The House of Armour

CHAPTER V
A CONVERSATION WITH JUDY

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,” 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.”

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 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 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 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 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?”

“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.”

“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 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?”

“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.

CHAPTER VI
MRS. COLONIBEL LOSES HER TEMPER

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. 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, “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 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 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 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.

“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, 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. 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.”