THE MISERY OF THE WORLD
The house was only pleasantly filled, and there was no crush anywhere.
Shaking hands and bowing to many people on his way, Armour passed
through the drawing rooms, the library, and the dining room, where on a
long table, pots of delicate maiden hair and slender ferns nodded over
dishes of dainty china and glassware heaped high with sweetmeats and
every dainty viand possible to procure for the elaborate _menu_ of a
ball supper.
The wide hall where the dancing was going on was, in spite of the season
of the year, like a bower in its profusion of growing plants and cut
flowers, whose heavy rich odors were as incense to the nostrils of his
cousin—a woman of tropical tastes.
Everybody seemed to be stirring about. There were no dull groups along
the walls and the ripple of conversation and laughter was a constant
one; and no one was in need of special entertainment he was happy to
observe. This was the result of Mrs. Colonibel’s invariable custom of
doubling the number of her young lady guests by members of the opposite
sex, the usual proclivity of men to look on at a dance rather than to
engage in it, being well known to her. So Armour was free to enjoy
himself in his own way, and feeling no responsibility for the present as
a host he joined a knot of people who were watching the dancers from a
doorway.
The musicians were playing sweetly and with no lapses into braying
discordancy a new waltz, “_Vive la Canada_.” The whole house was flooded
with their strains, so strong and soul-stirring, yet so well-modulated
that those in the near library were not disturbed by them.
Patriotism it was probably that made the blood stir so strangely in
Armour’s veins, and his face flush so dark a crimson. His eyes were
fixed on Vivienne, who was dancing with the tallest man in the garrison,
an officer of the Royal Engineers. Armour noticed that they made
frequent pauses, and speculated a little about it, whether it was owing
to the awkwardness of her partner, or to her own inclination not to keep
on her feet during the entire progress of a round dance. Of the amount
of attention that she was attracting she appeared to be quite
unconscious, but that she was quite well aware of it, he was fully
persuaded.
“Accept my felicitations on the subject of your ward,” said a roguish
voice in his ear; “your _re_ward perhaps I should call her, considering
the satisfactory termination of your cares on her behalf.”
Armour put out a hand to one of Valentine’s merry friends, who was a
frequent visitor at Pinewood. “She’s fairer than the moon in all her
glory—that’s from the Bible isn’t it?” pursued the young man; “or
perhaps one shouldn’t use the word fair in connection with one so dark.
Royal touch-me-not style, but fascinating. Hey nonny! wish I had a
million and was good enough shot to wing Macartney. _Au revoir_, I’m
engaged for the next polka—must look up my partner.”
The waltz had ceased and a group of men surrounded the place where
Vivienne stood, her white velvet gown gleaming like a snowdrop against
the crimson curtain behind her. She seemed to be listening rather than
talking and Armour was struck as Camperdown had been by her slight
ceremonious air of reserve and by the absence of any girlish eagerness
of delight in this her first ball.
He, a man that had fallen into the habit of taking no pleasure in
anything, felt like a boy tonight, and suppressing a smile he turned
away and sought Mrs. Colonibel to hear any instructions that she might
have to give him.
An hour later, while he was having a quiet stroll along the verandas,
carefully avoiding the conservatory, where a few stray couples were
wandering among the flowers, he came suddenly upon two people who stood
in a recess. He turned quickly on his heel, but not before he had
noticed the drooping, regretful attitude of Vivienne’s shoulders and the
earnest pose of Captain Macartney’s figure. Angrily clasping his hands
behind his back, and muttering an uncomplimentary remark regarding men
who persecute young girls scarcely out of the schoolroom with a
declaration of love, he stepped back into the drawing room.
He had scarcely arrived there before a hand was laid on his shoulder.
“Go to Miss Delavigne, will you, Armour?” said Captain Macartney, his
face a shade paler than usual. “I think she would like some tea, or an
ice.”
With considerable alacrity Mr. Armour obeyed him. He found Vivienne
sitting down, her face extremely flushed.
“It is warm here,” he said, cutting a slit in the bunting with his
knife. “I do not wonder that you are overcome; I will bring you some
tea.”
