MRS. COLONIBEL LOSES HER TEMPER
Early in the afternoon Vivienne was on her knees before her boxes when a
housemaid knocked at her door and announced to her that there was a
“person” downstairs who wished to see her.
Quickly descending the staircase she found Mrs. Macartney looking
longingly at those chairs in the hall that were most comfortably
upholstered. As soon as she caught sight of Vivienne she sank into a
Turkish arm-chair that was all cushions and padding.
“I’m glad to see you, me child,” she said in a hearty, boisterous way.
“Sure”—with a mischievous twinkle in her eye—"your friends must be a
disreputable set, for when I mentioned your name the domestic looked as
if she’d like to shut the door in me face, and there’s another watching
me from behind those curtains, so I thought to myself I’ll not sit down,
for fear of complications, till me dear girl arrives."
Vivienne suppressed a smile as she glanced over the somewhat fantastic
attire with which Mrs. Macartney bade defiance to the Canadian cold and
said, “Will you come into the drawing room?”
“Yes, me dear,” said Mrs. Macartney amiably, getting up and waddling
across the hall, “if you’ll kindly keep an eye on me and see that I
don’t put any of the bric-a-brac in my pocket. And how do you find
yourself after the voyage? Could you help me out of this jacket, me
dear? I’m hot with the cold. Just like bakers’ ovens are the houses
here, and if I had a fan I’d be grateful indeed.”
Vivienne got her a fan, then they entered upon a a long, cozy chat,
which consisted largely, to Vivienne’s amusement, of Mrs. Macartney’s
impressions of Halifax.
“Such a dirty town, me dear. Troth, your houses are brown and your
streets are brown, and I’d like to get at them with soap and water; and
such tinder boxes of houses—wood, wood—you’ll all burn up some day if
the few brick and stone ones aren’t the salvation of ye; and your lovely
surroundings, me dear; the drives and the views, they’re magnificent,
just howling with beauty—but what is this?” in a tragic tone and staring
open-mouthed before her.
There was the rustle of a silk gown, and looking up Vivienne saw Mrs.
Colonibel standing before them, and remembered that she had heard her
say that it was her day at home.
Her face was pale and her manner plainly said, “How dare you invite a
guest of yours into the sacred precincts of my drawing room?” Then
sweeping her long train after her she passed on.
The drawing room was a long apartment having an archway in the middle,
from which hung heavy velvet curtains, that however did not keep from
Vivienne’s ears and those of her guest, the impatient rustling of Mrs.
Colonibel’s gown as she fidgeted to and fro.
Vivienne was deeply annoyed, yet Mrs. Macartney’s face was so ludicrous
that she had difficulty in concealing a smile as she murmured: “Would
you feel more comfortable in another room?”
“Faith, no, me dear; sit it out. You’ve as good right to be here as she
has. Just hear her now; she isn’t mad, is she?” This last remark was in
a stage whisper, which, judging from subsequent jerkings and sweepings
to and fro, was perfectly audible to the occupant of the other part of
the room.
“No, no,” said Vivienne hurriedly; and she plunged into a series of
questions where Mrs. Macartney quite lost breath in trying to follow
her.
The girl congratulated herself upon the fact that the Irish woman was as
good natured as she was happy-go-lucky. An incident that would have sent
another woman flying from the house shortened her stay not at all. She
lingered on chatting enjoyably about Captain Macartney, who was engaged
in some military duties, and Patrick, who was heartbroken because he had
an appointment to keep which made it impossible for him to call upon
mademoiselle that day, throwing meanwhile curious glances at the curtain
which divided them from Mrs. Colonibel.
For nearly two hours Mrs. Colonibel had a succession of visitors. Their
voices were distinctly audible to the two people sitting in the front
part of the room, and they could plainly hear a great deal of the
cheerful afternoon gossip and the occasional tinkling of teacups.
About five o’clock, interesting as was her conversation with Vivienne,
Mrs. Macartney began to show signs of weariness. Her nostrils dilated
slowly as if she were inhaling the fragrance of her favorite Bohea, and
her countenance said plainly, “I smell hot cakes.”
“What shall I do?” thought Vivienne; “hospitality says, Get a cup of tea
for your guest. Prudence says, You had better not try, lest you fail.
However, I will; she shall have some if I make it myself,” and excusing
herself, she got up and quietly went out through the hall to the back
drawing room.
Mrs. Colonibel sat a little removed from the fire beside a tiny,
prettily equipped tea-table. Two ladies only, Vivienne was thankful to
see, were in the room—genuine Canadian women, looking rosy and
comfortable in their winter furs. Vivienne went up to the table and
stood in quiet gracefulness. “Mrs. Colonibel, will you give me a cup of
tea?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the lady, with alacrity; “won’t you have some cake
too?”
