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APPLETON AND COMPANY. I . / / I 1 i' CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.- -His Great Mistake, . I II.- -A Difficult Situation, . 19 III.- -Out of the North, , . . 41 IV.- -In the Name of the Family, . 48 V.- -An Awkward Half-Hour, . 62 VI.- -The Passing of the Years, . 106 VII.- -A Court-Martial, . 138 VIII.- -To Every Man His Hour, . 152 TX.- -The Faith of Comrades, . . 174 1:1 / f; 1 r •# ^ i Z\x Zvmwlation of a Savacjc CHAPTER I. HIS GREAT MISTAKE. r # \T appeared that Armour had made the great mistake of his life. When people came to know, they said that to have done it when sober had shown him pos- sessed of a kind of maliciousness and cyni- cism almost pardonable, but to do it when tipsy proved him merely weak and foolish. But the fact is, he was less tipsy at the time than was imagined; and he could have answered to more malice and cynicism than was credited to him. To those who know the world it is not singular that, of the two. Armour was thought to have made the mistake and had the misfortune, or that people wasted their pity and their 2 ^bc (Translation of a Savaoc. scorn upon him alone. Apparently they did not see that the woman was to be pitied. He had married her; and she was only an Indian girl from Fort Charles of the Hudson's Bay Company, with a little honest white blood in her veins. Nobody, not even her own people, felt that she had anything at stake, or was in danger of im- happiness, or was other than a person who had ludicrously come to bear the name of Mrs. Francis Armour. If anyone had said in justification that she loved the man, the answer would have been that plenty of Indian women had loved white men, but had not married them, and j^et the population of half-breeds went on in- creasing. Frank Armour had been a popular man in London. His club might be found in the vicinit3^of Pall Mall, his father's name was high and honoured in the Army List, one of his brothers had served with Wolse- ley in Africa, and himself, having no pro- fession, but with a taste for business and investment, had gone to Canada with some such intention as Lord vSelkirk's in the early part of the century. He owned large 1i I fjla Orcat /Ristahc. 8 shares in the Hudson's Ray Company, and when he travelled throiij^h the North- West country, prospecting^, he was re- ceived most hospitably. Of an inquirinp^ and gregarious nature he went as much among the half-breeds — or metis, as they are called — and Indians as among t'le officers of the Hudson's Bay Company and the white settlers. He had ever been credited with having a philosophical turn of mind; and this was accompanied by a certain strain of impulsiveness or daring. He had been accustomed all his life to make up his mind quickly, and, because he was well enough off to bear the conse- quences of momentary rashness in com- mercial investments, he was not counted among the transgressors. He had his own fortune ; he was not drawing upon a common purse. It was a different matter when he trafficked rashly in the family name, so far as to marry the daughter of Eye-of-the-Moon, the Indian chief. He was tolerably happy when he went to the Hudson's Bay country; for Miss Julia Sherwood was his promised wife, and she, if poor, was notably beautiful A 4 tTbc ZTranalation of a Sav»a(;c. and of ^^ood family. Ilis people had not looked (luite kindly on this en^i^agcmcnt ; they had, indeed, tried in many ways to prevent it; partly because of Miss Sher- wood's poverty, and also because they knew that Lady Agnes Martling had long cared for him, and was m(jst happily en- dowed with wealth and good looks also. When he left for Canada they were in- wardly glad (they imagined that some- thing might occur to end the engagement) — all except Richard, the wiseacre of the family, the book-man, the drone, who pre- ferred living at Greyhope, their Hertford- shire home, the year through, to spending half the time in Cavendish Square. Richard was very fond of Frank, admiring him immensely for his buxom strength and cleverness, and not a little, too, for that very rashness which had brought him such havoc at last. Richard was not, as Frank used to say, "perfectly sound on his pins," — that is, he was slightly lame, — but he was right at heart. He was an immense reader, but made little use of what he read. He had an abundant humour, and remembered in 1)ik3 Great Ai^tahc. every ancccloLe he ever heard. He was kind to the poor, walked much, talked to himself as he walked, and was known by the humble sort as " a 'centric. " But he had a wise head, and he foresaw danger to Frank's happiness when he went away. Whilst others had gossippcd and manreu- vred and were busily idle, he had watched things. He saw that Frank was dear to Julia in proportion to the distance between her and young Lord Ilaldwell, whose father had done something remarkable in guns or torpedoes and was rewarded with a lordship and an uncommonly large fortune. He also saw that, after Frank left, the distance between Lord Haldwell and Julia became distinctly less — they were both staying at Greyhope. Julia Sherwood was a remarkably clever girl. Though he felt it his duty to speak to her for his brother, — a difficult and delicate matter, — he thought it would come better from his mother. But when he took action it was too late. Miss Sherwood naively declared that she had not known her own heart, and that she did not care for Frank any more. She ^ 6 Zbc ITranelation of a Savage. wept a little, and was soothed by motherly Mrs. Armour, who was inwardly glad, though she knew the matter would cause Frank pain ; and even General Armour could not help showing slight satisfaction, though he was innocent of any deliberate action to separate the two. Straightway Miss Sherwood dispatched a letter to the wilds of Canada, and for a week was an unengaged young person. But she was no doubt consoled by the fact that for some time past she had had complete control of Lord Haldwell's emotions. At the end of the week her perceptions were justified by Lord Haldwell's proposal; which, with admirable tact and obvious demureness, was accepted. Now, Frank Armour was wandering much in the wilds, so that his letters and papers went careering about after him, and some that came first were last to reach him. That was how he received a news- paper announcing the marriage of Lord Haldvvell and Julia Sherwood at the same time that her letter, written in estimable English and with admirable feeling, came, begging for a release from their engage- I I fbis (3rcat ^l6tahc. ment, and, towards its close, assuming, with a charming regret, that all was over and that the last word had been said be- tween them. Armour was sitting in the trader's room at Fort Charles when the carrier came with the mails. He had had some successful days hunting buffalo with Eye-of-the- Moon and a little band of metis, had had a long pow-u'07Z' in Eye-of -the- Moon's lodge, had chatted gaily with Lali the daughter, and was now prepared to enjoy heartily the arrears of correspondence and news before him. He ran his hand through the letters and papers, intending to classify them immediately, according to such hand- writing as he recognised and the dates on the envelopes. But, as he did so, he saw a newspaper from which the wrapper was partly torn. He also saw a note in the margin directing him to a certain page. The note was in Richard's handwriting. He opened the paper at the page indicated, and saw the account of the marriage ! His teeth clinched on his cigar, his face turned white, the paper fell from his fingers. He gasped, his hands spread out nervously, 8 Zbc Zlranelation of a Savage. then caught the table and held it as though to steady himself. The trader rose. " You are ill," he said. *' Have you bad news.'" He glanced towards the paper. Slowly Armour folded the paper up, and then rose unsteadily. "Gordon," he said, *' give me a glass of brandy." He turned towards the cupboard in the room. The trader opened it, took out a bottle, and put it on the table beside Ar- mour, together with a glass and some water. Armour poured out a stiff draught, added a very little water, and drank it. He drew a great sigh, and stood looking at the paper. " Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Armour?" urged the trader. *' Nothing, thank you, nothing at all. Just leave the brandy here, will you? I feel knocked about, and I have to go through the rest of these letters. " He ran his fingers through the pile turning it over hastily, as if searching foi something. The trader understood. He was a cool-headed Scotsman; he knew that there were some things best not in t)i0 Great /IBistafte. 9 quired into, and that men must have their bad hours alone. He glanced at the brandy debatingly, but presently turned and left the room in silence. In his own mind, however, he wished he might have taken the brandy without being discour- teous. Armour had discovered Miss Sher- wood's letter. Before he opened it he took a little more brandy. Then he sat down and read it deliberately. The liquor had steadied him. The fingers of one hand even drummed on the table. But the face was drawn, the eyes were hard, and the look of him was altogether pinched. After he had finished this, he looked for others from the same hand. He found none. Then he picked out those from bis mother and father. He read them grimly. Once he paused as he read his mother's letter, and took a gulp of plain brandy. There was something very like a sneer on his face w^hen he finished reading. He read the hollowness of the sympathy extended to him; he understood the far from adroit references to Lady Agnes Martling. He was very bitter. He opened no more letters, but took up the Morjiing i 10 Zbe translation of a Savage, Post again, and read it slowly through. The look of his face was not pleasant. There was a small looking-glass opposite him. He caught sight of himself in it. He drew his hand across his eyes and fore- head, as though he was in a miserable dream. He looked again: he could not recognise himself. He then bundled the letters and papers into his dispatch-box. His attention was drawn to one letter. He picked it up. It was from Richard. He started to break the seal, but paused. The strain of the event was too much. He winced. He determined not to read it then; to wait imtil he had recovered himself. He laughed now painfully. It had been bet- ter for him — it had, maybe, averted what people were used to term his tragedy — had he read his brother's letter at that moment. For Richard Armour was a sensible man, notwithstanding his pecu- liarities; and perhaps the most sensible words he ever wrote were in that letter thrust unceremoniously into Frank Ar- mour's pocket. Armour had received a terrible blow. I '% ■■)?/ 1bi6 Great /IRiatahc. 11 t He read his life backwards. He had no future. The liquor he had drunk had not fevered him, it had not wildly excited him; it merely drew him up to a point where he could put a sudden impulse into practice without flinching. He was bit- ter against his people; he credited them with more interference than was actual. He felt that happiness had gone out of his life and left him hopeless. As we said, ho was a man of quick decisions. He would have made a dashing but reckless soldier; he was not without the elements of the gamester. It is possible that there was in him also a strain of cruelty, un- developed but radical. Life so far had evolved the best in him; he had been cheery and candid. Now he travelled back into new avenues of his mind and found strange aboriginal passions, fully adapted to the present situation. Vulgar anger and reproaches were not after his nature. He suddenly found sources of re- fined but desperate retaliation. He drew upon them. He would do something to humiliate his people and the girl who had spoiled his life. Some one thing! It i 12 Zbc ^ran0lat(on of a Savage. would be absolute and lasting, it would show how low had fallen his opinion of women, of whom Julia Sherwood had once been chiefest to him. In that he would show his scorn of her. He would bring down the pride of his family, who, he be- lieved, had helped, out of mere selfishness, to tumble his happiness into the sliambles. He was older by years than an hour ago. But he was not without the faculty of humour. That was why he did not be- come very excited; it was also why he determined upon a comedy which should have all the elements of tragedy. Perhaps, however, he would have hesitated to carry his purposes to immediate conclusions, were it not that the very gods seemed to play his game with him. For, whilst he stood there, looking out into the yard of the fort, a Protestant missionary passed the window. The Protestant missionary, as he is found at such places as Fort Charles, is not a strictly superior person. A Jesuit might have been of advantage to Frank Armour at that moment. The Protestant missionary is not above comfortable assur- ances of gold. So that when Armour :li 1)10 (Breat jflRistaJie. 18 summoned this one in, and told him what was required of him, and slipped a gener- ous gift of the queen's coin into his hand, he smiled vaguely and was willing to do what he was bidden. Had he been a Jesuit, who is sworn to poverty, and more often than not a man of birth and educa- tion, he might have influenced Frank Armour and prevented the notable mis- hap and scandal. As it was, Armour took mote brandy. Then he went down to Eye-of-the-Moon's lodge. A few hours afterwards the mis- sionary met him there. The next morn- ing Lali, the daughter of Eye-of-the- Moon, and the chieftainess of a portion of her father's tribe, whose grandfath'^r had been a white man, was introduced to the Hudson's Bay country as Mrs. Frank Ar- mour. But that was not all. Indeed, as it stood, it was very little. He had only made his comedy possible as yet ; now the play itself was to come. He had carried his scheme through boldly so far. He would not flinch in carrying it out to the last letter. He brought his wife down to the Great Lakes immediately, scarcely 2 m m •1! 1 ■■-, 1 I 14 tTbc tTranelation of a Savage. resting night or day. There he engaged an ordinary but reliable woman, to whom he gave instructions, and sent the pair to the coast. He instructed his solicitor at Montreal to procure passages for Mrs. Francis Armour and maid for Liverpool. Then, by letters, he instructed his solicitor in London to meet Mrs. Francis Armour and maid at Liverpool and take them to Greyhope in Hertfordshire, — that is, if General Armour and Mrs. Armour, or some representative of the family, did not meet them when they landed from the steamship. Presently he sat down and wrote to his father and mother, and asked them to meet his wife and her maid when they arrived by the steamer Aphrodite. He did not explain to them in precise detail his feelings on Miss Julia Sherwood's marriage, nor did he go into full ptirticu- lars as to the personality of Mrs. Frank Armour; but he did say that, because he knew they were anxious that he should marry "acceptably," he had married into the aristocracy, the oldest aristocracy, of America; and because he also knew they l3ld (3rcat /Ibidtahe. 15 wished him to murry wealth, he sent them a wife rich in virtues — native, unspoiled virtues. He hoped that they would take her to their hearts and cherish her. He knew their firm principles of honour, and that he could trust them to be kind to his wife until he returned to snare the affec- tion which he was sure would be given to her. It was not his intention to return to England for some time yet. He had work to do in connection with his proposed colony ; and a wife — even a native wife — could not \\el\ be a companion in the cir- cumstances. Besides, Lali — his wife's name was Lali ! — would be better occupied in learning the peculiarities of the life in which her future would be cast. It was possible they would find her an apt pupil. Of this they could not complain, that she was untravelled; for she had ridden a horse, bareback, half across the continent. They could not cavil at her education, for she knew several languages — aboriginal languages — of the North. She had merely to learn the dialect of English society, and how to carry with acceptable form the cos- tumes of the race to which she was going. hv !f !!' i^^ Md 16 ZTbe ^translation of a Savaoc. Her own costume was picturesque, but it mi^i^ht appcjir unusual in London society. Still, tliey could use their own judgment about that. Then, when she was gone beyond re- call, he chanced one day to put on the coat he wore when the letters and paper declaring his misfortune came to him.. He found his brother's letter; he opened it and read it. It was the letter of a man who knew how to appreciate at their proper value the misfortunes, as the for- tunes, of life. While Frank Armour read he came to feel for the first time that his brother Richard had suffered, maybe, from some such misery as had come to him through Julia Sherwood. It was a dispassionate, manly letter, relieved by a gentle wit, and hinting with careful kind- ness that a sudden blow was better for a man than a life-Ion ^ thorn in his side. Of Julia Sherwood he had nothing particu- larly bitter to say. He delicately sug- gested that she acted according to her nature, and that in the seesaw of life Frank had had a sore blow; but this was to be borne. The letter did not say too much ; •fcitj Great fliiatafte. 17 it did not ma^i^nify the difficulty, it did not depreciate it. It did not even directly counsel; it was wholesomely, tenderly judicial. Indirectly it dwelt upon the jjteadiness and manliness of Frank's char- acter; directly, lightly, and without rhet- oric, it enlarged upon their own comrade- ship. It ran over pleasantly the days of their boyhood when they were hardly ever separated. It made distinct, yet with no obvious purpose, how good were friend- ship and confidence — which might be the most unselfish thing in the world — be- tween two men. With the letter before him Frank Armour saw his act in a new light. As w^e said, it is possible if he had read it on the day when his trouble came to him, he had not married Lali, or sent her to England on this — to her — involun- tary mission of revenge. It is possible, also, that there came to him the first vague conception of the wrong he had done this Indian girl, who undoubtedly married him because she cared for him after her heathen fashion, while he had married her for nothing that was com- li I \\ ill It 18 ^bc ^rattdlatton of a Savage. mcndablc; not even for passion, whieh may be pardoned, nor for vanity, which has its virtues. He had had his hour with eircumstance; circumstance would have its hour with him in due course. Yet there was no extraordinary revulsion. He was still ani^ry, cynical, and very sore. He w^ould see the play out with a consistent firmness. He almost managed a smile when a letter was handed to him some weeks later, bcarinp^ his solicitor's assur- ance that Mrs. Frank Armour and her maid had been safely bestowed on the Aphrodite for England. This was the first act in his tragic comedy. i! CHAPTER ir. A DIFFICUI/r SITUATION. HEN Mrs. Frank Armour ar- rived at ^[ontreal she still wore her Indian costume of clean well-broidered buckskin, moccasins, and Icg^^in^s, all surmounted by a blanket. It was not a distinguished costimie, but it seemed suitable to its wearer. Mr. Armour's agent was in a quandary. He had had no instructions regarding her dress. He felt, of course, that, as Mrs. Frank Armour, she should put off these garments, and dress, so far as was possible, in accordance with her new position. But when he spoke about it to Mackenzie, the elderly maid and compan- ion, he found that Mr. Armour had said that his wife was to arrive in England dressed as she was. He saw something ulterior in the matter, but it was not his province to interfere. And so Mrs. Frank 19 d V ■•* i- 20 ^be vTranelation of a Savage, Armour was a passenger by the Aphrodite in her buckskin garments. What she thought of it all is not quite easy to say. It is possible that at hrst she only considered that she was the wife of a white man, — a thing to be desired, — and that the man she loved was hers for ever, — a matter of indefinable joy to her. That he was sending her to England did not fret her, because it was his will, and he knew what was best. Busy with her con- tented and yet somewhat dazed thoughts of him, — she was too happy to be very active mentally, even if it had been the characteristic of her race, — she was not at first aware how much notice she excited and how strange a figure she was in this staring city. When it did dawn upon her she shrank a little, but still was placid, preferring to sit with her hands folded in her lap, idly watching things. She ap- peared oblivious that she was the wife of a man of family and rank; she was only thinking that the man was hers — all hers. He had treated her kindly enough in the days they were together, but she had not been a great deal with him, because they I m B Difficult Situation. 