“Good-night, Camperdown,” said Armour; “I’m going in.”
“So am I,” said Dr. Camperdown agreeably, “as far as the pantry. I’m ravenous, Stanton. Stargarde offered me no supper this evening. Pity a poor, starving man.”
“Come in,” said Armour shortly, unlocking the door and ushering his guests into the hall, which was dimly lighted. “Now, Camperdown, don’t make a noise, or you’ll have Flora down upon us.”
“That isn’t the way to the pantry, man,” said Camperdown, pushing him aside. “That’s the china closet. It’s too hot there to keep food. Here, follow me,” and taking a box of matches from his pocket he led the small party—for he insisted upon bringing Stargarde and Vivienne along—into a room whose shelves were lined with a goodly supply of tempting meats and dainties.
“Cold goose and apple sauce!” he ejaculated, setting aside a large dish. “You mustn’t touch that, ladies, nor you, Stanton. ’Twill give you indigestion. Mayonnaise of celery—I’ll have some of that with it. Here is some jelly for you, Miss Delavigne—lemon, I think, and custard, and cake. Stargarde, you may have those mashed chestnuts. Stanton, you’d better try a soda biscuit. Now ‘fall to,’ as old Hannah says, and don’t make a noise.”
Vivienne was not in a humor for frolicking, and excusing herself went upstairs, her hands full of pieces of sponge cake that Dr. Camperdown had bidden her take with her. When she reached the staircase leading to the upper flat, she found that Mammy Juniper was, as Judy graphically expressed it, “on a prowl,” and had started it by one of her favorite occupations, laying a curse on Vivienne.
The old woman’s face was terribly distorted, and she had pushed her white nightcap far on the back of her grizzled wool. Her candlestick she held in her hand, waving it back and forth across Vivienne’s door panels as if she were making mystic signs.
Vivienne listened for a few instants to the anathemas called down upon her innocent head, which this evening seemed to take the form of bodily afflictions. “Make her like Job, Lord,” the old woman was praying; “give her boils and no potsherd to scrape them. Cover her with sores. Let her be racked with pain——”
Such expressions were not pleasant to listen to, and too weary and disheartened this evening to disturb the old woman, who was apt to become belligerent if interrupted in her ravings, Vivienne retreated noiselessly to the hall below. There she sat down on the top step of the staircase and watched for Stargarde to come from the pantry.
In a few minutes Camperdown, chuckling amiably to himself, came through the lower hall and passed out of the house. Some time elapsed before the other two appeared. Then they came sauntering along together, Stargarde with her hand on Mr. Armour’s shoulder, and looking fondly into his eyes. When they reached the middle of the hall, she drew his head to her and kissed his forehead repeatedly: “Good-night, my dear boy. May all good angels guard your sleep.”