yet
Brian sends me word that the whole thing is at an
end. Who has done it? What does it mean?”
Camperdown pointed a finger at Armour’s unhappy
figure.
“The family will be broken up,” exclaimed Mrs.
Colonibel, sinking into a chair and putting up her
hands to hide her miserable face.
“Stanton, old man, where are you?” and gropingly
feeling his way into the room came Valentine,
exquisitely dressed and unruffled in appearance.
“I hear flying rumors, that knowing you
as well as I do, I cannot believe. The happiness
that you have so long deserved is now within your
grasp. You are not going to ruin your chances?”
and he threw his arm over his brother’s shoulder.
Armour, like a hunted animal brought to bay,
looked desperately at the faces round about him.
“I have a conscience,” he said brokenly; “I cannot
do this thing.”
.bn 533.png
.pn +1
“What thing?” said Judy cuttingly. “Do you
mean that you cannot give up your iron will, that
you will thrust out the angel of the house? I tell
you for one that I sha’n’t live here if she goes.
Who is going to support us in our disgrace? Who
will comfort us I would like to know? I shall never
go out; I will starve myself; I will die”; and giving
way to a fit of angry sullenness the girl threw
herself down beside her mother.
“Joe,” said Vivienne softly, “my time has come.
Help me in through this window.”
Armour had watched the door, but he had not
thought of the window, and yet he did not really
fancy that Vivienne would transgress his strict command
that she should not seek an interview with
him but should wait for a letter that he would
write to her.
When he saw her coming toward him he retreated
against the wall, and averted his eyes from
the mingled love and compassion of her glance.
“Stanton,” she murmured, stretching out her
hand to take his shrinking one.
“Do not touch me,” he said hoarsely.
She turned her back on him and faced the other
people present. There was no mistaking the joy
and triumph of her glance.
“Come,” exclaimed Camperdown, “she will
manage him. Let us all get out of this,” and he
began to hurry the other spectators from the room.
.bn 534.png
.pn +1
However, impetuous as he was, he found himself
suddenly brought to a standstill by the entrance of
Mammy Juniper, who swept upon him like a whirlwind,
candlestick in hand, her black eyes almost
starting from her night-capped head, her padded
dressing gown flying back from her excited figure.
“Praise the Lord! Rejoice greatly! Shout, O
daughter of Jerusalem, salvation has come to the
house. The iniquity of Ephraim is discovered
that he may repent.... How great is the goodness
of the Lord! How great is his beauty! Corn
shall make the young men cheerful and new
wine the maids. The prisoners of hope are released.
I took unto me two staves, the one I
called Beauty and the other I called Bands, and fed
the flock——”
“And we’ll hear the rest of your rhapsody in
the hall,” said Camperdown seizing the old woman
kindly but forcibly by the shoulders. “You’re
very eloquent but slightly discomposing. Come
now, give us a stave about the poor Assyrians.
Some of them are out of bondage too, now that
your worthy master is laid low,” and he politely
invited Mammy Juniper to the back hall, where he
listened for a few minutes to her trumpetings, and
then went home without addressing another word
to the other members of the excited family.
The fascinated Joe could not make up his mind
to leave the window even when Armour and Vivienne
.bn 535.png
.pn +1
were left alone. In intense interest he listened
to Vivienne’s caressing accents as she addressed the
unhappy, agitated man before her.
“So you wish me to go away?” she said.
“Yes,” he muttered, “I do. Go now while I
have the strength to say it. I am a ruined man.”
“Dearer to me in your ruin than in your prosperity,”
she murmured; “will you, can you drive
me from you?”
“Yes,” he ejaculated with white lips, and leaning
one hand against the wall to steady himself,
“I can. Go.”
“Good-bye, then,” she said softly. “I am too
proud a woman to force a man to keep his promise.
Good-bye,” and she sauntered slowly away.
But that glance over her shoulder! The Indian
choked back a barbaric explosion of laughter as he
saw it and watched Armour hurrying after her so
quickly, that he caught his foot in the silken train
of her gown, with a cry of irrepressible love and
despair, “I cannot let you go.”