“I fear that our experiment is not a success,” he said a short time
later, as he stood watching her drink the tea.
“Do you refer to this ball?” said Vivienne, lifting her eyebrows.
"Yes; I encouraged Flora in it, for I thought it would be a pleasure to
you.
“I can think of nothing but my hackneyed expression of your kindness and
my gratitude.”
“And that I do not believe; you talk of gratitude, yet your actions
belie your words.”
“I think that I have outlived balls,” she said a little wearily; “and
you—you do not care for them.”
“No,” he returned; “but you are younger than I am.”
“Judy and I saw a poor creature to-day when we were with Stargarde. She
had been starved to death; it was horrible. If a few of these gowns here
to-night were sold they would keep some needy people in food for a year.
And the wines that are drunk—they do us no good, and often much harm.”
“Would it please you to hear me say that I shall never have wine offered
in a mixed assembly again?”
“It would, Mr. Armour.”
“Then I say it; and now is that shadow to lift from your face?”
It did not, and Vivienne rose and said in some embarrassment: “Shall we
not go to Mrs. Colonibel? I have not seen her for some time.”
“Tell me first why you are so ill at ease with me,” he said with some
doggedness. “You know that I am anxious to atone for my past sins of
neglect toward you, yet you give me no chance. You are restless, and I
know your one thought is to get away from here.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Mr. Armour, it is useless for us to try to agree. We
are like fire and steel. I resolve and resolve that with you, who admire
meekness so much in a woman, that I will be a very Griselda; yet I
cannot.”
“I seem to rouse all the opposition in you,” he said; “why is it?”
“I would rather not tell you.”
“I am tired of this constant, ‘I would rather not tell you,’” he uttered
in undisguised impatience. “You speak the truth with more offense than
most women tell a falsehood.”
She played with her fan without speaking to him.
“Stargarde tells me that you wished to have some conversation with me
about your parents,” he continued; “yet, in your willfulness, you will
not mention them to me.”
There was something in this new accusation that touched Vivienne’s sense
of humor, which was always present with her. He saw her roguish smile
and resented it. Scarcely knowing what he did he seized the little
white-gloved hand in his: “We are alone for the first time for days. Ask
me now what questions you will, and promise me that you will treat me
with more friendliness for the rest of your brief stay here.”
“Ask you—promise you,” she said slowly, and with as much composure as
though her hands were free. “Mr. Armour, we cannot be friends because
according to you we are not equals.”
“Not equals!” he repeated. “What absurdity is this?”
“Some women will lie to their—to their acquaintances,” she went on. “I
will not; and I say that to a man of your indomitable pride, a child
that he has bought and paid for, as it were, and that has grown into a
womanhood that may occasionally divert him, is not for an instant to be
considered on an equality with him—that is, in his estimation. It is a
toy, a puppet, with which he may occasionally amuse himself, then throw
it aside.”
A variety of expressions chased themselves over his face while she was
speaking. When she finished he dropped her hands with a smile: “I am
right; I thought that your irrepressible and suspicious pride—with which
mine cannot be compared—was at the bottom of this; but I will subdue it.
Vivienne——”
“Is not this rather a serious and gladiatorial kind of conversation for
a ball,” she interrupted, “a place where one should utter only small
talk?”
He leaned against the wall, and stroking his mustache in a hasty and
disturbed manner muttered: “You are only a girl, yet you have yourself
under better control than most women. Would nothing break you down?”
At that moment the conversation of some ladies standing by a raised,
curtained window, opening on the veranda, became clearly audible.
“She’s not proud, neither is she consaited,” they heard in a strident
undertone; “I can vouch for that.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear Mrs. Macartney, I did not mean to hint at such a
thing,” interposed the low, cutting voice of a lady well-known to Mr.
Armour; “I merely said that a little less haughtiness, a little more
humility of deportment, would be befitting to such a very young person
who has so broad a bar sinister across her escutcheon.”
“Her father was a thief, you know,” chimed in a third hard, vulgar
little voice; “a low, miserable thief, who stole money just as meanly as
a person taking it out of a till. I don’t believe in smoothing over big
offenses and coming down so hard on little ones. The Armours are very
good to want to introduce her into society; but I think a girl like that
ought to be left in seclusion. I pity Mrs. Colonibel.”
