The House of Armour

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

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 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–”

“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 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 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 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 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 it.”

“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 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 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, 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.”

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 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?”

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.