Then there was a long silence. “All right now,”
muttered Joe gleefully. “He much huggum and
kissum. He no go crazy like ole man. He marryum
in church with flowers and girls to wearum white,”
and quietly obliterating himself among the shadows
of the house, he went in peace and contentment
to his camp.
.bn 536.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XLI | IN DEEP DESPAIR
.sp 2
Judy was curled up like a dog on the library
door mat. “I will not get up—I will not get
up,” she cried, groveling at Vivienne’s feet, as she
came out, “till you tell me that you are not going
to leave us.”
“I am,” said Vivienne; “but you are to go with
me.”
“With you, my precious?” cried the girl springing
to her feet. “Where are you going?”
“To England.”
“When?” almost screamed the excited girl.
“To-morrow.”
“And Stanton—what is he going to do?”
“Marry me and go too.”
“Oh this is delicious,” said Judy clasping her
around the waist. “I never dreamed of this. Oh
I will be good. I shall never get out of temper
now,” and she sidled in ecstasy up and down the
hall.
“My father will accompany us, I hope,” said
Vivienne. “I wish never to separate from him
again. I must go to see him now, the beloved
.bn 537.png
.pn +1
martyr. I can scarcely believe that he is here; so
many wonderful things have happened to-night.
My head is in a whirl.”
“Don’t go,” said Judy detaining her. "Mamma
gave him the best room in the house, where he has,
I hope, quietly gone to sleep. You will see him
in a few hours; let us talk some more about England
and your marriage. I don’t understand perfectly
yet. Things have been so rushed that I am confused.
Will you explain to me about your father?
I thought Uncle Colonel liked him. Why did he
wish to get rid of
“Dear Judy,” and Vivienne drew the girl to a seat
beside her, “it seems to me that all the trouble and
all the comfort in the world comes through women.
You know sometimes men love the women they
should not. It is a shocking thing to say, but my
father tells me that Colonel Armour loved my
mother better than he has ever loved any person
in the world.”
“Shocking indeed,” said Judy, “in plain English,
brutal; for I suppose in liking her, his first thought
was to get rid of your father.”
“Yes, he wished to ruin him, to bring about a
separation between him and my mother, and he
hoped that my father, being of a sensitive nature,
would take his own life, and my mother being
proud and hating treachery, would despise his
memory and marry him.”
.bn 538.png
.pn +1
“The old wretch!”
“But my mother was more clever than he
thought her. She understood his wiles, and though
she could prove nothing, she told him that he himself
had falsified the books that he accused my
father of doing, and that she loved her husband
more than ever when he became an unhappy
victim.”
“And where does MacDaly come in?”
“He overheard a conversation in which my
father rebuked Colonel Armour for his obsequious
attentions paid to my mother during the absence
of her husband. Colonel Armour lost his temper
and in a fury dismissed him from his service, declaring
that he would ruin him.”
“Which he certainly did,” interrupted Judy. “It
is a strange thing that all this has not been found
out before. That creature MacDaly ought to be
horsewhipped.”
“He was afraid for himself,” said Vivivenne,
“for it was he that set the warehouse on fire.”
“What, MacDaly?”
“Yes, but without an intention of doing it. It
happened in this way: he listened to the altercation
between my father and Colonel Armour, then went
into a place of hiding. No stir was made with
regard to the affair, so he issued from his place
and loitered about to hear later on a conversation
between Colonel Armour and Stanton. Colonel
.bn 539.png
.pn +1
Armour said that he was coming back that evening
to write in the office. This was unusual; MacDaly
suspected that it bore on my father’s case and
resolved to watch. Therefore returning stealthily
at an earlier hour than his customary one to the
warehouse, he saw Colonel Armour enter and leave
his office. MacDaly then crept to the room. He
found the safes closed, but he guessed shrewdly that
his master had been tampering with the accounts
of his clerk. While shuffling over loose papers on
the table he mistakenly thought he heard Colonel
Armour’s returning step. He ran, forgetting a
lighted cigar or pipe he had laid down. It set fire
to the papers. MacDaly, watching from the wharf,
saw the windows bright with flames. He rushed to
the spot but he could not extinguish the fire. He
feared to call for help, and not till the passers-by
saw the blazing building, was an alarm sounded.