21 if w . travelled fast, and his duties were many, or he made them so — but the latter possi- bility did not occur to her. When he had hastily bidden her farewell at Port Arthur he had kissed her and said, "Good-bye, my wife." She was not yet acute enough in the inflections of Saxon speech to catch the satire — almost invol- untary — in the last two words. She re- membered the words, however, and the kiss, and she was quite satisfied. To what she was going she did not speculate. He was sending her: that was enough. The woman given to her as maid had been well chosen. Armour had done this carefully. She was Scotch, was reserved, had a certain amount of shrewdness, would obey instructions, and do her duty care- fully. What she thought about the whole matter she kept to herself; even the solic- itor at Montreal could not find out. She had her instructions clear in her mind; she was determined to carry them out to the letter, — for which she was already well paid, and was like to be better paid ; because Armour had arranged that she should continue to be with his wife after 1' [ I i'l • 1 1 'ill I m ' -i Ml! I •' I I I 22 Zbc translation of a Savage. they got to England. She understood well the language of Lali's tribe, and because Lali's English was limited she would be indispensable in England. Mackenzie, therefore, had responsibility, and if she was not elated over it, she still knew the importance of her position, and had enough practical vanity to make her an efficient servant and companion. She already felt that she had got her position in life, from which she was to go out no more for ever. She had been brought up in the shadow of Alnwick Castle, and she knew what was due to her charge — by other people; herself only should have liberty with her. She was taking Lali to the home of General Armour, and that must bo kept constantly before her mind. Therefore, from the day they set foot on the Aphrodite^ she kept her place beside Mrs. Armour, sitting with her, — they walked very little, — and scarcely ever speaking, either to her or to the curious passengers. Presently the passengers be- came more inquisitive, and made many attempts at being friendly ; but these re- ceived little encouragement. It had be- i B BitKcult Situation* 23 come known who the Indian girl was, and many wild tales went about as to her mar- riage with Francis Armour. Now it was maintained she had saved his life at an outbreak of her tribe; again, that she had found him dying in the woods and had nursed him back to life and health; yet again, that she was a chieftainess, a suc- cessful claimant against the Hudson's Bay Company — and so on. There were several on board who knew the Armours well by name, and two who knew them personally. One was Mr. Edward Lambert, a barrister of the Mid- dle Temple, and the other was Mrs. Townley, a w4dow, a member of a well- known Hertfordshire family, who, on a pleasant journey in Scotland, had met, conquered, and married a wealthy young American, and had been left alone in the world, by no means portionless, eighteen months before. Lambert knew Richard Armour well, and w^hen, from Francis Armour's solicitor, w4th whom, he was acquainted, he heard, just before they started, who the Indian girl was, he was greatly shocked and sorry. He guessed at .A' 24 Jibe ^translation of a Savage. ; once the motive, the madness, of this mar- riage. But he kept his information and his opinions mostly to himself, except in so far as it seemed only due to friendship to contradict the numberless idle stories going about. After the first day at sea he came to know Mrs. Townley, and when he discovered that they had many mutual friends and that she knew the Armours, he spoke a little more freely to her re- garding the Indian wife, and told her what he believed was the cause of the marriage. Mrs. Townley was a woman — a girl — of uncommon gentleness of disposition, and, in spite of her troubles, inclined to view life with a sunny eye. She had known of Frank Armour's engagement with Miss Julia Sherwood, but she had never heard the sequel. If this was the sequel — well, it had to be faced. But she was almost tremulous with sympathy when she re- membered Mrs. Armour, and Frank's gay, fashionable sister, Marion, and contem- plated the arrival of this Indian girl at Greyhope. She had always liked Frank Armour, but this made her angry with him ; for, on second thoughts, she was not H B Difficult Sftuatfon. 25 more sorry for him and for his people than for Lali, the wife. She had the true in- stinct of womanhood, and s!ie supposed that a heathen like this could have feelings to be hurt and a life to be wounded as herself or another. At least she saw what was possible in the future when this Indian girl came to understand her position, — only to be accomplished by contact with the new life, so different from her past. Both she and Lambert decided that she was very fine-looking, notwithstanding her costume. She was slim and well built, with modest bust and shapely feet and ankles. Her e3'es were large, meditative, and intelligent, her features distinguished. She was a goodly product of her race, being descended from a line of chiefs and chief- tainesses — broken only in the case of her grandfather, as has been mentioned. Her hands (the two kindly inquisitors decided) were almost her best point. They were perfectly made, slim 3^et plump, the fingers tapering, the wrist supple. Mrs. Townley then and there decided that the girl had possibilities. But here she was, an Indian, with few signs of civilisation or of that til V ( , i v I 33 Zbc Cranalatton of a Saraflc, turn ill a moment. Mrs. Armour, how- ever, had been startled. She knew that Marion had been reading a letter, and, with a mother's in.stinct, her thoughts were instantly on Frank. She spoke (|uiekly, almost sharply: "Marion, eome here." Richard had risen. He came round the table, and, as the girl obeyed her mother, took the letter from her fingers and has- tily glanced over it. Mrs. Armour came forwards and took her daughter's arm. "Marion," she said, "there is something wrong — with Frank. What is it?" General Armour was now looking up at them all, curiously, questioningly, through his glasses, his paper laid down, his hands resting on the table. Marion could not answer. She was sick with regret, vexation, and shame: at the first flush death — for Frank — had been preferable to this. She had a considera- ble store of vanity; she was not very phi- losophical. Besides, she was not married ; and what Captain Vidall, her devoted ad- mirer and possible husband, would think of this heathenish alliance was not a in B IDlfficult Situation. 88 cliccrful thought to her. She choked down a sob, and waved her hand towards Richard to answer for her. He was pale too, but cool. He understood the case instantly; he made np his mind instantly also as to what ought to be — must be — done. "Well, mother," he said, "it is about Frank. But he is all right; that is, he is alive and well — in body. But he has ar- ranged a hateful little embarrassment for us. . . . He is married." "Married!" said his mother, faintly. "Oh, poor Lady Agnes!" Marion sniffed a little viciously at this. "Married! Married!" said his father. "Well, what about it? eh? what about it?" The mother wrung her hands. "Oh, I know it is something dreadful — dreadful ! he has married some horrible wild person, or something. " Richard, miserable as he was, remained calm. "Well," said he, "I don't know about her being horrible; Frank is silent on that point; but she is wild enough, — a wild Indian, in fact!" "Indian! Indian! Good God, a red Nil I llh: 1 I ) :: . li I! 84 Ubc translation of a Savage, i ni.^i^t'f!" cried General Armour, harshly, startiii^i;" to his feet. "An Indian! a wild Indian!" Mrs. Ar- mour whispered, faintly, as she dropped into a chair. *'And she'll be here in two or three days!" lluttered Marion hysterically. Meanwhile Richard had hastily picked up the Times. " She is due here the day after to-morrow," he said, deliberately. '* l^'^rank is as decisive as he is rash. Well, it's a melancholy tit-for-tat. " •'What do you mean by tit-for-tat?" cried his father, angrily, "CMi, 1 mean that — that we tried to hasten lulia's marriaije — with the other fellow, and he is giving- us one in return; and you will all agree that it's a pretty permanent one. " The old soldier recovered himself, and w.is hesid.e Iris wife in an instant. He took lier hand. "'Don't fret about it. wife," lie s.iid. : *' i:"s an ugly business, but we must put up with it. The boy was out of his nead. We are old now. my dear. but there was a time when we should have ^ • ■» - • as Frank. B Difttcult S(tuation. 35 — thouj^h not in the same fasliion, per- haps, — not in the same fashion!"' The old man pressed his lips hard to keep down his emotion. *'(^h, how eould he! liow cr,iild lie!" said his mother: "we meant everythin;^ for the best." *' It is always danj^erous business med- dling with lovers' affairs," rejoined Rich- a.J. " Lovers take themselves very seri- ously indeed, and — well, here the thing is! Now, who will go and fetch her from Liverpool? — I should say that both my father and my mother ought to go." Thus Richard took it for granted that they would receive Frank's Indian v/ife into their home. He intended that, so far as he was concerned, there should be no doubt upon the question from the begin- ning. "Never! she shall never conr/e here!" saia Marion, vrith flashing eyes; — "a comi- mon squaw, with greasy hair, and blankets, and big mouth, and Vjlack teeth, v/ho eats with her fingers and grunts! If she does, if she is brought to Greyhope, I v/ill never show my face in the world again. Frank 4^ {■i ifm til f ; [ i ? I - It, * i f :ii 36 ^be translation ot a Savaoe. married the animal : why does he ship her home to us? Why didn't he come with her? Why does he not take he: to a home of his own? Why should he send her here to turn our house into a menagerie?" Marion drew her skirt back, as if the common squaw, with her blankets and grease, was at that moment near her. "Well, you see," continued Richard, " that is just it. As I said, Frank arranged this little complication w4th a trifling amount of malice. No doubt he didn't come with her, because he wished to test the family loyalty and hospitality; but a postscript to this letter says that his solic- itor has instructions to meet his wife at Liverpool and bring her on here in case we fail to show her proper courtesy." General Armour here spoke. " He has carried the war of retaliation very far in- deed, but men do mad things when their blood is up, as I have seen often. That doesn't alter our clear duty in the matter. If the \,oman were bad, or shameful, it would be a different thing; if " Marion interrupted: "She has ridden bareback across the continent like a 1 ' B Difficult Sttuatton. 37 jockey, — like a common jockey, — and she wears a blanket, and she doesn't know a word Oi English, and she will sit on the floor!" "Well," said her father, "all these things are not sins, and she must be taught better." "Joseph, how can you!" said Mrs. Ar- mour, indignantly. " She cannot, she shall not come here. Think of Marion! think of our position !" She hid her troubled tear-stained face behind her handkerchief. At the same time she grasped her husband's hand. She knew that he was right. She hon- oured him in her heart for the position he had taken, but she could not resist the natural impulse of a woman, where her taste and convention were shocked. The old man was very pale, but there was no mistaking his determination. He had been more indignant than any of them at first, but he had an unusual sense of justice when he got face to face with it, as Richard had here helped him to do,, " We do not know thai; the woman has done any wrong," he said. "As for our \ i. .i 'I •I !;> i i 1 ll 38 Zbc (Translation of a Savage. name and position, they, thank God! are where a mad marriag^e cannot imseat them. We have had much prosperity in the world, my wife ; we have had neither death nor dishonour; we " "If this isn't dishonour, father, what is?" Marion flashed out. He answered calmly. " My daughter, it is a great misfortune, it will probably be a life-long trial, but it is not necessarily dishonour." " You never can make a scandal less by trying to hide it," said Richard, backing up his father. " It is all pretty awkward, but I dare say we shall get some amuse- ment out of it in the end." " Richard," said his mother through her tears, "you are flippant and unkind!" "Indeed, mother," was his reply, "I never was more serious in my life. When I spoke of amusement, I meant comedy merely, not fun, — the thing that looks like tragedy and has a happy ending. That is what I mean, mother, nothing more." " You are always so very deep, Richard, " remarked Marion, ironically, "and care so very little how the rest of us feel about %• B Dittfcult Sttuation. 39 things. You have no family pride. If you had married a squaw, we shouldn't have been surprised. You could have camped in the grounds with your wild woman, and never have been missed — by the world," she hastened to add, for she saw a sudden pain in his face. He turned from them all a little wearily, and limped over to the window. He stood looking out into the limes where he and Frank had played when boys. He put his finger up, his unhandsome finger, and caught away some moisture from his eyes. He did not dare to let them see his face, nor yet to speak. Marion had cut deeper than she knew, and he would carry the woimd for many a day before it healed. But his sister felt instantly how cruel vShe had been, as she saw him limp away, and caught sight of the bowed shoulders and the prematurely gray hair. Her heart smote her. She ran over, and impulsively put her hands on his shoulder. "Oh, Dick," she said, "forgive me, Dick! I didn't mean it. I was angry and foolish and hateful." He took one of her hands as it rested on his shoulder, she standing partly be- il if! ;t N 111 ' ■' I ;1i h \m !lf " il ^1{ ] * 40 XLbc C:ranslation of a Savage. t ,; hind him, and raised it to his lips, but he did not turn to her; he could not. " It is all right— all right," he said; " it doesn't make any difference. Let us think of Frank and what we have got to do. Let us stand together, Marion j that is best." But her tears were dropping on his shoul- der, as her forehead rested on her hand. He knew now that, whatever Frank's wife was, she would not have an absolute enemy here ; for when Marion cried her heart was soft. She was clay in the hands of the potter whom we call Mercy, — more often a stranger to the hearts of women than of men. At the other side of the room also the father and mother, tearless now, watched these two; and the mother saw her duty better and with less rebellious- ness. vShe had felt it from the first, but, she could not bring her mind to do it They held each other's hands in silence, Presently General Armour said, " Richard, your mother and I will go to Liverpool to meet our son's wife." Marion shuddered a little, and her hands closed on Richard's shouder, but she said nothing. T CHAPTER III. OUT OF THE NORTH. )T was a beautiful day, — which was so much in favour of Mrs. Frank Armour in relation to her husband's people. Gen- eral Armour and his wife had come down from London by the latest train possible, that their suspense at Liverpool might be short. They said little to each other, but when they did speak it was of things very different from the skeleton which they ex- pected to put into the family cupboard presently. Each was trying to spare the other. It was very touching. They nat- urally looked upon the matter in its most unpromising light, because an Indian was an Indian, and this unknown savage from Fort Charles was in violent contrast to such desirable persons as Lady Agnes Martling. Not that the Armours were zealous for mere money and title, but the 41 i Ti ■: 1: ^i •m Ji I > if! \ n i'i' ill ■ ' ■ , , ( 1 ; 1 i i ' r 1 Hi' a },. 43 Zbc translation ot a Savage. \- i •thing itself was altogether a propos, as Mrs, Armour had more naively than correctly put it. The general, whose knowledge of character and the circumstances of life was considerable, had worked out the thing with much accuracy. He had de- clared to Richard, in their quiet talk upon the subject, that Frank must have been anything but sober when he did it. He had previously called it a policy of retali- ation ; so that now he was very near the truth. When they arrived at the dock at Liverpool, the Aphrodite was just making into the harbour. *'Egad," said General Armour to him- self, " Sebastopol was easier than this; for fighting I know, and being peppered I know, by Jews, Greeks, infidels, and here- tics ; but to take a savage to my arms and do for her what her godfathers and god- mothers never did, is worse than the devil's dance at Delhi." What Mrs. Armour, who was not quite so definite as her husband, thought, it would be hard to tell ; but probably grief for, and indignation at, her son, were uppermost in her mind. She had quite I ©ut ot tbe "Wortb. 43 determined upon her course. None could better carry that high neutral look of social superiority than she. Please heaven, she said to herself, no one should see that her equanimity was shaken. They had brought one servant with them, who had been gravely and yet conventionally informed that his young master's wife, an Indian chieftainess, was expected. There are few family troubles but find their way to servants' hall with an uncomfortable speed; for, whether or not stone walls have ears, certainly men- servants and maid-servants have eyes that serve for ears and ears that do more than their bounden duty. Boulter, the foot- man, knew his business. When informed of the coming of Mistress Francis Armour, the Indian chieftainess, his face was abso- lutely expressionless ; his " Yessir " was as mechanical as usual On the dock he was marble — indifferent. When the passen- gers began to land, he shovved no excite- ment. He was decorously alert. When the crucial moment came, he was imper- turbable. Boulter was an excellent ser- vant. So said Edward Lambert to him- I ):! ii r • ! Ii * ■ 1 ! i i . i J-- 1 i \ ■ 1 1 "*. ( • i i *■' ■ ^ t sf i i| i '») 44 Zbc TTranelattoti ot a Sara^je. self after the event; so, likewise, said Mrs. Tow nicy to herself when the thing was over; so declared General Armour many a time after, and once very em- phatically just before he raised Boulter's wages. As the boat neared Liverpool, Lambert and Mrs. Townley grew nervous. The truth regarding the Indian wife had be- come known among the passengers, and most were very curious, — some in a well-bred fashion, some intrusively, vul- garly. Mackenzie, Lali's companion, like Boulter, was expressionless in face. She had her duty to do, paid for liberally, and she would do it. Lali might have had a more presentable and dignified at- tendant, but not one more worthy. It was noticeable that the captain of the ship and all the officers had been markedly courteous to Mrs. Armour throughout the voyage, but, to their credit, not ostenta- tiousl)^ so. When the vessel was brought to anchor and the passengers were being put upon the tender, the captain came and made his respectful adieus, as though Lali were a lady of title in her own right, and '^i Cut Of tbc "Wortb. 45 not an Indian girl married to a man act- ing under the inlluence of brandy and malice. General Armour and Mrs. Ar- m.our were always grateful to Lambert and Mrs. Townley for the part they played in this desperate little comedy. They stood still and watchful as the passengers came ashore one by one. They saw that they were the centre of tmusual interest, but General Armour was used to bearing him- self with a grim kind of indifference in public, and his wife was calm, and so somewhat disappointed those who prob- ably expected the old officer and his wife to be distressed. Frank Armour's solicitor was also there, but, with good taste, he held aloof. The two needed all their courage, however, when they saw a figure in buckskin and blanket step upon the deck, attended by a very ordinary, austere, and shabbily dressed Scotswoman. But immediately behind them were Edward Lambert and Mrs. Townley, a.\d these, with their simple tact, naturalness, and freedom from any sort of embarrassment, acted as foils, and relieved the situa- tion. 4 •1^: P« '■ f: J. ! lit Hi '. I til i 11" 1 I < , U 'i-:\ I i -I- II 11 nil i;] i\ U ill I ' j \ 50 Zbe tTranelatton of a Savage. 1 I; I'' acted. And inquisitive people must have been surprised to see how monotonously ordinary was the manner of the three white people in the compartment. Sud- denly, at a station near London, General Armour gave a start, and used a strong expression imder his breath. Glancing at the " Marriage " cohimn, he saw a no- tice to the effect that on a certain day of a certain month, Francis Gilbert, the son of General Joseph Armour, C. B. , of Grcyhope, Hertfordshire, and Cavendish Square, was married to Lali, the daughter of Eye-of-the-Moon, chief of the Bloods, at her father's lodge in the Saskatchewan Valley. This had been inserted by Franli Armour's solicitor, according to his in- structions, on the day that the Aphrodite was due at Liverpool. General Armour did not at first intend to show this to his wife, but on second thought he did, be- cause he knew she would eventually come to know of it, and also because she saw that something had moved him. She si- lently reached out her hand for the paper. He handed it to her, pointing to the notice. Mrs. Armour was unhappy, but her self- 4 Hn tbe IRamc of tbc afamils* 51 possession was admirable, and she said nothing". She turned her face to the win- dow, and sat for a long time looking out. She did not turn to the others, for her eyes were full of tears, and she did not dare to V. jpe them away, nor yet to let them be seen. She let them dry there. She was thinking of her son, her favourite son, for whom she had been so ambitious, and for whom, so far as she could, and retain her self-respect, she had delicately intrigued, that he might happily and befittingly marry. She knew that in the matter of his engagement she had not done what was best for him, but how could she have guessed that this would be the result? She also was sure that when the first flush of his anger and disappointment had passed, and he came to view this thing with cooler mind, he would repent deeply — for a whole lifetime. She was convinced that he had not married this savage for anything which could make marriage en- durable. Under the weight of the thought she was likely to forget that the young alien wife might have lost terribly in the event also. !■ Ik! ; If ■ 1 1 ■' ! 1 I. 11 \ m V' ' H\ a \P 1 ff 52 ♦■^^ Zbc ^ranelatlon of a Savage. The arrival at Euston and the departure from St. Pancras were rather painful all round, for, though there was no waiting at either place, the appearance of an In- dian girl in native costume was uncommon enough, even in cosmopolitan London, to draw much attention. Besides, the pla- cards of the evening papers were blazoned with such announcements as this: f "A Red Indian Girl Married into An English County Family." Someone had telegraphed particulars — distorted particulars — over from Liver- pool, and all the evening sheets had their portion of extravagance and sensation. General Armour became a little more erect and austere as he caught sight of these placards, and Mrs. Armour groaned in- wardly; but their faces were inscrutable, and they quietly conducted their charge, ;/////// jT her blanket, to the train which was to take them to St. Albans, and were soon wheeling homeward. At Euston they parted with Lambert and Mrs. Townley, who quite simply and li f I '1^ fin tbe IRame of tbe ifamlli^. 