The House of Armour

“You may pretend and pretend as much as you 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.

CHAPTER XXVI
THE MISERY OF THE WORLD

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 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.”

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 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.”

“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. 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.”

“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.

“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 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, 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 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, 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 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 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 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.

CHAPTER XXVII
NOT TO BE REPEATED

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.

“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.

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.”

“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 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 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.”

“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?”

“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?”