Then unfortunately, it was too late. The cunning
MacDaly hid himself till the fire was over; but
Colonel Armour suspected his connection with it,
and taxed him with it, only sparing him from exposure
because his purpose was to have my father
blamed. This is a whip that he has held over
MacDaly’s head to keep him from making any
revelations about my father.”
“That if he did he would be punished for setting
fire to the building?” said Judy inquiringly.
“Yes, Colonel Armour frightened him by saying
.bn 540.png
.pn +1
that he would prove that he had done it intentionally,
which by the common law is felony. The
simple MacDaly knew that his master was rich and
powerful, and he did not dare to brave him.”
“And how do you feel about it all?”
“It is horrible,” whispered Vivienne raising her
hands as if to lift some heavy weight from her
shoulders. “To think of all these years of agony,
my mother’s death, my father’s martyrdom, Stanton’s
slow misery, my unhappiness, and all through
the sin of one man. Now all seems brightness
except the living death that has come upon the
one who has caused all this trouble. If he never
comes out of it, Judy, if he has no chance for repentance!”
“Don’t worry about him,” said Judy scornfully.
“Think of your father. Hasn’t he a sweet face,
and isn’t he a perfect gentleman? And you and
Stanton thought to find him in some cobbler’s
shop!”
“A cobbler can be a gentleman, Judy.”
“Ah, Miss Aristocrat, you’ve rather changed your
opinions since you came to Halifax. By the way,
why do we leave so soon as to-morrow? Is it because
you are in a hurry to get Stanton away?”
“Yes, Judy.”
“And here comes that man you are so proud
of. I think I’ll go to bed. I’ve stuff for a dozen
nightmares.”
.bn 541.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XLII | ACROSS THE SEA
.sp 2
Some weeks later Armour and his wife, with
Judy and Mr. Delavigne, installed themselves
in a suite of apartments in the principal hotel of a
gray old English town. Outside Armour’s room
ran a narrow iron balcony, and on this balcony he
stood one evening, his hands behind his back, his
face upturned to the sky.
“What star are your thoughts on?” asked Vivienne
softly, as she came to the open window.
“One called Vivienne; won’t you come out?”
he said. “It is very warm.”
“It seems to me that you think a very great deal
about that star,” she said roguishly as she accepted
the mute invitation of his arm to come and stand
beside him.
He wrapped her white-furred dressing gown more
closely about her and stowed her long hair in a
hood at the back of it. “Now I can see your face.
Why should I not think of you, Vivienne? You
are a constant source of interest to me with your
pretty feminine ways. I don’t think women understand
how odd it is for a man who has always lived
.bn 542.png
.pn +1
to himself to have some woman about him with her
constant care of him, and her questions as to why
he does this thing and that thing and what he is
thinking about.”
Vivienne laughed merrily. “Is that why you
watch me with such profound interest when I
mend your gloves, and why you looked at me in
such surprise when I went to your rescue the other
day as you struggled with an obstinate necktie?”
“Yes; you are a very fearful and wonderful creation
to me at all times; but when I think of you
with all your attributes you are a mystery.”
“You are not a mystery to me,” said Vivienne.
“I understand you and I am satisfied. Over there
is a rookery, Stanton. In the morning you will hear
such a cawing.”
“And yonder is the school where you used to sit
and look over the trees toward Canada?”
“Yes, Stanton.”
“And read my brief, cold letters, darling? I
wish I had known what I know now. How differently
I should have written.”
“Yes, I used to read them there, but they did
not worry me so very much.”
“And it was there,” he said, “that you, one year
ago, put up the photograph to send to me that was
to make such a change in my life.”
“Yes, my dear husband, it was. Madame Dubois
and I were spending the summer here.”