53 conventionally bade good-bye to them and their Indian daiighter-in-law. Lali had grown to like Mrs. Townley, and when they parted she spoke a few words quickly in her own tongue, and then immediately was confused, because she remembered that she could not be understood. But presently she said in halting English that the face of her white friend was good, and she hoped that she would come one time and sit beside her in her wigwam, for she would be sad till her husband travelled to her. Mrs. Townley made some polite reply in simple English, pressed the girl's hand sympathetically, and hurried away. Be- fore she parted from Mr. Lambert, how- ever, she said, with a pretty touch of cyn- icism, " I think I see Marion Armour listening to her sister-in-law issue invita- tions to her wigwam, I am afraid I should be rather depressed myself if I had to be sisterly to a wigwam lady." "But I say, Mrs. Townley," rejoined Lambert, seriously, as he loitered at the steps of her carriage, " I shouldn't be sur- prised if my lady Wigwam — a rather apt fi H t \ n i ;!^ 1 I f i m ill 1 1 1 li 54 Zbc ^translation of a Savage. f and striking- title, by the way — turned out better than we think. She carried herself rippingly without the blanket, and I never saw a more beautiful hand in my life — but one," he added, as his fingers at that moment closed on hers, and held them tightly, in spite of the indignant little effort at withdrawal. " She may yet be able to give them all points in dignity and that kind of thing, and pay Master Frank back in his own coin. I do not see, after all, that he is the martyr." Lambert's voice got softer, for he still held Mrs. Townley's fingers, — the footman not having the matter in his eye, — and then he spoke still more seriously on sen- timental affairs of his own, in which he evidently hoped she would take some inter- est. Indeed, it is hard to tell how far the case might have been pushed, if she had not suddenly looked a little forbidding and imperious. For even people of no notable height, with soft features, dark-brown eyes, and a delightful little laugh, may appear rather regal at times. Lambert did not quite understand why she should take this attitude. If he had been as keen fn tbe flame of tbc family. 55 regarding his own affairs of the affections as in the case of Frank Armour and his Indian bride, he had known that every woman has in her mind the occasion when she should and when she should not be wooed; and nothing disappoints her more than a declaration at a time which is not her time. If it does not fall out as she wishes it, retrospect, a dear thing to a woman, is spoiled. Many a man ha^ been sent to the right-about because he has ven- tured his proposal at the wrong time. What would have occurred to Lambert it is hard to tell ; but he saw that something was wrong, and stopped in time. When General Armour and his party reached Greyhope it was late in the even- ing. The girl seemed tired and confused by the events of the day, and did as she was directed indifferently, limply. But when they entered the gates of Gre)'hope and travelled up the long avenue of limes, she looked round her somewhat eagerly, and drew a long sigh, maybe of relief or pleasure. She presently stretched out a hand almost caressingly to the thick trees and the grass, and said aloud, "Oh, the ( Iv iM llff , ■ ! r i^ ti I ; ' ll \\ m if i-ff iiiii 56 ^be {Tranelattoii of a Savage. 1^ I beautiful trees and the lonp: gfrass !" There was a whirr of birds' wings among the branches, and then, presently, there rose from a distance the sweet gurgling whistle of the nightingale. A smile as of reminis- cence crossed her face. Then she said as if to herselt, " It is the same. I shall not die. I hear the birds' winj^s, and one is singing. It is pleasant to sleep in the long grass when the nights are summer, and to hang your cradle in the trees." She had asked for her own blanket, re- fusing a rug, when they left St. Aloans, and it had been given co her. She drew it abo':t hernow with a feeling of comfort, and seemed to lose the horrible sense of strangeness which had almost convulsed her when she was put into the carriage at the railway-station. Her reserve had hid- den much of what she really felt ; but the drive through the limes had shown Gen- eral Armour and his wife that ^hey had to do with a nature having capacities for sensitive feeling; which, it is sometimes thought, is only the prerogative of certain well-bred civilisations. But it was impossible that they should In tbc Iftame of tbc jfamilg. 57 yet, or for many a day, feel any sense of kinship with this aboriginal girl. Pres- ently the carriage drew up to the doorway, which was instantly open to them. A broad belt of light streamed out upon the stone steps. Far back in the hall stood Maiion, one hand upon the balustrade of the staircase, the other tightly held at her side, as if to nerve herself for the meet- ing. The eyes of the Indian girl pierced tlie light, and, as if by a strange instinct, found those of Marion, even before she left the carriage. Lali felt vaguely that here was her possible enemy. As she stepped out of the carriage. General Ar- mour's hand under her elbow to assist her, -he drew her blanket something more closely about her, and so proceeded up the steps. The composure of the servants was, in the circumstances, remarkable. It needed to have been, for the courage displayed by Lali's two new guardians dur- ing the day almost faltered at the thresh- old of their own home. Any sign of sur- prise or amusement on the part of the domestics would have given them some painful moments subsequently. But all i^ !^ t m^ (! 1 i i : 1. 1:1 V: 58 XLbc Zxmelalion ot a Savage. V n I I I \ I was perfectly decorous. Marion still stood motionless, almost dazed. The sronp ad- vanced into the hall, and there paused, as if waitinf^ for her. At that moment Richard came out of the study at her right hand, took her arm, and said, quietly, "Come along, Marion; let us be as brave as oiir fathc ■ and mother. " She gave a hard little gasp and seemed to awake as from a dream. She quickly glided forward ahead of him, kissed her mother and father almost abruptly, then turned to the young wife with a scrutinis- ing eye. *' Marion," said her father, " this is your sister." Marion stood hesitating, confused. ** Marion, dear," repeated her mother, ceremoniously, "this is your brother's wife. — Lali, this is your husband's sister, Marion." Mackenzie translated the words swiftly to the girl, and her eyes flashed wide. Then in a low voice she said in English, "Yes, Marion, Hoiv!'' It is probable that neither Marion nor anyone present knew quite the meaning of Hoiv^ save Richard, and he could not V Hn tbe flame of tbc jfamilg. 59 suppress a smile, it sounded so absurd and aboriginal. But at this exclamation Ma- rion once more came to herself. She could not possibly go so far as her mother did at the dock, and kiss this savage, but, with a rather sudden grasp of the hand, she said, a little hysterically, — for her brain was going round like a wheel, — " Wo-won't you let me take your blanket?" and forth- with laid hold of it with tremulous polite- ness. The question sounded, for the instant, so ludicrous to Richard that, in spite of the distressing situation, he had to choke back a laugh. Years afterwards, if he wished for any momentary revenge upon Marion (and he had a keen sense of wordy retaliation), he simply said, "Wo-won't you let me take your blanket?" Of course the Indian girl did not under- stand, but she submitted to the removal of this uncommon mantle, and stood forth a less trying sight to Marion's eyes; for, as we said before, her buckskin costume set off softly the good outlines of her form. The Indian girl's eyes wandered from Marion to Richard. They wandered from ^ I 18 ii .! : -wam. ii i! il I J !■: '•Mil i \ i \ IL , i II" I r CHAPTER V. AN AWKWARD HALF-HOUR. )T is just as well, perhaps, that the matter had become notori- ous. Otherwise the Armours had lived in that unpleasant condition of: being constantly "discov- ered." It was simply a case of aiming at absolute secrecy, which had been frus- trated by Frank himself, or bold and un- embarrassed acknowledgment and an at- tempt to carry things off with a high hand. The latter course was the only one possi- ble. It had originally been Richard's idea, appropriated by General Armour, and accepted by Mrs. Armour and Marion with what grace was possible. The pub- lication of the event prepared their friends, and precluded the necessity for reserve. What the friends did not know was whether they ought or ought not to commiserate the Armours. It was a difficult position. 62 > - I', Bn BwkwarD 1balt=1bour. 63 ;• A death, an accident, a lost reputation, would have been easy to them ; concerning these there could be no doubt. But an Indian daughter-in-law, a person in moc- casins, was scarcely a thing to be congrat- ulated upon ; and yet sympathy and con- solation might be much misplaced: no one could tell how the Armours would take it. For even their closest acquaintances knew what kind of delicate hauteur was possible to them. Even the " 'centric " Richard, who visited the cottages of the poor, car- rying soup and luxuries of many kinds, accompan3ang them with the most whole- some advice a single man ever gave to families and the heads of families, whose laugh was so cheery and spontaneous, — and face so uncommonly grave and sad at times, — had a faculty for manner. With aston- ishing suddenness he could raise insur- mountable barriers ; and people, not of his order, who occasionall}^ presumed on his simplicity of life and habits, found them- selves put distinctly ill at ease by a quiet curious look in his eye. No man was ever more the recluse and at the same time the man of the world. He had had his bitter I 1 ■! ' i If Ktl i I' 1 i\ '1 HI 1 1 m II 64 Zbc translation of a Savage. i ^ I ' 9 little comedy of life, but it was different from that of his brother Frank. It was buried very deep; not one of his family knew of it: Edward Lambert, and one or two others who had good reason never to speak of it, were the only persons possess- ing his secret. But all England knew of Frank's mifsal- Uance. And the question was, what would people do? They very properly did noth- ing at first. They waited to see how the Armours would act; they did not congrat- ulate ; they did not console ; that was left to those papers which chanced to resent General Armour's politics, and those oth- ers which were emotional and sensational on every subject — particularly so where women were concerned. It was the beginning of the season, but the Armours had decided that they would not go to town. That is, the general and his wife were not going. They felt that they ought to be at Greyhope with their daughter-in-law, — which was to their credit. Regarding Marion they had noth- ing to say. Mrs. Armour inclined to her going to town for the season, to visit Mrs. { I; r I ii I 'li Bn BwftwarD 1ba»f*l)our. 65 Townley, who had thoughtfully written to her, saying that she was very lonely, and begging Mrs. Armour to let her come, if she would. She said that of course Marion would see much of her people in town just the same. Mrs. Townley was a very clever and tactful woman. She guessed that General Armour and his wife were not likely to come to town, but that must not appear, and the invitation should be on a different basis — as it was. It is probable that Marion saw through the delicate plot, but that did not make her like Mrs. Townley less. These little pieces of art make life possible ; these ten- der fictions! Marion was, how^ever, not in good hu- mour ; she was nervous and a little petulant. She had a high-strung temperament, a sensitive perception of the fitness of things, and a horror of what was gauche; and she would, in brief, make a rather austere person, if the lines of life did not run in her favour. She had something of Frank's impulsiveness and temper; it would have been a great blessing to her if she had had a portion of Richard's philosophical hu- M 3 - f ' if' Ifl f i 60 tTbe translation ot a Sara^e. moiir also. She was at a point of tension — her mother and Richard could see that. She was anxious — though, for the world, she would not have had it thought so — re- garding Captain Vidall. vShe had never cared for anybody but him ; it was possible she never would. But he did not know this, and she was not absolutely sure that his evident but as yet informal love would stand this strain — which shows how people very honourable and perfect-minded in themselves may allow a large margin to other people who are presumably honour- able and perfect-minded also. There was no engagement between them, and he was not boimd in any way, and could, there- fore, without slashing the hem of the code, retire without any apology; but they had had that unspoken under- standing which most people who love each other show even before a word of declaration has passed their lips. If he withdrew because of this scandal there might be some awkward hours for Frank Armour's wife at Greyhope; but, more than that, there would be a very hard- hearted young lady to play her part in the I I i Bn BwhwarO fbalfsfjour. 67 deceitful world; she would be as merciless as she could be. Naturally, being young, she exaggerated the importance of the event, and brooded on it. It was different with her father and mother. They were shocked and indignant at first, but when the first scene had been faced they began to make the best of things all round. That is, they proceeded at once to turn the North American Indian into a European ; a matter of no littk-^ difficulty. A gover- ness was discussed ; but General Armour did not like the idea, and Richard opposed it heartily. She must be taught English and educated, and made possible *' in Chris- tian clothing," as Mrs. Armour put it. Of the education they almost despaired, — all save Richard; time, instruction, vanity, and a dress-maker might do much as to the other. The evening of her arrival, Lali would not, with any urging, put on clothes of Marion's which had been sent in to her. And the next morning it was still the same. She came into the breakfast-room dressed still in buckskin and moccasins, and though the grease had been taken out of her hair ■iw ^1 li't I I \i IE I li !|.l'' \ '■: ( ( ! 'J ]. \i : i v.] Hfi il^ ■r 68 ZTbc translation of a Savaae. n it was still combed flat. Mrs. Armour had tried to influence her through Mackenzie, but to no purpose. She was placidly stub- born. It had been unvvisely told her by Mac- kenzie that they were Marion's clothes. They scarcely took in the fact that the g-irl had pride, that she was the daughter of a chief, and a chieftainess herself, and that it was far from happy to qf¥er her Marion's clothes to wear. Now, Richard, when he was a lad, had been on a journey to the South Seas, and had learned some of the peculiarities of the native mind, and he did not suppose that American Indians differed very much from certain well-bred Polynesians in lit- tle matters of form and good taste. When his mother told him what had occurred be- fore Lali entered the breakfast-room, he went directly to what he believed was the cause, and advised tact with conciliation. He also pointed out that Lali was some- thing taller than Marion, and that she might be possessed of that general trait of humanity, — vanity. Mrs. Armour had not yet got used to thinking of the girl in I Bn BwftvvarO 1balt*1bour. 69 another manner than an intrusive being of a lower order, who was there to try their patience, but also to do their bidding. She had yet to grasp the fact that, being her son's wife,' she must have, therefore, a po- sition in the house, exercising a certain authority over the servants, who, to Mrs. Armour, at first seemed of superior stuff. But Richard said to her, '' Mother, I fancy you don't quite grasp the position. The girl is the daughter of a chief, and the de- scendant of a ^amily of chiefs, perhaps, through many generations. In her own land she has been used to respect, and has been looked up to pretty generally. Her garments are, I fancy, considered very smart in the Hudson's Bay Country; and a finely decorated blanket like hers is ex- pensive up there. You see, we have to take the thing by comparison: so please give the girl a chance." And Mrs. Armour answered wearily, " I suppose you are right, Richard ; you generally are in the end, though why you should be I do not know, for you never see anything of the world any more, and you moon about among the cottagers. I I ilJ: (I II fil ! r i: ' 70 Ubc translation of a Savage. - r I » li I suppose it's your native sense and the books you read. " Richard laughed softly^ but there was a queer ring in the laugh, and he came over stumblingly and tnit hi'> .^rm round his ■u. other's sh< aide- *' lvi ' mind hov; I get such sense as I Imv mother; I have so much time to think, it v, ' dd be a v^ron- der if I hadn't some. But I think v^^e had better try to study her, and coax her along, and not fob her off as a very inferior per- son, or we shall have our hands full in earnest. My opinion is, she has got that which will save her and us too, — a very high spirit, which only needs opportunity to develop into a remarkable iiing ; and, take my word for it, mother, if we treat her as a chief tainess, or princess, or what- ever she is, and not simply as a dusky person, we shall come off better and she will come off better in the long run. — She is not darker than a Spaniard, anyhow." At this point Marion entered the room, and her mother rehearsed briefly to her what their talk had been. Marion had had little sleep, and she only lifted her eye- brows at them at first. She was in little u Bn BwhwruO Ibalfstbour. 71 nood for concilicilion. She remembered all at once ihat at siippe^ the evening be- fore he^sister-in-law had said How ! to the butler, and had eaten the mayonnaise with a djssci L-spoon. But presently, because she savv they waited for her to speak, she said, with a little flutter of maliciousness, "Wouldn't it be well for Richard — he has plenty of time, and we are also likely to have it now — to put us all through a course of instruction for the training of chieftair esses? And when do you think she will be ready for a drawing-room — Her Majesc^' Queen Victoria's, or ours?" "Marion!" said Mrs. Armour, severely; but Richard came round to her, and with his fresh child-like humour put his arm round her waist, and added, "Marion, I'd be willing to bet (if I were in the habit of betting) my shaky old pins here against a lock of your hair that you may present her at any drawing-room — ours or Queen Vic- toria's — in two years, if we go at it right; and it would serve Master Frank very well if we turned her out something after all !" Mrs. Armour said almost eagerly, " I wish it were only possible, Richard. And I- lilt :il ■ ■ \ ( ■■- \^->.: i! 72 Zbc dranslation of a Savaoc. what you sa}'' is true, I suppose, that she is of rank in her own country, whatever value that may have!" Richard saw his advantaji^e. **Well, mother," he said, '' a chieftainess is a chief- tainess, and I don't know but to announce her as such, and " "And be proud of it, as it were," put in Marion, "and pose her, and make her a prize, — a Pocahontas, wasn't it? — and go on pretending world without end !" Mari- on's voice was still slightly grating, but there was in it too a faint sound of hope. "Perhaps," she said to herself, "Richard is right." At this point the door opened and Lali entered, shown in by Colvin, her newly appointed maid, and followed by Macken- zie, and, as we said, dressed still in her heathenish garments. She had a strong sense of dignity, for she stood still and waited. Perhaps nothing could have im- pressed Marion more. Had Lali been sub- servient simply, an entirely passive unin- telligent creature, she would probably liave tyrannised over her in a soft persist- ent fashion and despised her generally. an Bvvhvvar& fbaiUfboux. But Mrs. Armour and Marion saw that this stran Bn BwhvvarD 1balt*1bour. she forgot the flat hair and the unstayed body, and the rather broad feet, and the delicate duskiness, which had so worked upon her in imagination and in fact the evening before. vShe put her hand kindly on that long slim hand stretched out be- side her, and, because she knew not what else to speak, and because the tongue is very perverse at times — saying the oppo- site of what is expected — she herself blun- dered out " i/^2c' / Bow! Lali." Perhaps Lali was as much surprised at the remark as Marion herself, and cer- tainly very much more delighted. The sound of those familiar words, spoken by accident as they were, opened the way to a better understanding, as nothing else could possibly have done. Marion was annoyed with herself, and yet amused too. If her mind had been perfectly assured re- garding Captain Vidall, it is probable that then and there a peculiar, a genial, com- radeship would have been formed. As it was, Marion found this little event more endurable than she expected. She also found that Lali, when she laughed in pleas- ant acknowledgment of that How ! had re- 6 III ^, m V , ivl h ' 1 v'^. i' IS ^bc translation of a Savage, marakbly white and regular teeth. Indeed, Marion Armour beg'an to discover some estimable points in the appearance of her savage sister-in-law. Marion remarked to herself that Lali might be a rather striking person, if she were dressed, as her mother said, in Christian garments, could speak the English language well — and was some- body else's sister-in-law. At this point Mackenzie came breath- lessly to the bridge, and called out a little sharply to Lali, rebuking her. In this Mackenzie made a mistake; for not only did Lali draw^ herself up with considerable dignity, but Marion, noticing the masterful nature of the tone, instantly said, " Mac- kenzie, you must remember that you are speaking to Mrs. Francis Armour, and that her position in General Armour's house is the same as mine. I hope it is not neces- sary to say anything more, Mackenzie." iVIackcnzie flushed. She was a sensible woman, she knew that she had done wrong, and she said very promptly, *' I am very sorry, miss; I was flustered, and I expect I haven't got used to speaking to — to Mrs. Armour as I'll be sure to do in the future. " r I r Bn BwkwarD Ibalfslbour. 