“Thank you,” murmured Vivienne, and with a quiet bow she proceeded
carefully through the hall.
“What a charming girl,” she heard one of the ladies exclaim; “is she
staying with you?”
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Colonibel; “she is a poor young girl whom Mr.
Armour has educated. She won’t be here long, I fancy. For various
reasons we are obliged to keep her in the background.”
Vivienne stopped for an instant. “For various reasons,” she repeated
angrily. Then with an effort she became calm and went on to be saluted
by Mrs. Macartney with the remark that she was a jewel.
Vivienne watched the Irish lady gratefully drinking her tea, then she
helped her on with her wraps and saw her depart.
Mrs. Colonibel had yet to have her brush with Vivienne, and the
opportunity came at the dinner table. She seized the moment when the
three men were engaged in a political discussion, and leaning over, said
in a low voice: “Who was that fat, vulgar looking woman that was calling
on you this afternoon?”
Vivienne held up her head and looked her well in the eyes. “Oh, you mean
the lady for whom I got the tea; Mrs. Macartney is her name.”
“Mrs. Macartney—where did you meet her?”
“In Paris.”
“She is Irish, I judge by her brogue.”
“Oh yes,” said Vivienne mischievously; “one would know by her tongue
that she is Irish, just as one would know by yours that you are
Canadian.”
Mrs. Colonibel cast down her eyes. Vivienne had noticed her affected
manner of speech, and realized that she shared in the ambition of many
of her women friends in Halifax who strove to catch the accent of the
English within their gates in order that they too might be taken for
English people rather than Canadians.
Presently she went on with a slight sneer. “Mrs. Macartney—an Irish
woman—no relation I suppose to Captain Macartney, of the Ninetieth, who
was stationed here five years ago?”
“She is his stepmother.”
“His stepmother!” and Mrs. Colonibel raised her voice to such a pitch
that Colonel Armour and his sons broke off their discussion, and Judy
exclaimed in peevish surprise, “What is the matter with you, mamma?”
Mrs. Colonibel paid no attention to any of them but Vivienne. “His
stepmother, did you say?” she repeated, fixing the girl with angry eyes.
“I did,” replied Vivienne calmly.
“Why did you not tell me so? how is it that you—You did it on purpose!”
Mrs. Colonibel was in a temper. Sitting at the head of her own table,
apparently at peace with herself and all mankind, she had flown into a
fit of wrath about something which no one in the least understood.
Vivienne disdained to reply to her.
Mrs. Colonibel half rose from the table, her face crimson, her whole
frame shaking. “Stanton,” she cried, “she”—pointing a trembling finger
at Vivienne—"has deliberately insulted me in your house; I will not
endure it," and bursting into a flood of tears she hurried from the
room.
An extremely awkward silence followed Mrs. Colonibel’s departure, which
was broken at last by a laugh from Judy.
“Don’t be shocked, Miss Delavigne,” she said; “mamma has been known to
do that before. She is tired I think. What is the trouble, anyway?
Fortunately the servants have left the room. Pass me the nuts, Val.”
Vivienne’s black eyes were resting on her plate, and she did not speak
until she found that every one at the table was waiting for her answer.
“Mrs. Macartney called on me to-day,” she said, addressing Mr. Armour.
“I sat with her in the front drawing room. Mrs. Colonibel passed us, but
so quickly that I did not introduce her. Later on she gave me a cup of
tea for Mrs. Macartney. That is all,” and Vivienne half shrugged her
shoulders and closed her lips.
“Macartney, did you say?” exclaimed Mr. Valentine. “Not Geoffrey
Macartney’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What a joke!” said the young man. “Macartney used to be a frequent
visitor here. Indeed, he once spent two months with us when he broke his
leg while tobogganing down our slide with Mrs. Colonibel. She was a
great friend of his in those days—a great friend. Naturally she would
have liked to meet his mother. Did not Mrs. Macartney mention all this
to you?”
“She does not know it,” said Vivienne; “of that I am sure. Captain
Macartney is a reticent man. By the way,” she went on vivaciously, “you
saw Captain Macartney on the steamer last evening, Mr. Armour; why did
you not tell Mrs. Colonibel that his mother had chaperoned me?”
Mr. Valentine burst into low, rippling, and intensely amused laughter.
“Ha, ha! old man, there is one for you. We shall see that you are the
one to be blamed.”
“I never thought of it,” said Mr. Armour heavily, and with the ghost of
a smile.
“You might have told us,” went on Mr. Valentine complainingly. “You know
we all liked Macartney. I thought he was in India. Poor Flora! It’s a
lucky thing for you, Miss Delavigne, that you kept that bit of
information till she got out of the room. What is he doing here?”
“He has exchanged into another regiment,” said Vivienne. “His young
brother is with him too.”
“Indeed, we must call; and now cannot we leave the table? I want to go
to town.”