“You have beautiful eyes,” said Vivienne, touching Judy’s cheek softly with her fingers.
“Don’t you pity me,” said Judy threateningly. “Don’t you pity me or I shall cry,” and slipping on her knees beside Vivienne she burst into tears.
CHAPTER VI
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