“And it’s me own daughter-in-law I’d like to see her,” said Mrs.
Macartney boisterously.
There was a rustling of silk, two swift “Ohs” of ejaculation, two
attempted apologies, and then a subdued snorting which told them that
the Irishwoman had left her opponents in possession of the field.
Vivienne sank back on her chair, and Armour turned away to hide the
anger of his face. She thought that he was about to interfere, and
touched him on the sleeve with a murmured, “They are your guests.”
He shook his head impatiently just as the cutting voice went on, “How
exceedingly brusque that Irishwoman is; I cannot bear to have her near
me.”
“She fancied that she was exploding an important family secret,” said
the vulgar little voice, “when all the world knows that the French
demoiselle has jilted her stepson.”
“Indeed?” eagerly. “I have not heard that.”
“I am surprised that you have not. She is said to be setting her cap for
Mr. Armour. He is richer than Captain Macartney, you know. French girls
are artful.”
Armour made a step forward, but Vivienne laid a hand on his arm. “There
is some one coming,” she said, and putting up her fan to partly conceal
the terrible pallor of her face, and seeing that he was unable to speak
she said in a clear voice, “Did you fancy, Mr. Armour, that this is my
first ball? I have been at one other in Orléans _chez les_ Dalesworthys.
Mrs. Dalesworthy permitted her daughters to put on white gowns and sit
behind a screen of flowers for ten minutes only to observe the dancing.
I accompanied them, and being anxious to see one of the English princes
who was passing through Orléans and had honored the Dalesworthys by
being present, I stepped aside from the screen and looked steadfastly at
him, being, as I thought, unperceived. To my wonder I saw Mrs.
Dalesworthy approaching, accompanied by an equerry, who informed me that
it was the wish of the prince to dance with me. They were both smiling,
and as you may imagine I was exceedingly embarrassed. ‘Do not speak
until you are addressed,’ Mrs. Dalesworthy whispered; the prince bowed
and offered his arm, murmuring, ‘Mademoiselle has not been dancing.’ I
told him about our being behind the screen, and he seemed greatly
amused, and later on requested to have Mrs. Dalesworthy’s daughters
presented to him. I speak French, as you know, with an English accent,
and the prince perceiving it, and finding that I came from Nova Scotia,
said a few words about our ‘loyal Canada’ that you may be sure
excessively gratified——”
The passers-by were gone, and her voice broke, “That is what I
suspected—dreaded,” she said bitterly; “and it is the last humiliation
to which I shall be subjected in this unhappy house. Let me go,” to
Armour, who had put his arm about her, “I do not wish to hear you
speak.”
“Unhappy child,” he said in a low voice, “go then, if you will, and I
will come to you as soon as I can.”
Vivienne went swiftly upstairs, till she stopped in the prettily
furnished hall outside her rooms, and put her hand confusedly to her
forehead. Stargarde lay on a broad divan, her face as white as death,
her features contracted in horrible suffering, while Judy, who was the
only person with her, hung over the railing intent on the scene below.
“Judy,” cried Vivienne, springing to Stargarde’s side, “what is this?”
“Oh, what a wretch I am!” exclaimed Judy. “Stargarde, dear Stargarde,
won’t you speak to me? Come, wake up, or I shall go for Brian.”
“What is it? What is wrong with her?” exclaimed Vivienne.
“The usual thing, one of her attacks. Try to rouse her and I’ll get
Brian,” and slipping rapidly downstairs by means of a hand placed on the
railing, Judy disappeared.
“Stargarde, my darling,” murmured Vivienne, caressing her tortured face,
“look at me.”
One glance of intense affection she received from Stargarde’s deep blue
eyes, then the distorted features composed themselves, and the sufferer
seemed to sink into a disturbed sleep.
So quickly that Vivienne wondered how he could have gotten there,
Camperdown gently thrust her aside, and knelt down by the divan.
“Stargarde,” he said slightly shaking her, “Stargarde,” then bitterly,
“Too late; she has gone off.”
