The House of Armour

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 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 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.

CHAPTER XX

CHASED AS A BIRD WITHOUT CAUSE

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 besieging force till their supply of ammunition, consisting of snowballs, had given out. 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, 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 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! 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 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 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, ‘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; 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. “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.

CHAPTER XXI

A QUIET EVENING

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 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.

“Star of the summer eve,Sink, sink to rest!Sink ere the silver lightFades from the west;But nevermore will IWatch keep for thee,With her I loved so well,Sweet Eulalie.”

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 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.

“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.”

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 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 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.