.bn 543.png
.pn +1
“I have never told you of the day that I received
it, Vivienne. I was exceedingly busy, and in the
midst of my rush of work I unfastened the string
on the cardboard, and there was your face looking
serenely at me. I was completely upset by your
surprising likeness to your father, and at once the
project of having you come to Canada flashed into
my mind. I thought, surely if my father were confronted
with you, the daughter of a woman that he
had virtually murdered—for I believe if it had not
been for him your mother would be alive to-day—his
toughened conscience would be touched.”
“What became of the photograph? You have
never told me.”
Armour blushed slightly. “I am ashamed to
say that I tore it up. I almost hated you in those
days; for I thought if the Delavignes had never
been born, my father would not have been tempted
to commit the crime of his life. I would give a
thousand dollars to have it again.”
“Five shillings will get you one,” said Vivienne
lightly. “We will visit the photographer to-morrow,
and I will order one like it.”
Armour was silent for a time. Then he said
thoughtfully, “I wonder how affairs are going on
at home.”
“We know that Stargarde goes to the cottage
every day to weep and pray beside your father,”
said Vivienne softly, Flora is happy with the
.bn 544.png
.pn +1
housekeeping, and Valentine practises—ah, Stanton,
that first Sunday he sang in church, when he stood
beside the organ and raised his calm face to sing
‘Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy
laden,’ I could not keep back the tears. How glad
he will be to have us home again."
“How long do you wish to stay away, Vivienne?”
asked Armour.
“Until you are happy in returning.”
“I could go back to-morrow.”
“Stanton!” and she looked up at his face which
was illumined by the gaslight from the room behind.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I see now that there
is no place to retrieve a lost reputation like one’s
own home. If acquaintances of long standing are
more curious and critical than strangers they are
also more compassionate. The people of Halifax
are my people. My father has sinned among them
and among them will I endeavor, God helping me,
to make what amendment I can for his sins, and
for my own sins of pride and obstinacy, and begin
my new life where I lived the old.”
Vivienne surveyed him in passionate affection.
“I thank heaven every day of my life that I have
married a man who is strong enough to acknowledge
his weakness, and who knows where to look for aid.
Ah, the Divine guidance, Stanton, what should we
do without it?” And standing with her hand in
.bn 545.png
.pn +1
her husband’s, she repeated slowly the words of one
of her beloved Canadian poets:
.pm start_poem
"Forever constant to the good
Still arm our faith, thou Guard sublime,
To scorn, like all who’ve understood,
The atheist dangers of the time.
“Thou hearest! Lo, we feel our love
Of loyal thoughts and actions free
Tow’rd all divine achievement move,
Ennobled, blest, ensured, by Thee.”
.pm end_poem
.pb
.dv class='tnotes'
.ce
Transcriber’s Note
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
.ta l:8 l:46 l:12 w=90%
| I have been mis[in]formed about Canada. | Added.
| she turned toward the staircase[.] | Added.
| she said quietly[.] | Added.
| the d[u/e]luge arrived. | Replaced.
| asked Mr. Armour soberly[,/.] | Replaced.
| for some of my children[,/.]" | Replaced.
| Just Brian[’s] Camperdown’s age; | Removed.
| is full of blood to me[.] | Added.
| [“]She had no rags to conceal it among,” | Added.
| Then he said aloud[./,] | Replaced.
| to the we[e/a]k-kneed drunkard | Replaced.
| “I must send some one to look for him.[”] | Added.
| of their excellent presence, and——[’]” | Added.
| “I hope that you are not feverish.[”] | Added.
| the supreme control of our ménage?[’/”] | Replaced.
| [“]That will tickle her palate | Added.
| contin[u]ed MacDaly. | Added.
| “Have you sent for Dr. Camperdown?[’/”] | Replaced.
| she was fond of singing[,/.] | Replaced.
| Miss Turner, compose you[r]self | Added.
| who had gone shopping with her.[”] | Removed.
| Lord and Lady Vaulabel do not expect it.[”] | Added.
| The D[a/e]lavignes continued to lend | Replaced.
| Why did he wish to get rid of him?[”] | Added.
| said Vivienne softly, [“]and Flora is happy | Added.
| gallantly resisted the bes[ei/ie]ging force | Transposed.
.ta-
.dv-