79 As she spoke, two or three deer came trotting out of the beeches down to the lakeside. If Lali was pleased and excited before, she was overwhelmed now. Her breath came in quick little gasps; she laughed; she tossed her hands; she seemed to become dizzy with delight; and pres- ently, as if this new link with, and re- minder of, her past, had moved her as one little expects a savage heart is moved, two tears gathered in her eyes, then slid down her cheek tmheeded, and dried there in the simlight, as she still gazed at the deer. Marion, at first surprised, was now touched, as she could not have thought it possible concerning this wild creature, and her hand went out and caught Lali's gently. At this genuine act of sympathy, instinctively felt by Lali, — the stranger in a strange land, husbanded and yet a widow, — there came a flood of tears, and, dropping on her knees, she leaned against the low railing of the bridge and wept silently. So pas- sionless was her grief it seemed the more pathetic, and Marion dropi^ed on her knees beside her, put her arm round her shoul- der, and said, " Poor girl ! Poor girl !" « i '1 f: I! r . U !| 80 Zhc translation of a Savage. At that Lali caught her hand, and held it, repeating after her the words, " Poor girl! Poor girl!" She did not quite understand them, but she remembered that once just before she parted from her husband at the Great Lakes he had said those very words. If the fates had apparently given things into Frank Armour's hands when he sacrificed this girl to his revenge, they were evidently inclined to play a game which would eventually defeat his purpose, wicked as it had been in effect if not in absolute mo- tive. What the end of this attempt to en- graft the Indian girl upon the strictest convention of English social life would have been had her introduction not been at Greyhope, where faint likenesses to her past surrounded her, it is hard to conjec- ture. But, from present appearances, it would seem that Richard Armour was not wholly a false prophet; for the savage had shown herself that morning to possess, in their crudeness, some striking qualities of character. Given character, many things are pc^,?i'jie even to those who are not of the elect. 1 r f Bn BwftwarD 1balfs1bour. 81 L T f This was the beginning of better things. Lali seemed to the Armours not quite so impossible now. Had she been of the very common order of Indian " pure and sim- XJle," the task had resolved itself into mak- ing a common savage into a very common European. But, whatever Lali was, it was abundantly evident that she must be reckoned with at all points, and that she was more likely to become a very startling figure in the Armour household than a mere encumbrance to be blushed for, whose eternal absence were preferable to her company. Years after that first morning Marion caught herself shuddering at the thought that came to her when she saw Lali hov- ering on the bridge. Whatever Marion's faults were, she had a fine dislike of any- thing that seemed unfair. She had not ridden to hounds for nothing. She had at heart the sportsman's instinct. It was upon this basis, indeed, that Richard ap- pealed to her in the first trying days of Lali's life among them. To oppose your will to Marion on the basis of superior knowledge was only to turn her into a '!'! (; l^i •i i it ! '. i, h t 82 tibc translation of a Sava^^e. rebel ; and a very effective ^ebel vshe made ; for she had a pretty gift at the retort cour- teous, and she could take as much, and as well, as she gave. She rebelled at first at assisting in Lali's education, though by fits and starts she would reach her English words, and help her to form long senten- ces, and was, on the whole, quite patient. But Lali's real instructors were Mrs. Ar- mour and Richard; her best, Richard. The first few days she made but little progress, for everything was strange to her, and things made her giddy, — the ser- vants, the formal roiitine, the handsome furnishings, Ma. ion's music, the great house, the many precise personal duties set for her, to be got through at stated times, and Mrs. Armour's rather grand manner. But there was the relief to this, else the girl had pined terribly for her na- tive woods and prairies; this was the park, the det^r, the lake, the hares and birds. While she sat saying over after Mrs. Ar- mour words and phrases in English, or was being shown how she must put on and wear the clothes which a dress-maker from Regent Street had been brought to make. I I Bn Bvvftvvar& 1balfs1[3our. 83 L her eyes would wander dreamily to the trees and the lake and the grass. They soon discovered that she would pay no at- tention and was straightway difficult to teach if she was not placed where she could look out on the park. They had no choice, for though her resistance was never active it was nevertheless effective. Presently she got on very swiftly with Richard. For he, with instinct worthy of a woman, turned their lessons upon her own cotmtry and Frank. This cost him something, but it had its reward. There was no more listlessness. Prevv;-'ic>ly Frank's name had scarcely been spoken to her. Mrs. Armour would have hours of hesitation and impotent regret before she brought herself to speak of her son to his Indian wife. Marion tried to do it a few times and failed; the general did it with rather a forced voice and manner, because he saw that his wife was very tender upon the point. But Richard, who never knew self-consciousness, spoke freely of Frank when he spoke at all ; and it was seeing Lali'seyes brighten and her look earnestly fixed on him when he chanced to mention I I II i I f T II I' 5, I .5 i I 84 Zbc (Translation ot a Savage. Frank's name, that determined him on his new method of instruction. It had its dangers, but he had calculated them all. The girl must be educated at all costs. The sooner that occurred the sooner would she sc her own position and try to adapt herself to her responsibilities, and face the real state of her husband's attitude towards her. He succeeded admirably. Striving to tell him about her past life, and ready to talk endlessly about her husband, of his prowess in the hunt, of his strength and beauty, she also strove to find English words for the purpose, and Richard sup- plied them with imcommon willingness. He humourec her so far as to learn many Indian words and phrases, but he was chary of his use of them, and tried hard to make her appreciative of her new life and surroundings. He watched her wak- ing slowly to an understanding of the life, and of all that it involved. It gave him a kind of fear, too, because she was sensitive, and there was the possible danger of her growing disheartened or desperate, and doing some mad thing in the hour that t Bn B\v[?vvar& Ibalt^lbour. 85 she wakened to the secret behind her marriage. His apprehensions were not without cause. For slowly there came into Lali's mind the element of comparison. She be- came conscious of it one day when some neighbouring people called at Greyhope. Mrs. Armour, in her sense of duty, which she had rigidly set before her, introduced Lali into the drawing-room. The visitors veiled their curiosity and said some pleas- ant casual things to the young wife, but she saw the half-curious, half-furtive glances, she caught a sidelong glance and smile, and when they were gone she took to looking at herself in a mirror, a thing she could scarcely be persuaded to do be- fore. She saw the difference between her carriage and others', her manner of wear- ing her clothes and others', her complex- ion and theirs. She exaggerated the difference. vShe brooded on it. Now she sat downcast and timid, and hunted in face, as the first evening she came ; now she appeared restless and excited. If Mrs. Armdtir was not exactly sympa- thetic with her, she was quiet and forbear- »» f' Pi i'.ii h I I id ii. (' t r 86 Zhc translation of a Savaoc I ^ ing*, and General Armour, like Richard, tried to draw her out, — but not on the same subjects. He dwelt upon what she did; the walks she took in the park, those hours in the afternoon when, with Mackenzie or Colvin, she vanished into th*^- beeches, makincf friends with the birds and deer and swans. liut most of all she loved to go to the stables. She was, however, asked not to go unless Richard or General Armour was with her. vShe loved horses, and these were a wonder to her. She had never known any but the wild ungroomed Indian pony, on which she had ridden in every fashion and over every kind of country. Mrs. Armour sent for a riding- master, and had riding-costumes made for her. It was intended that she should ride every day as soon as she seemed sufficiently presentable. This did not appear so very far off, for she improved daily in appear- ance. Iler hair v/as growing finer and was made np in the modest prevailing fashion; her skin, not now exposed to an inclement climate, and subject to the utmost care, was smoother and fairer; her feet encased in fine well-made boots looked much t Bn BwhwarO 1balfsibour. I smaller, her waist was shaped to fashion, and she was very straight and lissome. So many things she did jarred on her rela- tives, that they were not fully aware of the great improvement in her appearance. Even Richard admitted her trying at times. Marion went up to town to stay with Mrs. Townley, and there had to face a good deal of curiosity. People looked at her sometimes as if it was she and not Lali that was an Indian. But she carried things off bravely enough, and answered those kind inquiries, which one's friends make when we are in embarrassing situa- tions, with answers so calm and pleasant that people did not know what to think. "Yes," she said, in reply to Lady Bal- wood, "her sister-in-law might be in town later in the year, perhaps before the sea- son was over: she could not tell. Shew^as tired after her long voyage, and she pre- ferred the quiet of Greyhope ; she was fond of riding and country-life; but still she would come to town for a time." And so on. "Ah, dear me, how charming! And doesn't she resent her husband's absence I ! H J i n (< 1 p . I. Ml IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A A :A y. ^ 1.0 ^^^ II I.I 11.25 2,5 - lis ill M 14 IIIIII.6 V <^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^<1 (V % V 4^ N> 6^ f/i ^ % 6^ !ii 88 Zhc ^translation of a Savage. • ii — during the honeymoon? or did the honeymoon occur before she came over to England?" And Lady Balwood tried to say it all playfully, and certainly said it something loudly. She had daughters. But Marion was perfectly prepared. Her face did not change exi>ression. *' Yes, they had had their honeymoon on the prairies, Frank was so fascinated with the life and the people. He had not come home at once, because he was making she did not know how great a fortune over there in investments, and so Mrs. Armour came on before him, and, of course, as soon as he could get away from his busi- ness he would follow his wife." And though Marion smiled, her heart was very hot, and she could have slain Lady Balwood in her tracks. Lady Bal- wood then nodded a little patronisingly, and babbled that " she hoped so much to see Mrs. Francis Armour. She must be so very interesting, the papers said so much about her. " Now, while this conversation was going on, someone stood not far behind Marion, who seemed much interested in her and H 4 Bn BwhwarD "fcalfsljour. 89 11 'what she said. But Marion did not see this person. She was startled presently, however, to hear a strong voice say softly over her shoulder, " What a charming woman Lady Balwood is! And so in- genuous!" She was grateful, tremulous, proud. Why had he — Captain Vidall — kept out of the way all these weeks, just when she needed him most, just when he should have played the part of a man? Then she was feeling twinges at the heart too. She had seen Lady Agnes Martling that after- noon, and had noticed how the news had worn on her. She felt how much better it had been had Frank come quietly home and married her, instead of doing the wild scandalous thing that was making so many heart-burnincrs. A few minutes acfo she had longed for a chance to say something delicately acid to Lady Haldwell, once Julia Sherwood, who was there. Now there was a chance to give her bitter spirit tongue. She was glad, she dared not think how glad, to hear that voice again ; but she was angry too, and he should suffer for it, — the more so because she •1 .i , ■ , . :t < i ir 90 XTbe translation of a Savage. recongised in the tone-, and afterwards in his face, that he was still absorbingly in- terested in her. There was a little burst of thanksti^ivino^ in her heart, and then she prepared a very notable commination ser- vice in her mind. This meeting had been deftly arranged by Mrs. Townley, with the help of Edward Lambert, who now held her fingers with a kind of vanity of possession whenever he bade her good-bye or met her. Captain Vidall had, in fact, been out of the coun- try, had only been back a week, and had only heard of Frank Armour's vihalliance from Lambert at an At Home forty-eight hours before. Mrs. Townley guessed what was really at the bottom of Marion's occasional bitterness, and, piecing together many little things dropped casually by her friend, had come to the conclusion that the happiness of two people was at stake. When Marion shook hands with Captain Vidall she had herself exceedingly well imder control. She looked at him in slight surprise, and casually remarked that they had not chanced to meet lately II I> Bn BvvhwarO 1baU*1bour. 91 in the run of small-and-earlics. She ap- peared to be unconscious that he had been out of the country, and also that she had been till very recently indeed at Greyhope. He hastened to assure her that he had been away, and to lay siege to this unex- pected barrier. He knew all about Frank 's affair, and, though it troubled him, he did not see why it should make any difference in his regard for Frank's sister. Fastidi- ous as he was in all things, he was fastidi- ously deferential. Not an exquisite, he had all that vanity as to appearance, so usual with the military man; himself of the most perfect temper and sweetness of manner and conduct, the unusual disturbed him. Not posseSvSed of a vivid imagina- tion, he could scarcely conjure up this Indian bride at Greyhope. But face to face with Marion Armour he saw what troubled him, and he deter- mined that he would not meet her irony with irony, her assumed indifference with indifference. He had learned one of the most important lessons of life: never to quarrel with a woman. Whoever has so far erred has been foolish indeed. It is (I- I 111' n ^ !■ |i!' :i ■11 \m ^i\ 02 ^be c:ran8lation ot a Savaae. ' p *i the worst of policy, to say nothing of its being- the worst of art; and life should never be without art. It is absurd to be perfectly natural ; anything, anybody, can be that. Well, Captain Hume Vidall was something of an artist, more, however, in principle than by temperament. He re- fused to recognise the rather malicious adroitness with which Marion turned his remarks again upon himself, twisted out of all semblance. He was very patient. He inquired quietly, and as if honestly interested, about Frank, and said — because he thought it safest as well as most rea- sonable — that, naturally, they must have been surprised at his marrying a native; but he himself had seen some such mar- riages turn out very well, — in Japan, In- dia, the South Sea Islands, and Canada. He assumed that Marion's sister-in-law was beautiful, and then disarmed Marion by saying that he thought of going down to Greyhope immediately, to call on Gen- eral 'Armour and Mrs. Armour, and won- dered if she was going back before the end of the season. Quick as Marion was, this was said so i r ■J* Bn Bvvhvx^arD 1l3alt*1bour. m quietly that she did not quite see the drift of it. She had intended staying in Lon- don to the end of the season, not because she enjoyed it, but because she was de- termined to face Frank's marriage at every quarter, and have it over, once for all, so far as herself was concerned. But now, taken slightly aback, she said, almost with- out thinking, that she would probably go back soon, — she was not quite sure; but certainly her father and mother would be glad to see Captain Yidall at any time. Then, without any apparent relevancy, he asked her if Mrs. Frank Armour still wore her Indian costume. In anyone else the question had seemed impertinent; in him it had a touch of confidence, of the privilege of close friendship. Then he said, with a meditative look and a very calm retrospective voice, that he was once very much in love with a native girl in India, and might have become perma- nently devoted to her, were it not for the accident of his being ordered back to Eng- land simimarily. This was a piece of news which cut two ways. In the first place it lessened the 7 ' « 'I I ■ f 94 ZTbc translation o( a Saraac , } I 'It I extraordinary character of Frank's mar- riaei^e, and it roused in her an immediate curiosity, — which a woman always feels in the past " affairs " of her lover, or possible lover. Vidall did not take pains to im- press her with the fact that the matter occurred when he was almost a bov: and it was when her earnest inquisition had drawn from him, bit by bit, the circum- stances of the case, and she had forgotten many parts of her commination service and to preserve an effective neutrality in tone, that she became aware he was speak- inir ancient historv. Then it was too late to draw back. They had threaded their way through the crowd into the conservatory, where they were quite alone, and there with only a little pyramid of hydrangeas between them, which she could not help but notice chimed well with the color of her dress, he dropped his voice a little lower, and then suddenly said, his eyes hard on her, " I want your permission to go to Grey- hope." The tone drew her e3^es hastily to his, and, seeing, she dropped them again. M ;.» Bn B\vk\varJ> Ibalt'tJour. 06 Vidall had a stron^^ will, and, what is of more consequence, a peculiarly attractive voice. It had a vibration which made some of his words organ-like in sound. vShe felt the influence of it. vShe said a little faintly, her fingers toying with a hydrangea, " I am afraid I do not under- stand. There is no reas(^n why you should not go to Greyhopc without my permis- sion." *' I cannot go w^ithout it," he persisted. " I am w'aiting for my commission from you. •' She dropped her hand from the flower with a little impatient motion. She was tired, her head ached, she wanted to be alone. "Why are you enigmatical?" she said. Then quickly, " I wish I knew what is in your mind. You play with words so." She scarcely knew what she said. A woman who loves a man very much is not quick to take in the absolute declaration of that man's love on the instant; it is too wonderful for her. He felt his cheek flush with hers, he drew her look again to his. *' Marion ! Marion !" he said. That was all. 1^: ir. •iil i[i;' warn was not to be used in her new life. But Mrs. Townlcy whispered, "Ask Ma- rion to come too." Lali hesitated, and then said, a little maliciously, " Marion, will you come to my wigwam?" Marion ran to her, caught her about the • waist, and replied, gaily, "Yes, we will have ^ po7u-7vo7u — is that riglit? \'^ pim*-UHnv right?" The Indian girl shook her head with a pretty vagueness, and vanished with them. General Armour walked up and down the room briskly, then turned on his wife and said, "Wife, it was a brutal thing: Frank doesn't deserve to be — the father of her child." But Lali had moods — singular moods. She indulged in one three days after the arrival of Marion and Mrs. Townley. She had learned to ride with the side-saddle, and wore her riding-dress admirably. No- where did she show to better advantage. She had taken to riding now with General Armour on the country roads. On this r r r Bn BwhwarD 1bal(^1bour. 99 1 (lay Captain Viclall was expected, he hav- ing written to ask that he nii^dit eonie. Wluit tr<)ui)le Lali had with one of the ser- vants that niorninj^ was never tlioroii^hly expkiincd, but certain it is, she came to have a crude notion of why Frank Armour married her. The servant was dismissed duly, but tliat was after the coiitrc-tcinps. It was late afternoon. Everybody had been l)usy, because one or two other j^uests were expected besides Captain Vidall. Lali had kept to herself, sendin^^ word throuj^h Richard that vShe would not " be En^lisli," as she vaguely put it, that day. She had sent Mackenzie on some mission. She sat on the floor of her room, as she used to sit on the ground in her father's lodge. Her head was bowed in her hands, and her arms rested on her knees. Her body swayed to and fro. Presently all motion ceased. She became perfectly still. Slie looked before her, as if study- ing something. Her eyes immediately flashed. vShe rose quickly to her feet, went to her w^ardrobe, and took out her Indian costume and blanket, with which she could never be i! « i;ii pjl I f; ^ n,. In . ! i I I , ! r 'mi ^' lit I J " h 100 XLbc tTranslatlon of a Savage. y6 induced to part. Almo.st feveri-shly she took off the clothes she wore, and hastily threw them from her. Then she put on the buckskin clothes in which she had journeyed to England, drew down her hair as she used to wear it, fastened round her waist a long red sash which had been given her by a governor of the Hudson's Bay Company when he had visited her father's country, threw her blanket round her shoulders, and then eyed herself in the great mirror in the room. What she saw evidently did not please her perfectl)', for she stretched our her hands and looked at them ; she shook her head at herself and put her hand to her cheeks and pinched them, — they were not so brown as they once were, — then she thrust out her foot. She drew it back quickly in disdain. Im- mediately she caught the fashionable slip- pers from her feet and threw them among the discarded garments. She looked at herself again. Still vshe was not satisfied, but she threw up her arms, as with a sense of pleasure and freedom, and laughed at herself. She pushed out her moccasin ed foot, tapped the floor with it, nodded T r> *- ^ i Bn Bwft\var& Ibalfslbour. 