“Come in here,” whispered Judy, drawing Vivienne into her room. “Brian
is furious with me; he was afraid that one of these things was coming
on, and when Val came for him to go downstairs, he told me to talk
steadily to Stargarde and not let her fall into one of them; the great
thing is to keep her attention.”
“What is it? Oh, what is it she has?” and Vivienne clasped her hands in
distress.
“I call it ‘the misery of the world,’” said Judy, dropping her voice. “A
few years ago Stargarde was in New York, visiting some philanthropic
people. One evening they were going to make a round of the slums. They
put on old clothes and took some policemen, and Stargarde went with
them. They got into wicked places where men and women of all nations
were; I don’t know what they saw, but there were some dreadful things,
and ever since then, when Stargarde gets run down and has nothing to
take her mind off it, she’ll sit down somewhere, and all the badness
that is going on in the world comes up before her like a panorama; she
thinks about the men and women in China and Japan and India, and the
poor wretches in London and New York, and it almost makes her crazy.
I’ve seen her throwing herself about just like an actress on a stage,
only with poor Stargarde it is real. You know how big she is; her limbs
get convulsed and her face looks like the Laocoön’s, and she is so
beautiful; wherever she is and one of these seizures comes on, some one
sends for Brian. I’ve seen him sitting by her with the perspiration
dropping off his face. It gives him an awful fright, for he says she
might die in one of them; he’s afraid of her heart. Sometimes blood
comes on her face,” added Judy in an awestruck whisper.
Vivienne was unable to speak.
“This is not a bad one,” said Judy gazing consolingly into her
terror-stricken face. “She’s in a kind of trance; I don’t think Brian
will even have to give her morphine—wait till I see,” and she tip-toed
to the door. “She’s lying quite still,” she reported, coming back; “only
moaning occasionally. Vivienne dear, I am going to bed. I don’t dare to
face Brian again; he looks so annoyed.”
When Mr. Armour mounted to the topmost hall in search of Vivienne, his
eye fell on Stargarde lying in unconsciousness on the divan.
“What does this mean?” he asked of Mammy Juniper who sat by her.
“Again the Lord has laid his hand on her,” said the old woman solemnly.
Mr. Armour seated himself beside his half-sister, and affectionately
drew the rug more closely about her. “Where is Camperdown?” he inquired.
“He’s gone to get some supper for Miss Judy,” and Mammy looked toward
the closed doors of Vivienne’s rooms.
She rarely mentioned Vivienne’s name, but Mr. Armour knew by her
expression that the two girls were together.
“Tear her out of your heart, my son,” said Mammy Juniper in a sudden
vehement whisper. “’Tis not the Lord’s will.”
A terrible gloom and depression overspread the face that he held in his
hands as he leaned forward supporting his elbows on his knees.
“Mammy’s boy,” said the old woman affectionately fondling his head. “If
thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.”
“Oh this agony of indecision!” he muttered, looking about him as if for
help; “if I only knew what is right——”
“Trust Mammy,” said the colored woman persuasively. “She has asked the
Lord about it.”
“Hush, old woman!” interposed Camperdown coming up the steps behind her
bearing a tray aloft. “Give your counsels of vengeance to the winds, and
don’t stir up this family to any more wickedness. Try to soften their
hearts, not harden them. And don’t be so sure that you are a messenger
of the Lord. I think the devil sometimes tampers with your messages.
Stanton, Miss Delavigne is in trouble about Stargarde——”
Armour immediately got up—a resolved look upon his face.
“Here, take this with you,” said Dr. Camperdown handing him the tray.
“Persuade Vivienne to go downstairs. Mammy Juniper and I will look after
Stargarde.”
Dr. Camperdown looked severely at Mammy Juniper after Armour had entered
the room. “Don’t you see that every drop of blood in his body is crying
out for that girl? You might as well try to stop Niagara with one of
your fingers as to check him now. Let him alone and all will be well.
Your rôle now should be that of peacemaker, and you’ll find your hands
full with Valentine.”
The old woman groaned, shook her head, and with an appearance of the
greatest dejection sat swinging herself to and fro.