Marshall Saunders - The House of Armour

When Camperdown at Stargarde’s request explained what had happened, her lovely face became troubled and she looked as if she were going to cry.

“Zeb,” she said with trembling lips, “you must go away. I cannot have you here any longer if you do such things.”

The child sprang to her. “Don’t ye, don’t ye do that. I’ll slick up. Gimme a lickin’, only let me stay. I’ll not look at him—the devil!” with a furious glance at Camperdown. “I’ll turn round face to the wall, only, only don’t send me out in the cold.”

What could Stargarde do? Pardon, pardon, always pardon, that was the secret of her marvelous hold on the members of her enormous family. She drew up the little footstool to a corner, placed the child on it, and shaking her head at Dr. Camperdown, sat down opposite him. “Take people for what they are—not for what they ought to be,” she said to him in German.

“You are a good woman, Stargarde,” he returned softly in the same language. “I can give you no higher praise. And I have had a good dinner,” he continued, drawing back from the table. “What are you going to do with those dishes? Mayn’t I help you wash them?”

“No, thank you. Zeb will assist me when you have gone.”

He smiled at her hint to withdraw, and placing the rocking-chair by the fire for her, said wistfully: “Do you really wish me to go?”

“Well, you may stay for half an hour longer,” she replied, as indulgent with him as she was with the child.

As soon as the words left her lips, he ensconced himself comfortably in the arm-chair, and gazing into the fire listened dreamily to the low-murmured sentences Stargarde was addressing to the child, who had crept into her arms begging to be rocked.

“I wish I could smoke,” he said presently; “I think you don’t object to the smell of tobacco, Stargarde?”

“No,” she said quietly, “not the smell of it.”

“But the waste, the hurtfulness of the habit, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll 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.

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.”