101 towards it, and said a word or two in her own lang-uage. She heard someone in the next room, possibly Mackenzie. She stepped to the door leading- into the hall, opened it, went out, travelled its length,' ran down a back hallway, ont into the park towards the stables, her blanket, as her hair, flying behind her. She entered the stables, made for a horse that she had ridden much, put a bridle on him, led him out before anyone had seen her, and, catching him by the mane, suddenly threw herself on him at a bound, and, giving him a tap with a short whip she had caught up in the stab!j, headed him for the main avenue and the open road. Then a stableman saw her and ran after, but he might as well have tried to follow the wind. He forthwith proceeded to saddle another horse. Boul- ter also saw her as she passed the house, and, running in, told Mrs. Armour and the general. They both ran to the win- dow and saw dashing down the avenue a picture out of Fenimore Cooper; a sad- dlclcss horse with a rider whose fmoers ; 1 if ill vi :■ J ': ', >r' I 103 v:hc ZTranslation of a Savage. ! \ J '-,',' -i merely touched the bridle, riding as on a journey of life and death. "My God! it's Lali! She's mad! she's mad! She is striking jthat horse! It will bolt! It will kill he !" said the general. Then he rushed for a horse to follow her. Mrs. Armour's hands clasped pain- fully. For an mstant she had almost the same thought as had Marion on the first morning of Lali 's coming; but that passed, and left her gazing helplessly after the horsewoman. The flying blanket had frightened the blooded horse, and he made desperate efforts to fulfil the general's predictions. Lali soon found that she had miscalcu- lated. She was not riding an Indian pony, but a crazed, high-strung horse. As they flew, she sitting superbly and tugging at the bridle, the party coming from the railway-station entered the great gate, accompanied by Richard and Marion. In a moment they sighted this wild pair bear- ing down upon them with a terrible swift- ness. As IMarion recognised Lali she turned pale and cried out, rising in her seat. In- •• ■r If Bn BwRwarD Ihalfslbour. 103 stinctively Captain Vidall knew who it was, though he could not guess the cause of the singular circumstance. He saw that the horse had bolted, but also that the rider seemed entirely fearless. " Why, in heaven's name," he said between his teeth, " does she not let go that blanket?" At that moment Lali did let it go, and the horse dashed by them, making hard for the gate. " Turn the horses round and follow her," said Vidall to the driver. While this was doing, Marion caught sight of her father riding hard down the avenue. He passed them, and called to them to hurry on after him. Lali had not the slightest sense of fear, but she knew that the horse had gone mad. When they passed through the gate and swerved into the road, a less practised rider would have been thrown. She sat like wax. The pace was incredible for a mile, and though General iVrmour rude well, he was far behind. vSuddenly a trap appeared in the road in front of them, and the driver, seeing the runaway, set his horses at right angles to the road. It served the purpose only to ■ * i ii f- ! i ■': It 'II ill ■ 1 it 104 Cbc G:rau6lat(on of a Savage. provide another danger. Not far from where the trap was drawn, and between it and the runaway, was a lane, which ended at a farm-yard in a cul-dC'Sac. The horse swerved into it, not slacking its pace, and in the fraction of a mile came to the farm-yard. But now the fever was in Lali's blood. She did not care whether she lived or died. A high hedge formed the cul-de-sac. When she saw the horse slacking she cut it sav- agely across the head twice with a whip, and drove him at the green wall. He was of too good make to refuse it, stiff as it was. He rose to it magnificently, and cleared it; but almost as he struck the ground squarely, he staggered and fell, — the girl beneath him. He had burst a blood-vessel. The ground was soft and wet; the weight of the horse prevented her from getting free. She felt its hoof striking in its death-struggles, and once her shoulder was struck. Instinctively she buried her face in the mud, and her arms covered her head. And then she knew no more. When f:he came to, she was in the car- . J if Bn BwftwarD 1balf=1)our. ion riage within the gates of Greyhope, and Marion was bending over her. She siid- denly tried to lift herself, but could not. Presently she saw another face,— that of General Armour. It was stern, and yet his eyes were swimming as he looked at her. *' Bow ! " she said to him ; " Bow ! " and fainted again. ^'[i t m r ft I Hi i «1 ■ : i 1 ■ f ■ h i\ f i-l? CHAPTER VI. THE PASSING OF THE YEARS. ALT'S recovery was not rapid. A change had come upon her. With that strange ride had gone the last strong flicker of the desire for savage life in her. She knew now the position she held towards her husband : that he had never loved her ; that she was only an instrument for un- worthy retaliation. So soon as she could speak after her accident, she told them that they must not write to him and tell him of it. She also made them promise that they would give him no news of her at all, save that she was well. They could not refuse to promise; they felt she had the right to demand much more than that. They had begun to care for her for her- self, and when the months went by, and one day there was a hush about her room, and anxiety, afid then relief, in the faces 1 06 ■ !l: Cbe |pa00(n{j ot tbc L^cara. 107 of all, they came to care for her still more for the sake of her child. As the weeks passed, the fair-haired child grew more and more like his father; but if Lali thought of her husband they never knew by anything she said, for she would not speak of him. She also made them promise that they would not write to him of the child's birth. Richard, with his sense of justice, and knowing how much the woman had been wronged, said that in all this vShe had done quite right; that Frank, if he had done his duty after marrying her, should have come with her. And because they all felt that Richard had been her best friend as well as their own, they called the child after him. This also was Lali's wish. Coincident with her motherhood there came to Lali a new purpose. She had not lived with the Armours without absorbing some of their fine social sense and dignity. This, added to the native instinct of pride in her, gave her a new ambition. As hour by hour her child grew dear to her, so hour by hour her husband grew away from her. She schooled herself against him. At times 'l m i ::i H^ jl 108 Zbc ^Translation ot a Sarasc. M she thought she hated him. vShc felt she could never forgive him, but she would prove to him that it was she who had made the mistake of her life in marrying him; that she had been wronged, not he; and that his sin would face him with re- proach and punishment one day. Rich- ard's prophecy was likely to come true: she would defeat very perfectly indeed Frank's intentions. After the child was born, so soon as she was able, she renewed her studies with Richard and Mrs. Armour. She read every morning for hours; she rode ; she practised all those graceful arts of the toilet which belong to the social con- vention; she showed an unexpected faculty for singing, and practised it faithfully; and she begged Mrs. Armour and Marion to correct her at every point where correc- tion seemed necessary. When the child was two years old, they all went to Lon- don, something against Lali's personal in accord with what »gs. quit( she felt her duty. Richard was left behind at Greyhope. For the first time in eighteen months he was alone with his old quiet duties and u (Tbe pas0fn(j of tbc JL)car6. 109 ! 1 I I' recreations. During that time he had not neglected his pensioners, — his poor, sick, halt, and blind, — but a deeper, larger in- terest had come into his life in the person of Lali. During all that time she had seldom been ut of his sight, never out of his influence and tutelage. His days had been full, his eveyy hour had been given a keen responsible interest. As if by tacit consent, every incident or development of Lali's life was influenced by his judgment and decision. He had been more to her than General Armour, Mrs. Armour, or Marion. Schooled as he was in all the ways of the world, he had at the same time a mind as sensitive as a woman's, an indescribable gentleness, a persuasive temperament. Since, years before, he had withdrawn from the social world and become a recluse, many of his finer quali- ties had gone into an indulgent seclusion. He had once loved the world and the gay life of London, but some imtoward event, coupled with a radical love of retirement, had sent him into years of isolation at Greyhope. His tutelar relations with Lali had re- 8 I: ■; \ i \il i ir t ■ ; i 110 ;rbe ^ranalation ot a Suvagc, opened many an old spring of sensation and experience. Her shy dependency, her innocent inquisitiveness, had searched out his remotest sympathies. In teaching her he had himself been re-taught. Be- fore she came he had been satisfied with the quiet usefulness and studious ease of his life. But in her presence something of his old youthfulness came back, some reflection of the ardent hopes of his young manhood. He did not notice the change in himself. He only knew that his life was very full. He read later at nights, he rose earlier in the morning. But, un- consciously to himself, he was imdergoing a change. The more a man's sympathies and emotions are active, the less is he the philosopher. It is only when one has withdrawn from the more personal influ- ence of the emotions that one's philosophy may be' trusted. One may be interested in mankind and still be philosophical, — may be, as it were, the priest and confessor to all comers. But let one be touched in some vital corner in one's nature, and the high faultless impartiality is gone. In proportion as Richard's interest in Lali f Zbc paofiino of tbc Ijcara. Ill had grown, the universal quality of his sympathy had declined. Man is only man. Not that his benefactions as lord bountiful in the parish had j,n*o\vn perfunctory, but the calm detail of his interest was not so definite. He was the same, yet not the same. He was not aware of any difference in himself. He did not know that he looked younger by ten years. Such is the effect of mere personal sympathy upon a man's look and bearing. When, therefore, one bright May morning the family at Grey- hope, himself excluded, was ready to start for London, he had no thought but that he would drop back into his old silent life, as it was before Lali came and his brother's child was born. He was not conscious that he was very restless that morning ; he scarcely was aware that he had got up two hours earlier than usual. At the breakfast-table he was cheerful and alert. After breakfast he amused himself in play- ing with the child till the carriage was brought round. It was such a morning as does not come a dozen times a year in England. The sweet moist air blew from J ^ i 112 (Tbe (Tranelaticn o( a Savage. the meadows and iij) throui^di the lime- trees with a warm insinuating^' j^ladness. The lawn sloped delit^htfnlly away to the flowered embrasures of the park, and a fragrant abundance of flowers met the eye and cheered the senses. While Richard loitered on the steps with the child and its nurse, more excited than he knew, Lali came out and stood beside him. At the moment Richard was looking,' into the dis- tance. He did not hear her when she came. She stood near him for a moment, and did not speak. Her eyes followed the direction of his look, and idled tenderly with the prospect before her. She did not even notice the child. The same thought was in the mind of both — with a difference. Richard was wondering how anyone could choose to change the sweet dignity of that rural life for the flaring hurried delights of London and the season. He had thought this a thousand times, and yet, though he would have been little willing to ac- knowledge it, his conviction was not so impregnable as it had been. Mrs. Francis Armour was stepping from the known to the unknown. vShe was tbc ipai30ln(i ot tbc Jjcarg. 113 Icavin^^ the precincts of a life in which, socially, she had been born n^ain. Its sweetness and bcni^^n ([uietncss had all worked upon her nature and ori^nn to change her. In that it was an out-door life, full of freshness and open-air vigour, it was not antagonistic to her past. Upon this sympathetic basis had been imposed the conditions of a fine social decorum. The conditions must still exist. But how would it be when she was withdrawn from this peaceful activity of nature and set down amon^cf " those garish lights " in Cavendish Square and Piccadilly? vShe hardly knew to what she was going as yet. There had been a few social functions at Grcyhope since she had come, but that could give her, after all, but little idea of the swing and pressure of London life. At this moment she was lingering over the scene before her. She was wondering with the mi/rr wonder of an awakened mind. She had intended many times of late saying to Richard all the native grat- itude she felt; yet somehow she had never been able to say it. The moment of part- ing had come. 'Ill V j I,: I 114 tTbe translation of a Savage. "What are you thinking of, Richard?" she said now. He started and turned towards her. " I hardly know," he answered. "My thoughts were drifting." " Richard," she said, abruptly, "I want to thank 5^ou." "Thank me for what, Lali?" he ques- tioned. " To thank you, Richard, for everything, — since I came, over three 5^ears ago." He broke out into a soft little laugh, then, with his old good-natured manner, caught her hand as he did the first night she came to Greyhope, patted it in a fatherly fashion, and said, " It is the wrong way about, Lali : I ought to be thanking you, not you me. Why, look, what a stupid old fogy I was then, toddling about the place with too much time on my hands, reading a lot and forgetting everything; and here you came in, gave me something to do, made the little I know of any use, and ran a pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle of life. If there are any speeches of gratitude to be made, they are mine, they are mine." ^be ipassing ot tbe l^ears. 115 "Richard," she said, very quietly and gravely, " I owe you more than I can ever say — in English. You have taught me to speak in your tongue enough for all the usual things of life, but one can only speak from the depths of one's heart in one's na- tive tongue. And see," she added, with a painful little smile, " how strange it would sound if I were to tell you all I thought in the language of my people, — of my people, w^hom I shall never see again. Richard, can you understand what it must be to have a father whom one is never likely to see again? — whom if one did see again, something painful would happen? We grow away from people against our will ; we feel the same towards them, but they cannot feel the same towards us; for their world is in another hemisphere. We want to love them, and we love, remember, and are glad to meet them again, but they feel that we are unfamiliar, and, because wo have grown different outwardly, they seem to miss some chord that used to ring. Richard, I — I " She- paused. "Yes, Lali," he assented, "yes, I \nv derstand you so far; but speak out." I [ i 1 f .;5-# f! i 116 Tibc ZTranelatlon of a Savage. " I am not happy," she said. *' I never shall be happy. I have my child, and that is all I have. I cannot go back to the life in which I was born : I must go on as I am, a stranger among a strange people, pitied, suffered, cared for a little, — and that is all." The nurse had drawn away a little dis- tance with the child. The rest of the family were making their preparations in- side the house. There was no one near to watch the singular little drama. "You should not say that," he added: "we all feel you to be one of us." " But all your world does not feel me to be one of them," she rejoined. " We shall see about that, when you go up to town. You are a bit morbid, Lali. I don't wonder at your feeling a little shy; but then you will simply carry things before you, — now you take my word for it ! For I know London pretty well." She held out her ungloved hands. " Do they compare with the white hands of the ladies you know?" she said. *' They are about the finest hands I have I I Cbe Ipa06(ng of tbe L^cars. 117 ever seen," he replied. "Yon can't see yourself, sister of mine." " I do not care very much to see my- self," she said. "If I had not a maid I expect I vShould look very shiftless, for I don't care to look in a mirror. My only mirror used to be a stream of water in summer," she added, "and a corner of a looking-glass got from the Hudson's Bay fort in the winter." "Well, you are missing a lot of enjoy- ment," he said, "if you do not use your mirror much. The rest of us can appre- ciate what you would see there." She reached out and touched his arm. " Do you like to look at me?" she ques- tioned, with a strange simple candour. For the first time in many a year, Richard Armour blushed like a girl fresh from school. The question had come so sud- denly, it had gone so quickly into a sensi- tive corner of his nature, that he lost com- mand of himself for the instant, yet had little idea wiiy the command was lost. He touched the fingers on his arm affection- ately. "Like to look at you? — like to look at % \ .' ft 1 • < .1 : 1 I f '\\ v:^ .'I i' ' J t ;-^ 118 c:be ITranslatfon of a Savage. you? Why, of course we all like to look at you. You are very fine and handsome — and interestin^[j. " " Richard," she said, drawing her hands away, " is that why you like to look at me?" He had recovered himself. He laughed in his old hearty way, and said, *' Yes, yes : why, of course ! Come, let us go and see the boy," he added, taking her arm and hurrying her down the steps. " Come and let us see Richard Joseph, the pride of all the Armours. " She moved beside him in a kind of dream. " She had learned much since she came to Greyhope, but yet she could not at that moment have told exactly why she asked Richard the question that had con- fused him, nor did she know quite what lay behind the question. But every prob- lem which has life works itself out to its appointed end, if fumbling human fingers do not meddle with it. Half the miseries of this world are caused by forcing issues, in every problem of the affections, the emotions, and the soul. There is a law working with which there should be no i if le b i Zbc ipassing of tbe l{?cacs. 119 t^ tampering, lest in foolish interruption come only confusion and disaster. Against every such question there should be writ- ten the one word, Wait. Richard Armour stooped over the child. *'A beauty," he said, "a perfect little gentleman. Like Richard Joseph Armour there is none," he added. "Whom do you think he looks like, Richard?" she asked. This was a ques- tion she had never asked before since the child was born. Whom the child looked like everyone knew; but within the past 5^ear and a half Francis Armour's name had seldom been mentioned, and never in connection with the child. The child's mother asked the question with a strange quietness. Richard answered it without hesitation. "The child looks like Frank," he said. " As like him as can be. " "I am glad," she said, "for all your sakes. " "You are very deep this morning, Lali," Richard said, with a kind of help- lessness. " Frank will be pretty proud of the youngster when he comes back. 1 I y { i 120 ZTbe ITranalation ot a Savage. But he won't be prouder of him than I am." *' I know that," she said. " Won't you be lonely without the boy — and me, Richard?" Again the question went home. "Lonely? I should think I would," he said. " I should think I would. But then, you see, school is over, and the mas- ter stays behind and makes up the marks. You will find London a jollier master than I am, Lali. There'll be lots of shows, and plenty to do, and smart frocks, and no end of feeds and frolics; and that is more amusing than studying three hours a day with a dry old stick like Dick Armour. I tell you what, when Frank comes " She interrupted him. *' Do not speak of that, "she said. Then, with a sudden burst of feeling, though her words were scarcely audible, " I owe you everything, Richard, — everything that is good. I owe him nothing, Richard, — nothing but what is bitter." "Hush, hush," he said; "you must not speak that way. Lali, I want to say to you " 'it III j ^J Zbc ipaaslng of tbc L'cars. 121 not to At that moment General Armour, Airs. Armour, and Marion appeared on the door-step, and the carriage came wheel ini^ up the drive. What Richard intended to say was left unsaid. The chances were it never would be said. "Well, well," said General Armour, calling down at them, " escort his imperial highness to the chariot which awaits him, and then ho! for London town. Come along, my daughter," he said to Lali, " come up here and take the last whiff of Greyhope that you will have for six months. Dear, dear, what lunatics we all are, to be sure! Why, we're as happy as little birds in their nests out in the de- cent coimtry, and yet we scamper off to a smoky old city by the Thames to rush along with the world, instead of sitting high and far away from it and watching it go by. God bless my soul, I'm old enough to know better. Well, let nie help you in, my dear," — he added to his wife, — " and in 3^ou go, IMarion, and in you go, your imperial highness," — he passed the child awkwardly in to Marion, — "and in you go, my daughter," he added, as he ' 1 li i I fl f! M i i :: > ^ I > > f 1 ■V t I t 1:33 ^bc translation ot a Savage. handed Lali in, pressing her hand with a brusque fatherliness as he did so. He then got in after them. Richard came to the side of the carriage and bade them all good-bye one by one. Lali gave him her hand, but did not speak a word. He called a cheerful adieu, the horses were whipped up, and in a moment Richard was left alone on the steps of the house. He stood for a time looking, then he turned to go into the house, but changed his mind, sat down, lit a cigar, and did not move from his seat until he was sum- moned to his lonely luncheon. Nobody thought much of leaving Rich- ard behind at Greyohpe. It seemed the natural thing to do. But still he had not been left alone — entirely alone — for three years or more. The days and weeks went on. If Rich- ard had been accounted eccentric before, there was far greater cause for the term now. Life dragged. Too much had been taken out of his life all at once; for, in the first place, the family had been drawn together more during the trouble which Lali's advent had brought; then ( I I fi i ,. \\ 1 Cbc ipasslng ot tbc L'care. i2;j Lich- the not ree .ich- [ore, lerm had for, )een Lible then ) the child and its mother, his pupil, were gone also. He wandered about in a kind of vague unrest. The hardest thing in this world to get used to is the absence of a familiar footstep and