THE GHOST FLOWER
“Me no diggum up,” said Joe decidedly. He stood knee deep in pale green
ferns growing among heavy shadows formed by the interlaced branches of
trees overhead, his eyes fixed on a group of etherially white flowers
springing up from the richest of leaf mould on a mossy bank at a little
distance from him.
Vivienne knelt by the wax-like cluster of flower interrogation points in
speechless delight, while Armour stood above her saying in quiet
amusement, “Why don’t you dig it up, Joe?”
“Callum ghos’ flower,” said Joe doggedly; “spirits angry when touchum.
Come ’way, Miss Debbiline.”
His voice was really concerned, but Vivienne looked at him with a gay
laugh and continued to touch with caressing finger tips the beautiful,
unearthly flower, which was furnished with colorless bracts in place of
green leaves.
“If I were to wear a few of these to the ‘drawing room’ my decoration
would be unique, would it not?” she said to Armour.
“Decidedly unique,” he said. “Have you ever heard any poetry about this
curious flower?”
“No, never.”
“Then let me repeat to you some exquisite lines by a Canadian poet,
impressed by observing that the stalks and blossoms form interrogation
points. Remember that this determines the cast of the sonnet,” and he
recited with great taste:
“Like Israel’s seer I come from out the earth,
Confronting with the question air and sky,
_Why dost thou bring me up?_ White ghost am I
Of that which was God’s beauty at its birth.
In eld the sun kissed me to ruby red,
I held my chalice up to heaven’s full view,
The August stars dropped down their golden dew,
The skyey balms exhaled about my bed.
Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light;
The deadly shadows, not the bending blue,
Spoke to my trancëd heart, made false seem true,
And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night.
_O Painter of the flowers, O God, most sweet,
Dost say my spirit for the light is meet?_”
“Alas, the poor flower!” said Vivienne. “Like some mortals it loved the
darkness rather than the light. And yet how touching the final
question.”
“Yes,” said Armour quietly, “a regret has been born even among ‘the
deadly shadows.’”
“Will you not repeat to me some more of those things that you repeat so
well?” asked Vivienne demurely.
Bareheaded and standing with his back against a tree, Armour murmured to
her the praises of another fairy glen in far-distant Wales, a place
peopled with shy winds,
“Whose fitful plumes waft dewy balm
From all the wildwood, and let fall
An incommunicable calm.”
Then dropping on his knees on the ground he said, “Give me your clasp
knife, Joe.”
“Me no give you big knife,” said the superstitious Christmas; “me ’fraid
for Miss Debbiline. Spirits killum if touch ghos’ flower,” and he
retreated farther among the ferns.
Armour laughed as he bent his light head over the flower that he was
about to wrest from its home among the “sweet wood’s golden glooms.”
“Do you think it will grow if we plant it in the greenhouse?” asked
Vivienne, as she watched her lover carefully insinuating a sharp-pointed
stone among the decayed leaves of many seasons.
“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.