The House of Armour. Saunders Marshall
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, 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.
CHAPTER XI
MRS. MACARTNEY GETS A FRIGHT
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–”
“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?”
“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 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 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.”
“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