the cheerful greet- ing of a familiar eye. And the man with no chick or child feels even the absence of his dog from the hearth-rug when he re- turns from a journey or his day's work. It gives him a sense of strangeness and loss. But when it is the voice of a woman and the hand of a child that is missed, you can back no speculation upon that man's mood or mind or conduct. There is no influence like the influence of habit, and that is how, when the minds of people are at one, physical distances and differences, no matter how great, are invisible, or at least not obvious. Richard Armour was a sensible man; but when one morning he suddenly packed a portmanteau and went up to town to Cavendish vSquare, the act might be con- sidered from two sides of the equation. If he came back to enter again into the social life which for so many years he had abjured, it was not very sensible, because ■ - (' I t i. , \ 124 Cbc (Translation of a Savage. the world never welcomes its deserters: it might if men and women grew yoimgcr instead of older. If he came to see his family, or because he hungered for his god-child, or because — but we are hurry- ing the situation. It were wiser not to state the problem yet. The afternoon that he arrived at Cavendish Square all his family were out except his brother's wife. Lali was in the drawing-room, receiving a visitor who had asked for Mrs. Armour and Mrs. Francis Armour. Tlie visitor was received by Mrs. Francis Armour. The visitor knew that Mrs. Armour was n<^t at home. She had by chance seen her and Marion in Bond Street, and was not seen by them. She straightway got into her carriage and drove up to Cavendish Square, hoping to find Mrs. Francis Ar- mour at home. There had been house- parties at Greyhope since Lali had come there to live, but this visitor, though once an intimate friend of the family, had never been a guest. The visitor was Lady Haldwell, once Miss Julia Sherwood, who had made pos- sible what was called Francis Armour's r. CI)C ipa^eliHi ot tbc t?car6. l'^5 nee boS' Lir's tragedy. vSince Lali had cumc to town Lady Haldvvt)!! had seen her, but had never met her. vShe was not at heart wiekcd, but there are few women who can resist an opportunity of anatomisiui^ and reekonin^i^ up the merits and demerits of a woman who lias married an old lover. When that woman is in the position of Mrs. Francis Armour, the situation has an unusual piquancy and interest. Hence Lady Haldwell's journey of inquisition to Cavendish Scjuarc. As Richard passed the drawin^i;-room door to ascend the stairs, he recog-nised the voices. Once a sort of heathen as Mrs. Francis Armour had been, she still could g^rasp the situation with considerable clearness. There is nothing keener than one woman's instinct regarding another woman, where a man is concerned. jMrs. Francis Armour received Lady Haldwell with a quiet state- liness which, if it did not astonish her, gave her sufficient warning that matters were not, in this little comedy, to be all her own wa}^ Thrown upon the mere resources of wit 9 :> 'u 120 Zbc Cranalatlon of a Savaflc. and langiiaj^c, Mrs. Francis Arniuur must have been at a disadvantage. For Lady Ilaldwell had a j^ood gift of speech, a pretty talent for epithet, and no unneces- sary tenderness. vShe i)orc Lali no malice. She was too decorous and high for that. In her mind tlie wife of the man she had discarded was a mere commonpkice catas- trophe, to be viewed without horror, may be with pity. She had heard the alien spoken well of by some people ; others had seemed indignant that the Armours should try to push "a red woman " into English society. Truth is, the Armours did not try at all to push her. For over three years they had let society talk. They had not entertained largely in Cavendish Square since Lali came, an^^ "-hose invited to Greyhope diad a chance to refuse the invitations if they chose. Most people did not choose to decline them. But Lady Haldvvell was not of that number. She had never been invited. But now in town, when entertainment must be more general, she and the Armours were prepared for social interchange. Behind Lady H aid well's visits curiosity I ., t L f tTbc ipa00ina of tbc Ijcnre. IJT iity chiefly ran. vShe was in a way sorry for Frank Armour, for she had been fund cjf him, after a fashion, always fonder of him than of Lord Ilaldwell. She had married with her finders holding the scales of ad- vantage; and Lord Haldwell dressed well, was immensely rich, and the title had a charm. When ^Irs. Francis Armour met her with her stran^^e, impressive di^i^-nity, she was the slightest bit confused, but not outwardly, vShe had not expected it. At first Lali did not know who her visitor was. She had not caught tlic name dis- tinctly from the servant. Presently Lady Haldwell said, as Lali gave her hand, *' I am Lady Haldwell. As Miss Sherwood I was an old friend of your husband." A scornful glitter came into Mrs. Ar- mour's eyes, — a peculiar touch of bur- nished gold, an effect of the light at a certain angle of the lens. It gave for the instant an uncanny look to the face, almost something malicious. She guessed why this woman had come. vShe knew the whole history of the past, and it touched II "f r 128 ^be {Iranslation ot a Savage. ) ' I i ! : ... < :. V'll*^ (IM her in a tender corner. She knew she was had at an advantag-e. Before her was a woman perfectly trained in the fine social life to which she was born, whose equa- nimity w^as as regular as her features. Her- self was by nature a creature of impulse, uf the woods and streams and open life. The social convention had been engrafted. As yet she was used to thinking and speak- ing with all candour. vShe was to have her training in the charms of superficiality, but that was to come ; and when it came she would not be an unskilful apprentice. Per- haps the latent subtlety of her race came to help her natural candour at the moment. For she said at once, in a slow, quiet tone, — " I never heard my husband speak of you. Will you sit down?" *' And Mrs. Armour and Marion are not in? — No, I suppose 5''our huwsband did not speak much of his old friends." The attack was studied and cruel. But Lady Haldwell had been stung by Mrs. Armour's remark, and it piqued her that this was possible. " Oh, yes, he spoke of some of his friends, but not of you." M Cbc passing ot tbe Ucars. 129 nt. of not not hat his " Indeed ! That is strange. " "There was no necessity," said Mrs. Armour, quietly. "Of discussing- me? I suppose not. But by some chance " " It was just as well, perhaps, not to anticipate the pleasure of our meeting." Lady Haldwell was surprised. She had not expected this cleverness. They talked casually for a little time, the visitor try- ing in vain to delicately give the conver- sation a personal turn. At last, a little foolishly, she grew bolder, with a needless selfishness. *' So old a friend of your husband as I am, I am hopeful you and I may be friends also." Mrs. Armour saw the move. " You are very kind," she said, conventionally, and offered a cup of tea. Lady Haldwell now ventured unwisely. She was nettled at the other's self-posses- sion. " But, then, in a w^ay I have been your friend for a long time, Mrs. Armour." The point was veiled in a vague tone, but Mrs. Armour imderstood. Her reply was not wanting. Ml .li ■ii ''[| I % ■ 1! I' <: , ! t !: i" I I - |l;. i* I, ',1 130 Zbc G^canslation of a Savage. "Anyone who has been a friend to my husband has, naturally, claims upon me." Lady Haldwell, in spite of herself, chafed. There was a subtlety in the wo- man before her, not to be reckoned with lightly. "And if an enemy?" she said, smiling. A strange smile also flickered across Mrs. Armour's face, as she said, " If an enemy of my husband called, and was penitent, I should — offer her tea, no doubt." " That is, in ihis country ; but in your own country, which, I believe, is different, what would you do?" Mrs. Armour looked steadily and coldly into her visitor's eyes. " In my country enemies do not compel us to be polite." "By calling on you?" Lady Haldwell was growing a little reckless. " But then that is a savage country. We are different here. I suppose, however, your husband told you of these things, so that you were not surprised. And when does he come? His stay is protracted. Let me see, how long is it? Ah, yes, near four years." Here she became altogether reckless. I U ' f Cbe iPasefncj of tbe L^cara. 181 ' 5S, which she regretted afterwards, for she knew, after all, what was due herself. " He will come back, I suppose." Lady Haldwell was no coward, else she had hesitated before speaking in that way before this woman, in whose blood was the wildness of the heroical north. Per- haps she guessed the passion in Lali's breast, perhaps not. In any case she would have said what she listed at the moment. Wild as were the passions in Lali's breast, she thought on the instant of her child, of what Richard Armour would say; for he had often talked to her aboiit not showing her emotions and passions, had told her that violence of all kinds was not wise or proper. Her fingers ached to grasp this beautiful, exasperating woman by the throat. But after an effort at calm- ness she remained still and silent, looking at her visitor with a scornful dignity. Lady Haldwell presently rose, — she could not endure the furnace of that look, — and said good-bye. She turned towards the door. Mrs. Armour remained immovable. At that instant, however, someone stepped 1 '^ I' I )■: 'J S I 132 ^be tlranelatlon of a Savage. u I'f 11 ih'ii ^- f I Is !:ii. It"' >■ 111' i f in from behind a large screen just inside the door. It was Richard Armour. He was pale, and on his face was a sternness the like of which this and perhaps only one other woman had ever seen on him. He interrupted her. "Lady Haldwell has a fine talent for irony," he said, "but she does not always use it wisely. In a man it would bear another name, and from a man it would be differently received." He came close to her. "You are a brave woman," he said, " or you would have been more care- ful. Of course you knew that my mother and sister were not at home." She smiled languidly. "And why 'of course'?" " I do not know that; only I know that I think so ; and I also think that my brother Frank's worst misfortune did not occur when Miss Julia Sherwood trafficked with- out compunction in his happiness." "Don't be oracular, my dear Richard Armour, " she said ; " you are trying, really. This seems almost melodramatic; and melodrama is bad enough in Drury Lane." i '/ 1 (Tbc iPasBfng of tbc L^cars. 133 I at ler nr h- rd " You are not. a good friend even to your- self," he answered. " What a discoverer you are! And how much in earnest! Do come back to the world, Mr. Armour : you would be a relief, a new sensation. " " I fancy I shall come back, if only to see the 'engineer hoist with his own' — torpedo." He paused before the last word to give it point, for her husband's father had made his money out of torpedoes. She felt the sting in spite of her, and she saw the point. " And then we will talk it over at the end of the season," he added, "and com- pare notes. Good-afternoon." "You stake much on your hazard," she said, glancing back at Lali, who still stood immovable. " Au revoir I " She left the room. Richard heard the door close after her and the servant retire. Then he turned to Lali. As he did so, she ran forward to him with a cry. "Oh, Richard, Richard!" she said, with a sob, threw her arms over his shoulder, and let her forehead drop on his 1 1 ill i ii r i 1,. I h I !iMi; / 'I t/ ■f 134 XLbc ^ranelatlon of a Savage. ■ -■■■ . ...i— ■■■ .mm. ■ — -^ I , , 111 ■■■■^ breast. Then came a sudden impulse in his blood. Long after he shuddered when he remembered what he thought at that instant ; what he wished to do ; what rich madness possessed him. He knew now why he had come to town ; he also knew why he must not stay, or, if staying, what must be his course. He took her gently by the arm and led her to a chair, speaking cheerily to her. Then he sat down beside her, and all at once again, her face wet and burning, she flung herself forward on her knees beside him, and clung to him. "Oh, Richard, I am glad you have come," she said. '"I would have killed her if I had not thought of you. I want you to stay ; I am always better when you aie with me. I have missed you, and I know that baby misses you too." He had his cue. He rose, trembling a little. "Come, come," he said heartily, "it's all right, it's all right — my sister. Let us go and see the youngster. There, dry your eyes, and forget all about that woman. She is only envious of you. Come, for his imperial highness!" Zbc ipassfng of tbc Itiears. 135 She was in a tumult of feeling. It was seldom that she had shown emotion in the past two years, and it was the more ample when it did break forth. But she dried her eyes, and together they went to the nursery. She dismissed the nurse, and they were left alone by the sleeping child. She knelt at the head of the little cot and touched the child's forehead with her lips. He stooped down also beside it. "He's a grand little fellow," he said. "Lali," he continued, presently, "it is time Frank came home. I am going to write for him. If he does not come at once, I shall go and fetch him." "Never! never!" Her eyes flashed an- grily. " Promise that you will not. Let him come when he is ready. He does not care." She shuddered a little. " But he will care when he comes, and you — you care for him, Lali." Again she shuddered, and a whiteness ran under the hot excitement of her cheeks. She said nothing, but looked up at him, then dropped her face in her hands. "You do care for him, Lali," he said, earnestly, almost solemnly, his lips twitch-' i > k\ ih 13G ,i| ^be c;ran0lation ot a Savage. ing slightly. " You must care for him ; it is his right: c,nd he will — I swear to you I know he will — care for you." In his own mind there was another though^ a hard, strange thought ; and it had to do with the possibility of his brother not caring for this wife. Still she did not speak. " To a good woman, with a good hus- band," he continued, "there is no one — there should be no one — like the father of her child. And no woman ever loved her child more than you do yours." He knew that this was special pleading. She trembled, and then dropped her cheek beside the child's. " I want Frank to be happy," he went on: "there is no one I care more for than for Frank." She lifted her face to him now, in it a strange light. Then her look ran to con- fusion, and she seemea to read all that he meant to convey. He knew she did. He touched her shoulder. " You must do the best you can every way, for Frank's sake, for all our sakes. I will help you — God knows I will — all I can." I{ tlbc ipasslfifl of tbc Jicare, VVi " Oh, yes, yes," she said, from the child's pillow. He could see the flame in her cheek. " I understand. " She put out her hand to him, but did not look up. " Leave me alone with my baby, Richard, she pleaded. He took her hand and pressed it again and again in his old, unconscious way. Then he let it go, and went slowly to the door. There he turned and looked back at her. He mastered the hot thought in him. "God help me!" she murmured from the cot. The next morning Richard went back to Greyhope. 1 ]\ !■; \i CHAPTER VII. A COURT-MARTIAL. iT was hard to tell, save for a cer- tain deliberateness of speech and a colour a little more pro- nounced than that of a Spanish woman, that Mrs. Frank Armour had not been brought up in England. She had a kind of grave sweetness and distant charm which made her notable at any table or in an)' ball-room. Indeed, it soon became apparent that she was to be the pleas- ant talk, the interest of the season. This was tolerably comforting to the Armours. Again Richard's prophecy had been ful- filled, and as he sat alone at Greyhope and read the Morning Post, noticing Lali's name at distinguished gatherings, or, pick- ing up the World, saw how the lion-hunters talked extravagantly of her, he took some satisfaction to himself that he had foreseen her triumph where others looked for her 13S I I B Court*/lftartial. 139 I, downfall. Lali herself was not elated: it gratified her, but she had been an angel, and a very unsatisfactory one, if it had not done so. As her confidence grew (though outwardly she had never appeared to lack it greatly), she did not hesitate to speak of herself as an Indian, her country as a good country, and her people as a noble if dispossessed race; all the more so if she thought reference to her nationality and past was being rather conspicuously avoided. She had asked General Armour for an interview with her husband's solic- itor. This was granted. When she met the solicitor, she asked him to send no newspaper to her husband containing any reference to herself, nor yet to mention her in his letters. She had never directly received a line from him but once, and that was after she had come to know the truth about his marriage with her. She could read in the conventional sfmtenccs, made simple as for a child, the strained politeness, and his absolute silence as to whether or not a child had been born to them, the utter ab- sence of affection for her. She had also I •r I' i i 140 Zbc Zvmelntion ot a Savaoe. induced General Armour and his wife to give her husband's solicitor no informa- tion regarding the birth of the child. There was thus apparently no more in- ducement for him to hurry back to Eng- land than there was when he had sent her off on his mission of retaliation, which had been such an ignominious failure. For the humiliation of his family had been short-lived, the affront to Lady Haldwell nothing at all. The Armours had not been human if they had failed to enjoy their daughter-in-law's success. Although they never, perhaps, would quite recover the disappointment concerning Lady Ag- nes Martling, the result was so much better than they in their cheerfullest mo- ments dared hope for, that they appeared genuinely content. To their grandchild they were devotedly attached. Marion was his faithful slave and admirer, so much so that Captain Vidall, who now and then was permitted to see the child, declared himself jealous: he and Marion were to be married soon. The wedding had been delayed owing to his enforced absence abroad. Mrs. Ed- » •n B Court^/libartlaL 141 ward Lambert, once Mrs. Townlcy, shyly regretted in Lali's presence that the child, or one as sweet, was not hers. Ilcr hus- band evidently shared her opinion, from the extraordinary notice he took of it wlicn his wife was not present. Not that Richard J()sei:)h Armour, Jr., was always en c^riiirnci\ but when asked for by his faithful friends and admirers he was amiably produced. Meanwhile, Frank Armour across the sea was engaged with many things. His business concerns had not prospered pro- digiously, chiefly because his judgment, as his temper, had grown somewhat un- certain. His popularity in the Hudson's Bay country had been at some tension since he had shipped his wife away to England. Even the ordinary savage mind saw something imusual and imdomestic in it, and the general hospitality declined a little. Armour did not immediately guess the cause ; but one day, about a year after his wife had gone, he found occasion to reprove a half-breed, by name Jacques Pontiac; and Jacques, with more honesty than politeness, said some hard words, and asked how much he paid for his Eng- 10 if!^ I I f ■ •i, ^ 143 tTbc translation ot a Savage. lish hired devils to kill his wife. Strange to say, he did not resent this startling re- mark. It set him thinking. He began to bkime himself for not having written oftener to his people — and to his wife. He wondered how far his revenge had succeeded. He was most ashamed of it now. He knew that he had done a dishon- ourable thing. The more he thought upon it the more angry with himself he became. Yet he dreaded to go back to England and face it all: the reproach of his people; the amusement of society ; his wife herself. He never attempted to picture her as a civ- ilised being. He scarcely knew her when he married her. She knew him much better, for primitive people are quicker in the play of their passions, and she had come to love him before he had begun to notice her at all. Presently he ate his heart out with mor- tification. To be yoked for ever to— a sav- age! It was horrible! And their chil- dren? It was strange he had not thought of that before. Children? — He shrugged his shoulders. There might possibly be a child, but children — never! But he f V^ B Court*/Iftartial. 143 doubted even regarding a child, for no word had come to him concerning that possibilit5\ He was even most puzzled at the tone and substani.e of their letters. From the beginnixig there had been no re- proaches, no excitement, no railing, but studied kindness and conventional state- ments, through which Mrs. Armour's so- licitous affection scarcely ever peeped. He had shot his bolt, and got — considera- tion, almost imperturbability. They ap- peared to treat the matter as though he were a wild youth who would yet mend his ways. He read over their infrequent letters to him ; his to them had been still more infrequent. In one there was the statement that '' she was progressing fa- vourably with her English;" in another, that " she was riding a good deal ;" again, that " she appeared anxious to adapt her- self to her new life." At all these he whistled a little to him- self, and smiled bitterly. Then, all at once, he got up and straightway burned them all. He again tried to put the mat- ter behind him for the present, knowing that he must face it one day, and staving i ^" 'I 1 •V Jl ! tl 1 p 1 1 ( 1 ; ' h < 144 ^be ^ranelatlon of a Savage. off its reality as long as possible. He did his utmost to be philosophical and say his ^lu'J rcfcrt, but it was easier tried than done; for Jacques Pontiac's words kept rankling in his mind, and he found him- self carrying round a vague load which made him abstracted occasionally, and often a little reckless in action and speech. In hunting bear and moose he had proved himself more daring than the oldest hunt- er, and proportionately successful. He paid his servants well, but was sharp with them. He made long hard expeditions, defy- ing the weather as the hardiest of prai- rie and mountain men mostly hesitate to defy it; he bought up much land, then, dissatisfied, sold it again at a loss, but subsequently made final arrangements for establishing a very large farm. When he once became actiiall)^ interested in this he shook off something of his moodiness and settled himself to develop the thing. He had good talent for initiative and adminis- tration, and at last, in the time when his wife was a feature of the London season, he found his scheme in working order, and B Courts/iibartial. 