Marshall Saunders - The House of Armour

His mouth worked viciously as if he would like to devour her quondam lovers.

“What a long way we have wandered from Vivienne Delavigne,” said Stargarde. “You were saying that Captain Macartney is in love with her. Does she love him?”

“No, though it will probably end in that. He’s very much in earnest, for he vowed to me that he couldn’t marry. When a man does that you may be sure he’s just about to throw everything overboard for some woman.”

“Does he know all about her?”

“Yes; but his stepmother stands behind egging him on. She’s probably promised a generous settlement on ma’m’selle if he marries her. The disgrace was the black beast in the way; but I imagine he’ll make up his mind to hang on to the old marquis and ignore the embezzlement. A decent fellow, Macartney, as those military men go,” he added in the condescending tone in which a civilian in Halifax will allow a few virtues to the military sojourners in the city.

“I like him,” said Stargarde emphatically, “yet Vivienne Delavigne may not. I wish, Brian, that she was a little older, and you a little fickle.”

“Why do you wish that?”

“Because, what a charming wife she would make for you. I am sure she is good and gentle, and she is alone in the world.”

“And you?” he said coolly.

“Oh, I have enough here,” she said, stretching out her arms lovingly as if she could take in her embrace the whole of the large brick building. “My work is my husband.”

He was about to reply to her but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Brian,” said Stargarde hurriedly, “I forgot to say that I have other company to tea. I hope you won’t object, and do try not to notice her. She is one of my charges, and oftentimes a troublesome one.” Then turning toward the door she said: “Come in; come in, dear.”

The door swung slowly open and a small, miserably thin child stood narrowly inspecting them through black, curly wisps of hair that hung down over her forehead and made her look like a terrier. She had on a ragged, dirty frock, and a dingy plaid shawl covered her shoulders.

“I am glad to see you, dear child,” said Stargarde, going to meet her and taking her warmly by the hand. “Come into the bedroom and take off your things.”

The child picked off the back of her black head a tiny boy’s cap that lay there like an ugly patch, and plucking impatiently at her shawl to draw it from her shoulders, flashed Stargarde an adoring glance and followed her into an inner room.

“Will you wash your face, dear?” said Stargarde, pouring some water from a ewer to a little basin that she placed on a chair. “Here is a clean towel and some of the nicest soap. Just smell it. Somebody sent it to me from Paris.”

The girl tossed back her hair from her dirty face and dabbled her hands in the water. “Who’s that cove out there?” she said with an ugly scowl and jerking her head in the direction of the other room.

“A friend of mine, Dr. Camperdown. He is a nice man, Zeb. I hope you will like him.”

“Them dirty swells, I hate ’em,” returned the child.

Stargarde was silent. To try at the outset to reform the vocabulary of a child of the gutter was, she knew, a mistake. The girl had been brought up in an evil atmosphere, and her little perverted mind was crammed with bitter prejudices against all who were better off in regard to this world’s goods than she was herself. Stargarde watched pityingly the sullen face bending over the basin.

“He wants yer,” said the child suddenly, and with an acute spasm of jealousy contracting her brows. “I seed it in him. He’ll take yer away from the Pav.”

Stargarde blushed a little. Just for one instant she was tempted by a natural disinclination not to discuss her love affairs with such an uncongenial being as the one before her. Then she remembered her invariable maxim, “No prevarication. Perfect frankness in my dealings with my fellow-men,” and said gently: “I am not willing to go, Zeb, I shall stay here.”

“Not if he coaxes yer?” said the child eagerly.

“No, Zeb.”

The little renegade scrubbed vigorously at her face without making reply. Then polishing her hands with a towel she approached Stargarde. “Will yer kiss me now?” she said humbly.

“Yes, darling,” and the beautiful woman took the dirty child to her breast in a warm embrace.

The child’s clothes were not clean. In fact months had passed over her head since her dress had made acquaintance with the wash tub. “Zeb,” said Stargarde hesitatingly, “I have a little cotton frock here”—the child frowned angrily and regarded her with a glance as proud as Lucifer’s. “It is just like mine,” went on Stargarde. “Look, Zeb.”

She took a small garment from a closet and showed the child the coquettish frills adorning the skirt and neck. “Seeing it’s you,” said the child graciously, “I’ll take it. But we’s no beggars, mind that! Mam and pap’ll kill me, likely, but I don’t care,” and with a fine assumption of indifference she pulled off her ragged gown, kicked it contemptuously aside, and allowed Stargarde to slip over her head the new and pretty dress which tortures would not have forced her to don, if it had not been for the fortunate occurrence that it was made from a similar piece of material to that clothing the woman she so passionately admired.

“I will speak to your mother about it,” said Stargarde reassuringly, as she buttoned her visitor up. “I don’t think she will mind.” Zeb thrust a hand into hers without speaking and walked silently out to Dr. Camperdown with her. When Stargarde introduced her to him she put out her tongue, stuck up her shoulder at him, and half turning her back drew up a little footstool to the grate, to which she sat so close that Stargarde was in momentary fear lest she should catch fire.

“Now, what shall we have for tea?” said Stargarde cheerily. “Let every one choose what he would like. What are you for, Brian?”

“Anything you choose to give me,” he said agreeably, “provided there is enough of it. I’m as hungry as a hunter this evening. Good breakfast, but patients were dogging me all lunch time, and I haven’t broken my fast yet.”

“Well, we’ll give you something substantial,” replied his hostess. “What will you have, Zeb?”

“Something in the line o’ birds,” said the child, a hard and hungry look coming into her eyes. “I sees ’em hangin’ up in the shops, I smells ’em and sees the dogs lickin’ the bones, but never a taste gets I. Say turkey, missis, or goose.”

“They have some turkeys over at the restaurant, I saw them to-day,” said Stargarde clapping her hands like a child. “We’ll have one, and stuffing, Zeb, and hot potato. Come, let us go and get it.”

The child sprang up, and clasping her hand Stargarde hurried out of the room and across the yard to the gay little eating house, going with the utmost speed so that they might not take cold. Breathless and laughing they pulled up outside the door, and opening it, walked soberly in. The child squeezed her patron’s hand with delight. The large, bright room before her, with its light walls adorned with pictures and its floor covered with little tables where people were eating and drinking, was like a glimpse of heaven to her. Stargarde went up to the counter.

“Good-evening, Mary,” she said to a pretty young girl there; “can you let me have a basket to put some purchases in? Ah, that is just what I want,” as the girl, diving behind the counter brought up one of the light flexible things made by the Indians of Nova Scotia. “Now first of all we want a turkey, a small one—no, a large one,” in response to a warning pressure from Zeb’s fingers. “See, there is one coming from the kitchen on a platter. Isn’t he a monster! Put him in a covered dish, Mary, and pop him into the basket with a dish of potatoes and—what vegetables have you?”