145 the necessity of going- to England was forced upon him. Actually he wished that the absolute necessity had presented itself before. There was always the moral necessity, of course — but then ! Here now was a busi- ness need ; and he must go. Yet he did not fix a day or make definite arrange- ments. He could hardly have believed himself such a coward. With liberal em- phasis he called himself a sneak, and one day at Fort Charles sat down to write to his solicitor in Montreal to say that he would come on at once. Still he hesitated. As he sat there thinking, Eye-of-the-Moon, his father-in-law, opened the door quietly and entered. He had avoided the chief ever since he had come back to Fort Charles, and practically had not spoken to him for a year. Armour flushed slightly with annoyance. But presently with a touch of his old humour he rose, held out his hand, and said, ironically, "Well, father-in-law, it's about time we had a big talk, isn't it? We are not very inti- mate for such close relatives." The old Indian did not fully understand ; 1^ '4 : 1.^ m f F i'^ J \i 1 146 tibe G^ranslatfon of a Savage. \i the meaning or the tone of Armour's speech, but he said, "//cw/" and, reach- ing out his hand for the pipe offered him, lighted it, and sat down, smoking in si- lence. Armour waited; but, seeing that the other was not yet moved to talk, he turned to his letter again. After a time, Eye-of-the-Moon said, gravely, getting to his feet, "Brother!" Armour looked up, then rose also. The Indian bowed to him courteously, then sat down again. Armour threw a leg over the corner of the table and waited. "Brother," said the Indian, presently, " you are of the great race that conquers us. You come and take our land and our game, and w^e at last have to beg of you for food and shelter. Then you take our daughters, and we know not where they go. They are gone like the down from the thistle. We see them not, but you remain. And men say evil things. There are bad words abroad. Brother, what have you done with my daughter?" Had the Indian come and stormed, begged money of him, sponged on him, or abused him, he had taken it very a Court*/IRartlal, 147 calmly, — he, in fact, had been superior. But there was dignity in the chief's man- ner; there was solemnity in his speech; his voice conveyed resoluteness and ear- nestness, which the stoic calm of his face might not have suggested; an 1 Armour felt that he had no advantage at all. Be- sides, Armour had a conscience, though he had played some rare tricks with it of late, and it needed more hardihood than he possessed to face this old man down. And why face him down? Lali was his daughter, blood of his blood, the chief- tainess of one branch of his people, hon- oured at least among these poor savages, and the old man had a right to ask, as asked another more famous, '' Where is my daughter?" His hands in his pockets, Armour sat silent for a minute, eying his boot, as he swung his leg to and fro. Presently he said, " Eye-of-the-Moon, I don't think I can talk as poetically as you, even in my own language, and I shall not try. But I should like to ask you this: Do you be- lieve any harm has come to your daughter — to my wife?" ii 1 1 ..-ii H ^ il If- I ill 148 Zbc translation of a Savage. The old Indian forgot to blow the to- bacco-smoke from his mouth, and, as he sat debating, lips slightly apart, it came leaking out in little trailing clovids and gave a strange appearance to his iron- featured face. He looked steadily at Ar- mour, and said, " You are of those who rule in your land," — here Armour pro- tested, — ''you have much gold to buy and sell. I am a chief," — he drew himself up, — "I am poor: we speak with the straight tongue; it is cowards who lie. Speak deep as from the heart, my brother, and tell me where mv*dauofhter is." Ar- mour could not but respect the chief for the way this request was put, but still it galled him to think that he was under suspicion of having done any bodily in- jury to his wife, so he quietly persisted: " Do you think I have done Lali any harm?" "The thing is strange," replied the other. " You are of those who are great among your people. You married a daughter of a red man. Then she was yours for less than one moon, and you sent her far away, and you stayed. Her I )', h il' B Court*/lRartial, 149 father was as a dog in your sight. Do men whose hearts are clear act so? They have said strange things of you. I have not believed; but it is good I know all, that I may say to the tale-bearers, You have crooked tongues. " Armour sat for a moment longer, his face turned to the open window. He was perfectly still, but he had become grave. He was about to reply to the chief, when the trader entered the room hurriedly with a newspaper in his hand. He paused abruptly when he saw Eye-of-the-Moon. Armour felt that the trader had something important to communicate. He guessed it was in the paper. He mutely held out his hand for it. The trader handed it to him hesitatingly, at the same time point- ing to a paragraph, and saying, " It is nearly two years old, as you see. I chanced uiK)n it by accident to-day." It was a copy of a London evening pa- per, containing a somewhat sensational account of Lali's accident. It said that she was in a critical condition. This time Armour did not ask for brandy, but the trader put it out beside him. He shook i m t ! II I ! • {| ■ ! I I i ! i I' .1 fi ?' ^ 150 XLbc translation of a Sa^^a^c. his head. "Gordon," he said presently, *' I shall leave here in the morning. Please send my men to me." The trader whispered to him : " She was all right, of course, long ago, Mr. Armour, or yon would have heard." Armour looked at the date of the paper. He had several letters from England of a later date, and these said nothing of her illness. It bewildered him, made him imeasy. Perhaps the first real sense of his duty as a husband came home to him there. For the fii"st time, he was anxious about the woman for her own sake. The trader had left the room. " What a scoundrel I've been !" said Ar- mour between his teeth, oblivious, for the moment, of Eye-of-the-Moon's presence. Presently, bethinking himself, he turned to the Indian. "I've been debating," he said. " Eye-of-the-Moon, my wife is in England, at my father's home. I am going to her. Men have "iied in thinking I would do her any injury , but, but — never mind, the harm was of another kind. It isn't wise for a white man and an Indian to marry, but when they are married — \ B Court*/IBarttal. 1M ;ently, Please le was mour, 3aper. nd of ig of e him of his him xious The d Ar- •r the ence. irned ,"he is in '. am king lever . It dian ed— well, they must live as inan and wife should live, and, as I said, I am going to my wife — your daughter." To say all this to a common Indian, whose only property was a half -dozen po- nies and a couple of tepees, required something very like moral courage; but then Armour had not been exercising moral courage during the last year or so, and its exercise was profitable to him. The next morning he was on his way to Montreal, and Eye-of-the-Moon was the richest chief in British North America, at that moment, by five thousand dollars or so. I I t it I CHAPTER VIII. TO EVERY M/iN HIS HOUR. T was the close of the season: many people had left town, but festivities were still on. To a stranger the season might have seemed at its height. The Armours were giving a large party in Cavendish Square before going back again to Grey- hope, w^here, for the sake of Lali and her child, they intended to remain during the rest of the summer, in preference to going on the Continent or to vScotland. The only unsatisfactory feature of Lali's season was the absence of her husband. Naturally there were those who said strange things re- garding Frank Armour's stay in America; but it was pretty generally known that he was engaged in land-speculations, and his club friends, who perhaps took the pleas- antest view of the matter, said that he was very wise indeed, if a little cowardly, in 152 i *s . ^0 JExfCt^ iKsm 1b\e 1bour. 15;] on. / stayinj^^ abroad until hivS wife was educated and ready to take her position in society. There was one thing on which they were ail a-^reed: Mrs. Frank Armour either had a mind superior to the charms of their sex, or was incapable of that vanity which hath many suitors, and says, " vSo far shalt thou go, and " The fact is, Mrs. Frank Armour's mind was superior. vShe had only one object, — to triumph over her husband grandly, as a woman righteously might. She had vanity, of course, but it was not ignoble. She kept one thing in view ; she lived for it. Her translation had been successful. There were times when :>he 'emembered her father, the wild days on the prairies, the buffalo-hunt, tracking the deer, tribal battles, the long silent hours of the winter, and the warm vsummer niglits when she slept in the prairie grass or camped with her people in the trough of a great land-wave. Some- times the hunger for its freedom, and its idleness, and its sport, came to her greatly; but she thought of her child, and she put it from her. She was ambitious for him ; she w^as keen to prove her worth as a wife 154 Xlbc Zvamlation ot a Savage* ap^ainst her husband's tinworthincss. This perhaps saved her. She mij^ht have h)St had her life been without this motive. The very moriiii\jjf of this notable recep- tion, General Armour had received a note from Frank Armour's scjlicitor, saying that his son was likely to arrive in London from America that day or the next. Frank had written to his people no word of his coming; to his wife, as we have said, he had not written for months; and before he started back he would not write, be- cause he wished to make what amends he could in person. He expected to find her improved, of course, but still he could only think of her as an Indian, showing her common prairie origin. His knowl- edge of her before their marriage had been particularly brief; she was little more in his eyes than a thousand other Indian women, save that she was better-looking, was whiter than most, and had finer fea- tures. He could not very clearly remember the tones of her voice, because after mar- riage, and before he had sent her to Eng- land, he had seen little or nothing of her. When General Armour received the Co JCvcre /tan 1bit3 t)our. 155 news of Frank's return, he told his wife and Marion, and they consulted to^^ether whether it were good to let Lali know at once. He mi^dit arrive that evening. If so, the position would be awkward, be- cause it was impossible to tell how it might affect her. If they did tell her, and Frank happened not to arrive, it might unnerve her so as to make her appearance in the evening doubtful. Richard, the wiseacre, the inexhaustible Richard, was caring for his cottagers and cutting the leaves of new books — his chiefest pleasure — at Greyhope. They felt it was a matter they ought to be able to decide for them- selves, but still it was the last evening of Lali's stay in town, and they did not care to take any risk. vStrange to say, they had come to take pride in their son's wife ; for even General and Mrs. Armour, high- minded and of serene social status as they were, seemed not quite insensible to the pleasure of being an axle on which a sys- tem of social notoriety revolved. At the opportune moment Captain Vidall was announced, and, because he and Ma- rion were soon to carry but one name ;l|l II 'H 4 150 Zhc Q^ranelatlon of a Savage. ftii fii ! between them, he was called into family consultation. It is somew^hat singular that in this case the women were quite wrong and the men were quite right. For General Armour and Captain Vidall were for silence until Frank came, if he came that day, or for telling her the following morning, when the function was over. And the men prevailed. Marion was much excited all- day ; she had given orders that Frank's room should be made ready, but for whom, she gave no information. While Lali was dressing for the evening, something excited and ner- vous she entered her room. They were now the best of friends The years had seen many shifi.ing scenes in their com- panionship; they had been as often at war as at peace; but they had .'espected each other, each after her own fashion; and now they had a real and mutual regard. Lali's w^as a slim, lithe figure, wearing its fashionable robes with an air of possession, and the face above it, if not entirely beauti- ful, had a strange warm fascination. The girl had not been a chieftainess for noth- ing. A look of quiet command was there, 4 Co i£vct>8 /Iftan Ibfa ibour. 157 family ngular quite , For 1 were came owing over. 7; she ;hould ive no ng for i ner- were :s had com- it war [ each ; and igard. ng its ssion, satiti- The noth- ;here. but also a far-away expression which gave a faint look of sadness even when a smile was at the lips. The smile itself did not come quickly; it grew; but above it all was hair of perfect brown,— most rare,— setting off her face as a plume does a hel- met. She showed no surprise when Marion entered. She welcomed her with a smile and outstretched hand, but said nothin<>-. Lan,"said Marion, somewhat abruptly, —she scarcely knew why she said it,— "are you happy?" It was strange how the Indian girl had taken on those little manners of so- ciety which convey so much by inflection. She lifted her eyebrows at Marion, and said presently, in a soft, deliberate voice, "Come, Marion, we will go and see little Richard; then I shall be happy." She linked her arm through Marion's. Marion drummed her fingers lightly on the beautiful arm, and then fell to won- dering what slie should say next. They passed into the room where the child lay sleeping; they went to his little bed, and Lali stretched out her hand gently, touch- ing the curls of the child. Running a II I ly 158 ^be Ura;]0lation of a Savage. f If in J finger through one delicately, she said, with a still softer tone than before, " Why should not one be happy?" Marion looked up slowly into her eyes, let a hand fall on her shoulder gently, and replied, '* Lali, do you never wish Frank to come?" Lali's fingers came from the child, the colour mounted slowly to her forehead, and she drew the girl away again into the other room. Then she turned and faced Marion, a deep fire in her eyes, and said, in a whisper almost hoarse in its intensity, "Yes; I wish he would come to-night." She looked harder yet at Marion; then, with a flash of pride and her hands clasp- ing before her, she drew herself up, and added, "Am I not worthy to be his wife now? Am I not beautiful — for a savage?" There w^as no common vanity in the action. It had a noble kind of wistfulness, and a serenity that entirely redeemed it. Marion dated her own happiness from the time when Lali met her accident, for the evening of that disastrous day she issued to Captain Hume Vidall a commission which he could never, wished never to t. XLo Bverg /Hban 1b(6 Ibour. 159 said, resign. Since then she had been at her best, — we are all more or less selfish creatures, — and had grown gentler, curb- ing the delicate imperiousness of her na- ture, and frankly, and without the least pique, taken a secondary position of in- terest in the household, occasioned by Lali's popularity. She looked Lali up and down with a glance in which many feel- ings met, and then, catching her hands warmly, she lifted them, put them on her ow^n shoulders, and said, " My dear beauti- ful savage, 5^ou are fit and worthy to be Queen of England; and Frank, when he comes " "Hush I" said the other, dreamily, ^nd put a finger on Marion's lips. "I kno.v w^hat you are going to say, but I do not wish to hear it. He did not love me then. He used me " She shuddered, put her hands to her eyes with a pained, trembling motion, then threw her head back with a quick sigh, *' But I will not speak of it. Come, we are for the dance, Marion. It is the last, to-night. To-morrow " Slie paused, looking straight before her, lost in thought. "1j 160 Zbc translation of a Savage. 1 1 i J pi i:i I I i I ■'I "Yes, to-morrow, Lali?" "I do not know about to-morrow," was the reply. " Strange things come to me." Marion longed to tell her then and there the great news, but she was afraid to do so, and was, moreover, withheld by the remembrance that it had been agreed she should not be told. She said nothing. At eleven o'clock the rooms were filled. For the fag end of the season, people seemed unusually brilliant. The evening itself was not so hot as common, and there was an extra array of distinguished guests. Marion was nervous all the evening, though she showed little of it, being most prettily employed in making people pleased with themselves. Mrs. Armour also was not free from apprehension. In reply to inquiries concerning her son she said, as she had often said during the sea- son, that he might be back at any time now. Lali had answered always in the same fashion, and had shown no sign that his continued absence was singular. As the evening wore on, the probability of Frank's appearance seemed less; and the Armours began to breathe more freely. Zo Everts ^an Ibis 1bour. 161 Frank had, however, arrived. He had driven straight from Euston to Cavendish Square, but, seeing the house lighted up, and guests arriving, he had a sudden feel- ing of uncertainty. He ordered the cab- man to take him to his club. There he put himself in evening-dress, and drove back again ^o the house. He entered quietly. At the moment the hall was almost deserted : people were mostly in the ball-:^oom and supper-room. He paused a moment, biting his moustache as if in per- plexity. A strange timidity came on him. All his old dash and self-possession seemed to have forsaken him. Presently, seeing a number of people entering the hall, he made for the staircase, and went hastily up. Mechanically he went to his own room, and found it lighted. Flowers were set about, and everything was made ready as for a guest. He sat down, not thinking, but dazed. Glancing up, he saw his face in a mirror. It was bronzed, but it looked rather old and careworn. He shrugged a shoulder at that. Then, in the mirror he saw also something else. It startled him so that he sat perfectly still for a moment M 'ii II ss li (i I ■ S 162 ^be G:ran6lation of a Savaae. looking at it. It was someone laughing at him over his shoulder; a child! He got to his feet and turned round. On the table was a very large photograph of a smiling child — with /i/s eyes, A/s face. He caught the chair-arm, and stood looking at it a little wildly. Then he laughed a strange laugh, and the tears leaped to his eyes. He caught the picture in his hands, and kissed it, — very foolishly, men not fathers might think, — and read the name beneath: Richard Joseph Armour; and again, beneath that, the date of birth. He then put it back on the table and sat look- ing at it; looking, and forgetting, and remembering. Presently the door opened, and some- one entered. It was Marion. She had seen him pass through the hall ; she had then gone and told her father and mother, to prepare them, and had followed him up-stairs. He did not hear her. She stepped softly forward. "Frank," she said, "Frank," — and laid a hand on his shoulder. He started up and turned his face on her. Then he caught her hands and kissed her. "Marion!" he said, and he could say no more. But presently he pointed towards the photograph. She nodded her head. " Yes, it is your child, Frank. Though, of course, you don't deserve it. . . . Frank, dear," she added, " I am glad— we shall all be glad- to have you back ; but you are a wicked man." She felt she must say that. Now he only nodded, and still looked at the portrait. ** Where is— my wife?" he added, presently. " She is in the ball-room. " Marion was wondering what was best to do. He caught his thumb-nail in his teeth. He winced in spite of himself. "I will go to her," he said, " and then, the baby." "I am glad," she replied, "that you have that much sense of jij^tice left, Frank : the wife first, the baby afterwards. But do you think you deserve either?" He became moody, and made an impa- tient gesture. "Lady Agnes Martling is here, and also Lady Haldwell," she per- sisted, cruelly. She did not mind, because she knew he would have enough to com- pensate him afterwards. "Marion," he said, "say it all, and let ! r ^1 ^ , ■ 1 "' 1 ■ 1 1 !'f 1 . 164 C^be translation of a Savage. nic have it over. Say what you like, and I'll not whimper. I'll face it. But I want to see my child." vShc was vSorry for him. She had reiliy wanted ^o see how much he was capable of Fr a the matter. (( Wait here, ai^K he said. a That will be best and i vvill '' 'ng your wife to you." He said nothing, but assented with a motion of the hand, and she left him where he was. He braced himself for the interview. Assuredly a man loses some- thing of natural courage and self-confi- dence when he has done a thing of which he should be, and is, ashamed. It seemed a 1 ng time (it was in reality but a couple of minutes) before the door opened again, and Marion said, " Frank, your wife!" and then retreated. The door closed, leaving a stately figure standing just inside it. The figure did not move forward, but stood there, full of life and fine excitement, but very still also. Frank Armour was confounded. He came forward vslowly, looking hard. Was this distinguished, handsome, reproachful woman his wife, — Lali, the Indian girl ^0 Brere /IRan Ibis Ibour. 165 whom he had married in a fit of pique and brand; ? He could hardly believe his eyes; and yet her eyes looked out at him with something that he remembered too, together with something which he did not rememl)er, making him uneasy. Clearly, his great mistake had turned from ashes into fruit. " Lali, my wife!" "^'^ said, and held out his hand. She reached out hers r. a. teously, but her fingers gave him no resp ise. "We have many thing to say to each other," she said, "but they cannot be said now. I shall be missed from the ball- room." "Missed from the ball-room!" He al- most laughed to think how strange this sounded in his ears. As if interpreting his thought, she added, " You see, it is our last affair of the season, and we are all anxious to do our duty perfectly. Will you go down with me? . . . We can talk afterwards." Her continued self-possession utterly confused him. She had utterly confused Marion also, when told that her husband was in the house. She had had presenti- I A \ : u Ml ■-'■ I 'r: f 1;' ■ ! :<'\ >^i ''V 166 ;rbc Cranelatton ot a Savage. mcnts, and, besides, she had been school- ing herself for this hour for a lon«^ time. She turned towards the door. " But," he asked, like a supplicant, "our child! I want to see our child." She lifted her eyebrows, then, seeing the photograph of the baby on the table, understood how he knew. *' Come with me, then," she said, with a little more feeling. She led the way through the hall, and paused at her door. " Remember that we have to appear amongst the guests direct- ly," she said, as though to warn him against any demonstration. Then they entered. She went over to the cot and drew back the fleecy curtain from over the sleeping boy's head. His fingers hungered to take his child to his arms. *' He is magnifi- cent! magnificent!" he said, with a great pride. " Why did you never let me know of it?" " How could I tell what you would do?" she calmly replied. " You married me — wickedly, and used me wickedly after- wards; and I loved the child." ** You loved the child!" he repeated after her. " Lali," he said, *' I don't deserve it, ' Si. Co lErcrij IfUfUn ijls fjour. 107 our but forgave mc, if you can — fur the child's sake." "We had better go below," she calmly replied ; " we have both duties to do. You will of course — appear with me — before them?" The slight irony in the tone cut him horribly. He offered his arm in silence. They passed into the hall and to the stair- case. "It is necessary," she said, "to ap- pear cheerful before one's guests." She had him at an advantage at every point. "We will be cheerful, then," was his reply, spoken with a grim kind of hu- mour. "You have learned it all, haven't you?" he added. They were just entering the ball-room. " Yes, with your kind help — and absence," she replied. The surprise of the guests was some- what diminished by the fact that Marion, tell in q: General Armour and his wife first of Frank's return, industriously sent the news buzzing about the room. The two went straight to Frank's father and mother. Their parts were all ex- cellently played. Then Frank mingled i iiit i! I 108 Ubc ^Translation of a Savage. amongst the guests, being very heartily greeted, pnd heard eongratulations on all sides. Old elub friends rallied him as a deserter, and new accjuaintanccs flocked about him ; and presently he awakened to the fact that liis Indian wife had been an interest of the season, was not the least admired person present. It was altogether too good luck for him; but he had an im- comfortablc conviction that he had a long path of penance to walk before he could hope to enjoy it. All at once he met Lady Haldwell, who, in spite of all, still accepted invitations to General Armour's house — the strange scene between Lali and herself having never been disclosed to the family. He had nothing but bitterness in his heart for her, but he spoke a few smooth words, and she languidly congratulated him on his bronzed appearance. He asked for a dance, but she had not one to give him. As she was leaving, she suddenly turned as though she had forgotten something, and looking at him, said, " I forgot to con- gratulate you on your marriage. I hope it is not too late." do JEvcrtJ /Hban fbie Ibour. U)9 He bowed. " Your congratulations are so sincere," he said, "that they would be <) propos late or early." When he stood with his wife whilst the guests were leaving, and saw with what manner she carried it all off, — as tliough she had been born in the good land of good breeding, — he was moved alternately with wonder and shame, — shame that he had intended this noble creature as a sacrifice to his ugly temper and spite. When all the guests were gone and the family stood alone in the drawing-room, a silence sud- denly fell amongst them. Presently Ma- rion said to her mother in a half -whisper, "I wish Richard were here." They all felt the extreme awkwardness of the situation, especially when Lali bade General Armour, Mrs, Armour, and Marion good-night, and then, turning to her husband, said, "Good-night," — she did not even speak his name. " Perhaps you would care to ride to-morrow morning. I always go to the Park at ten, and this will be my last ride of the season." Had she written out an elaborate procla- mation of her intended attitude towards I tr f / 170 Ube translation of a Saraac, her husband, it could not have more clearly conveyed her mind than this little speech, delivered as to a most friendly acquaint- ance. General Armour pulled his mous- tache fiercely, and, it is possible, enjoyed the situation, despite its peril. Mrs. Ar- mour turned to the mantel and seemed tremulously engaged in arranging some bric-a-brac. Marion, however, with a fine instinct, slid her arm through that of Lali, and gently said, " Yes, of course Frank will be glad of a ride in the Park. He used to ride with me every morning. But let us go, us three, and kiss the baby good- night, — 'good-night till we meet in the morning.'" She linked her arm now through Frank's, and as she did so he re- plied to Lali, '' I shall be glad to ride in the morning, but " "But we can arrange it at breakfast," said his wife, hurriedly. At the same time she allowed herself to be drawn away to the hall with her husband. He was very angry, but he knew he had no right to be so. He choked back his wrath, and moved on amiably enough, and suddenly the fashion in which the tables \ i ,11' J '."'T. r^??r; va n - j ff>-pes^r&;^ a &r j'^< -' -B-."«s*^raF . ; f«( Zo lEvcrs /IRan 1F3i6 Ibcur. 171 had been turned on him struck him with its tragic comedy, and he involuntarily smiled. His sense of humour saved him from words and acts which might possibly have made the matter a pure tragedy after all. He loosed his arm from Marion's. " I must bid our father and mother good- night. Then I will join you both, — 'in the court of the king.'" And he turned and went back, and said to his father as he kissed his mother, " I am had at an ad- vantage, general." *'And serves you right, my boy. You had the odds with you : she has captured them like a born soldier." His mother said to him, gently, " Frank, you blamed us, but remember that v'e wished only your good. Take my advice, dear, and try to love your wife and win her confidence." "Love her, — fry to love her!" he said. "I shall easily do that. But the oth- er ?" He shook his head a little, though what he meant perhaps he did not know quite himself, and then followed Marion and Lali up-stairs. Marion had tried t^. escape from Lali, but was told that she ' ''■%'■ i m I 1 1 - H 172 ^be translation of a Savage, must stay ; and the three met at the child's cot. Marion stooped down and kissed its forehead. Frank stooped also and kissed its cheek. Then the wife kissed the other cheek. The child slept peacefully on. *' You can always see the baby here be- fore breakfast, if you choose," said Lali; and she held out her hand again in good- night. At this point Mario]i stole away, in spite of Lali's quick little cry of '' Wait, Marion!" and the two were left alone again. " I am very tired," she said. " I would rather not talk to-n ght. " The dismissal was evident. He took her hand, held it an instant, and presently said, " I will not detain you, but I would ask you, Lali, to remember that you are my wife. Nothing can alter that." *' Still we are only strangers, as you know," she quietly rejoined. " You forget the days we were together, — after we were married," he cautiously urged. " I am not the same girl : , . . you killed her, . . , We have to start again. ... I know all." 1 *-!^; Zo jEvcrs ^an Ibis 1bour. 173 you '' You know that in my wretched ang-er and madness I " "Oh, please do not speak of it," she said, "it is so bad even in thoui^ht. " " But will you never forgive me, and care for me? — we have to live our lives together. " "Pray let us not speak of it now," she said, in a weary voice ; then, breathlessly, " It is of much more consequence that you shoidd love me — and the child." He drew himself up with a choking sigh, and spread out his arms to her. "Oh, my wife!" he said. "No, no," she cried, "this is unreason- able; we know so little of each other. . . . Good-night, again." He turned at the door, came back, and, stooping, kissed the child on the lips. Then he said, " You are right. I deserve to suffer. . . . Good-night." But when he was gone she dropped on her knees, and kissed the child many times on the lips also. 12 f/ I ' :^«.. CHAPTER IX. THE FAITH OF COMRADES. & i '*. ^ii: ■' h HEN Francis Armour left his wife's room he did not go to his own room, but quietly- descended the stairs, went to the library, and sat down. The loneliest thing in the world is to be tete-a-tcte with one's conscience. A man may have a bad hour with an enemy, a sad hour with a friend, a peaceful hour with himself, but when the little dwarf, conscience, perches upon every hillock of remembrance and makes slow signs — those strange symbols of the lanofuatre of the soul — to him, no slave upon the treadmill suffers more. The butler came in to see if anything w^as required, but Armour only greeted him silently and waved him away. His brain was painfully alert, his memory singularly awake. It seemed that the in- cident of this hour had so opened up every 174 f ^be Jfaitb ot ComraDce. IT.j go channel of his intelligence that all his life ran past him in fantastic panorama, as by that illumination whi'^i comes to the drowning man. He seemed under some strange spell. Once or twice he rose, rubbed his eyes, and looked round the room, — the room where as a boy he had spent idle hours, where as a student he had been in the hands of his tutor, and as a young man had found recreations such as belong Lo ambitious and ardent youth. Every corner was familiar. Nothing was changed. The books upon the shelves were as they were placed twenty years ago. And yet he did not seem a part of it. It did not seem natural to him. He was in an atmosphere of strangeness, — that atmosphere which surrounds a man, as by a cloud, when some crisis comes upon him and his life seen to stand still, whirling upon its narrow )ase, while the world appears at an intenniiiable distance, even as to a deaf man wb sees yet cannot hear. There came home to him at that mo- ment with a force indescribable the shame- lessness of the act he committed four vears I rt \i 176 Zhc translation of a Savage. ago. V Si He had thoin'-ht to come back to miserable humiliation. For four years he had refused to do his dut)^ as a man towards an innocent woman, — a woman, though in part a savage, — now transformed into a gentle, noble creature of delight and good- ness. How had he deserved it? He had sown the storm, it was but just that he should reap the whirlwind; he had scat- tered thistles, could he expect to gather grapes? He knew that the sympathy of all his father's house was not with him, but with the woman he had wronged. He was glad it was so. Looking back now, it sc-emed so poor and paltry a thing that he, a man, should stoop to revenge him- self upon those who had given him birth, as a kind of insult to the woman who had lightly set him aside, and should use for that purpose a helpless confiding girl. To revenge one's self for wrong to one's self is but a common passion, which has little dignity; to avenge someone whom one has loved, man or woman, — and, be- fore all, woman, — has some touch of no- bility, is redeemed by loyalty. For his act there was not one word of defence ^be jpaitb ot Comrades, 177 () c s II a d e t- )f at Ll- id 's IS Tl 3- is :e to be made, and he was not prepared to make it. The cic^ars and liquors were beside him, but he did not touch them. He seemed very far away from the ordinary details of his life: he knew he had before him hard travel, and he was not confident of the end. He could not tell how long he sat there. After a time the ticking of the clock seemed painfully loud to him. Now and again he heard a cab rattling through the Square, and the foolish song of some drunken loiterer in the night caused him to start painfully. Everythi:;;^ jarred on him. Once he got up, went to the window, and looked out. The moon was shining full on the Square. He wondered if it would be well for him to go out and find some quiet to his nerves in walking. He did so. Out in the Square he looked up to his wife's window. It was lighted. Long time he walked up and down, his eyes on the window. It held him like a charm. Once he leaned against the iron railings of the garden and looked up, not moving for a time. Presently he saw the curtain of the window raised, and against the dim w ITS iTbe translation ot a Sava^jc. Ir ■ M. litil'ht of the room was outlined the figure of his wife. He knew it. She stood for a moment looking out into the night. She could not see him, nor could he see her features at all plainly, but he knew that she, like him, was alone with the catas- trophe which his wickedness had sent upon her. Soon the curtain was drawn down again, and then he went once more to the house and took his old seat beside the table. He fell to brooding, and at last, exhausted, dropped to a troubled sleep. He woke with a start. Someone was in the room. He heard a step behind him. He came to his feet quickly, a wild light in his eyes. He faced his brother Richard. Late in the afternoon Marion had tele- graphed to Richard that Frank was coming. He had been away visiting some poor and sick people, and when he came back to Greyhope it was too late to catch the train. But the horses were harnessed straight- way, and he was driven into town, — a three hours' drive. He had left the horses at the stables, and, having a latch-key, had come in quietly. He had seen the light in the study, and guessed who was fe XLbe ipaftb of CcmraDee. 179 there. lie entered, and saw his brotlicr asleep. He watched him fur a moment and studied him. Then he moved away to take off his hat, and, as he did so, stum- bled slightly. Then it was Frank waked, and for the first time in five years they looked each other in the ryes. Tliey both stood immovable for a moment, and then Richard caught Frank's hand in both of his and said, "God bless you, my boy! I am glad you are back." "Dick! Dick!" was the reply, and Frank's other hand clutched Richard's shoulder in his strong emotion. They stood silent for a moment longer, and then Richard recovered himself. He waved his hand to the chairs. The strain of the situation was a little painful for them both. Men are shy with each other where their emotions are in play. " "Why, my boy," he said, waving a hand to the wine and liquors, " full bottles and unopened boxes? Tut, tut! here'sapretty how-d'ye-do. Is this the way you toast the home quarters?* You're a fine soldier for an old mess!" So saying, he poured out some whiskey, ',] [ 180 ^be c:ratt0iat(on of a Sava(ic. then opened the box of cig^ars and pushed them towards his brotlier. He did not care particularly to drink or smoke him- self, but a man — an Englishman — is a strange creature. He is most natural and at ease when he is engaged in eating and drinking. He relieves every trying situa- tion by some frivolous and selfish occupa- tion, as of dismembering a partridge or mixing a punch. ''Well, Frank," said his brother, "now what have you to say for yourself? Why didn't you come long ago? You have played the adventurer for five years, and what have you to show for it? Have you a fortime?" Frank shook his head, and twisted a shoulder. '' What have you done that is worth the doing, then?" " Nothing that I intended to do, Dick," was the grave reply. " Yes, I imagined that. You have seen t/icm, have you, Frank?" he added, in a softer voice. Frank blew a great cloud of smoke about his face, and through it he said, " Yes, Dick, I have seen a damned sight more than I deserve to see. " r Zbc jfaitb ot ComraOce. 181 It ' ) "Oh, of course; I know that, my boy; but, so far as I can sec, in another direc- tion you are getting quite what you de- serve: your wife and child are up-stairs; you arc here." He paused, was silent for a moment, then leaned over, caught his brother's arm, and said, in a low, strenuous voice, "Frank Armour, you laid a hateful little plot for us. It wasn't manly, but we for- gave it and did the best we could. But see here, Frank, take my woid for it, you have had a lot of luck: there isn't one woman out of ten thousand that would have stood the test as your wife has stood it: injured at the start, constant neglect, temptation " he paused. " ^ly boy, did you ever think of that, of the tempta- tion to a woman neglected bv her husband? The temptation to men? Yes, you have had a lot of luck. There has been a special providence for you, my boy; but not for your sake. God doesn't love neglectful husbands, but I think He is pretty sorry for neglected wives." Frank was very still. His head drooped, the cigar hung unheeded in his fmgers for IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) S*'4i. 1.0 I.I 1.25 I 2.8 M 1^ 12.0 sl^l J4 U. 11.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 iV \^ :n>^ \ \ <^ <- ;-i ! I 11 . 1.) 1 ij i f i I I 182 Zbc Q:ran6lat(on ot a Savage. ■■—■ ' -* ' — — - . ■ ■ ■■ . . - — - " ' ■ ' — — ---. -■' .. — ..I — ■ mmt a moment, and he said at last, " Dick, old comrade, I've thought it all over to-night since I came back, — everything that you've said. I have not a word of defence to make, but, by heaven! I'm going to win my wife's love if I can, and when I do it I'll make up for all my cursed foolishness — see if I don't." "That sounds well, Frank," was the quiet reply. " I like to hear you. talk that way. You would be very foolish if you did not. What do you think of the child?" "Can you ask me what I think? He is a splendid little fellow." " Take care of him, then, take good care of him: you may never have another," was the grim rejoinder. Frank winced. His brother rose, took his arm, and said, " Let us go to our rooms, Frank. There will be time enough to talk later, and I am not so young as I once was. " Truth to say, Richard Armour was not so young as he seemed a few months be- fore." His shoulders were a little stooped, he was grayer about the temples. The little bit of cynicism which had appeared in that remark about the care of the child I :■ ZTbe iPaitb of ComraDea. 183 M showed also in the lines of his mouth; yet his eyes had the same old, true, honest look. But a man cannot be hit in mortal places once or twice in his life without its being- etched on his face or dropped like a pinch of aloe from his tongue. Still they sat and talked much longer, Frank showing better than when his brother came, Richard gone gray and tired. At last Richard rose and motioned towards the window. "See, Frank," he said, " it is morning." Then he went and lifted the blind. The gray, unpurged air oozed on the glass. The light was break- ing- over the tops of the houses. A cross- ing-sweeper early to his task, or holding the key of the street, went pottering by, and a policeman glanced up at them as he passed. Richard drew down the curtain again. "Dick," said Frank, suddenly, "you look old. I wonder if I have changed as much." Six months before Frank Armour would have said that his brother looked young! "Oh, you look young enough, Frank," was the reply. " But I am a good deal ) ! I' liH : I . I 184 Zbc Cranelation of a Savage. older than I was five years ago. . . . Come, let us go to bed." Many weeks afterwards an anxious family stood about the cot of a sick child. The family doctor had just left the room. Marion, turning to the father and mother, said, " Greyhope will be like itself again now. I will go and tell Richard that the danger is over." As she turned to do so, Richard opened the door and came in. " I have seen the doctor," he began, in his cheerful tones, *' and the little chap is going to pull along now like a house afire." Tapping his brother affectionately on the shoulder, he was about to continue, but he saw what stopped him. He saw the beginning of the end of Frank Armour's tragic comedy. He and Marion left the room as quickly as was possible to him, for, as he said, humor- ously, "he was slow at a quick march," and a moment after the wife heard without demur her husband's tale of love for her. Yet, as if to remind him of the wrong he had done, Heaven never granted Frank Armour another child. THE END. 1 . D. APPLETON AND COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS. i L BY S. R. CROCKETT. Uniform edition. Each, lamo, cloth, $1.50. ADS' LOVE, Illustrated. In this fresh and charming story, which in ?;ome respects recalls "The Lilac Siinbonnet," Mr. Crockett returns to Galloway and pictures the humor and pathos of the life which he knows so well. r^LEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CITY. His Prog- ^^ ress and Adventures. Illustrated. " A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled. ... If there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic rai^amufirm." — London Daily Chronicle. " In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more graphic picture of contemporary hcotoh life than in 'Cleg Kelly.' . . . It is one of the great books." — Boston Daily Advertiser. " One of the most successful of Mr. Crockett's works." — Brooklyn Eagle. B OG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. Third edition. " Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and burn. . . . Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They are fragments ot the author's early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression's grasp." — Boston Courier. " Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character." — Boston Home yonrnal. " One dips into the book anywhere and reads on and on, fascinated by the writer's charm oi mzxiner."— Minneapolis Tribune. (T'JLE LILAC SUN BONNET. Eighth edition. "A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, whole- some, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman ; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year, it has escaped our notice." — New York Times. " The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, a naturalness and a certamty, which places ' The Lilac Siinbonnet' among the best stories of the time." — New York Mail and Express. •' In its own line this little love story can hardly be excelled. It is a pastoral, an i