This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>



[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them.  D.W.]





THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 1.



CONTENTS
Volume 1.
I.        HIS GREAT MISTAKE
II.       A DIFFICULT SITUATION
III.      OUT OF THE NORTH
IV.       IN THE NAME OF THE FAMILY
V.        AN AWKWARD HALF-HOUR

Volume 2.
VI.       THE PASSING OF THE YEARS
VII.      A COURT-MARTIAL
VIII.     TO EVERY MAN HIS HOUR

Volume 3.
IX.       THE FAITH OF COMRADES
X.        "THOU KNOWEST THE SECRETS OF OUR HEARTS"
XI.       UPON THE HIGHWAY
XII.      "THE CHASE OF THE YELLOW SWAN"
XIII.     A LIVING POEM
XIV.      ON THE EDGE OF A FUTURE
XV.       THE END OF THE TRAIL




INTRODUCTION

The Translation of a Savage was written in the early autumn of 1893, at
Hampstead Heath, where for over twenty years I have gone, now and then,
when I wished to be in an atmosphere conducive to composition.  Hampstead
is one of the parts of London which has as yet been scarcely invaded by
the lodging-house keeper.  It is very difficult to get apartments at
Hampstead; it is essentially a residential place; and, like Chelsea, has
literary and artistic character all its own.  I think I have seen more
people carrying books in their hands at Hampstead than in any other spot
in England; and there it was, perched above London, with eyes looking
towards the Atlantic over the leagues of land and the thousand leagues of
sea, that I wrote 'The Translation of a Savage'.  It was written, as it
were, in one concentrated effort, a ceaseless writing.  It was, in
effect, what the Daily Chronicle said of 'When Valmond Came to Pontiac',
a tour de force.  It belonged to a genre which compelled me to dispose of
a thing in one continuous effort, or the impulse, impetus, and fulness of
movement was gone.  The writing of a book of the kind admitted of no
invasion from extraneous sources, and that was why, while writing 'The
Translation of a Savage' at Hampstead, my letters were only delivered to
me once a week.  I saw no friends, for no one knew where I was; but I
walked the heights, I practised with my golf clubs on the Heath, and I
sat in the early autumn evenings looking out at London in that agony of
energy which its myriad lives represented.  It was a good time.

The story had a basis of fact; the main incident was true.  It happened,
however, in Michigan rather than in Canada; but I placed the incident in
Canada where it was just as true to the life.  I was living in
Hertfordshire at the time of writing the story, and that is why the
English scenes were worked out in Hertfordshire and in London.  When I
had finished the tale, there came over me suddenly a kind of feeling that
the incident was too bold and maybe too crude to be believed, and I was
almost tempted to consign it to the flames; but the editor of 'The
English Illustrated Magazine', Sir C.  Kinloch-Cooke, took a wholly
different view, and eagerly published it.  The judgment of the press was
favourable,--highly so--and I was as much surprised as pleased when Mr.
George Moore, in the Hogarth Club one night, in 1894, said to me: "There
is a really remarkable play in that book of yours, 'The Translation, of a
Savage'."  I had not thought up to that time that my work was of the kind
which would appeal to George Moore, but he was always making discoveries.
Meeting him in Pall Mall one day, he said to me: "My dear fellow, I have
made a great discovery.  I have been reading the Old Testament.  It is
magnificent.  In the mass of its incoherence it has a series of the most
marvellous stories.  Do you remember--" etc.  Then he came home and had
tea with me, revelling, in the meantime, on having discovered the Bible!

I cannot feel that 'The Translation of a Savage' has any significance
beyond the truthfulness with which I believe it describes the
transformation, or rather the evolution, of a primitive character into a
character with an intelligence of perception and a sympathy which is
generally supposed to be the outcome of long processes of civilisation
and culture.  The book has so many friends--this has been sufficiently
established by the very large sale it has had in cheap editions--that I
am still disposed to feel it was an inevitable manifestation in the
progress of my art, such as it is.  People of diverse conditions of life
have found in it something to interest and to stimulate.  One of the most
volcanic of the Labour members in the House of Commons told me that the
violence of his opposition to me in debate on a certain bill was greatly
moderated by the fact that I had written 'The Translation of a Savage';
while a certain rather grave duke remarked to me concerning the character
of Lali that "She would have been all right anywhere."  I am bound to say
that he was a duke who, while a young man, knew the wilds of Canada and
the United States almost as well as I know Westminster.




THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE

CHAPTER I

HIS GREAT MISTAKE

It 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 possessed of a kind of maliciousness and cynicism 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 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 unhappiness, or
was other than a person who had ludicrously come to bear the name of Mrs.
Francis Armour.  If any one 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 yet the population of half-
breeds went on increasing.

Frank Armour had been a popular man in London.  His club might be found
in the vicinity of Pall Mall, his father's name was high and honoured in
the Army List, one of his brothers had served with Wolseley in Africa,
and Frank himself, having no profession, but with a taste for business
and investment, had gone to Canada with some such intention as Lord
Selkirk's in the early part of the century.  He owned large shares in the
Hudson's Bay Company, and when he travelled through the North-West
country, prospecting, he was received most hospitably.  Of an inquiring
and gregarious nature he went as much among the half-breeds--or 'metis',
as they are called--and Indians as among the 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
consequences of momentary rashness in commercial 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 and of good family.  His people had not looked quite kindly on
this engagement; they had, indeed, tried in many ways to prevent it;
partly because of Miss Sherwood's poverty, and also because they knew
that Lady Agnes Martling had long cared for him, and was most happily
endowed with wealth and good looks also.  When he left for Canada they
were inwardly glad (they imagined that something might occur to end the
engagement)--all except Richard, the wiseacre of the family, the book-
man, the drone, who preferred living at Greyhope, their Hertfordshire
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 every anecdote 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.  While others had gossiped
and manoeuvred 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 Haldwell, 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 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 despatched 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 newspaper announcing the
marriage of Lord Haldwell 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 engagement, and, towards its close,
assuming, with a charming regret, that all was over, and that the last
word had been said between 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-wow
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 handwriting 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,
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 Armour, 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 for something.  The trader understood.  He was a cool-headed
Scotsman; he knew that there were some things best not inquired 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
discourteous.  Armour had discovered Miss Sherwood'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 his 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 when 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 Morning 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 forehead, 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 despatch-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 until he had recovered himself.  He laughed now painfully.  It had
been better 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 peculiarities;
and perhaps the most sensible words he ever wrote were in that letter
thrust unceremoniously into Frank Armour's pocket.  Armour had received a
terrible blow.  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 bitter 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, he
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, undeveloped 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 refined 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 should be absolute and lasting, it should
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 believed, had helped,
out of mere selfishness, to tumble his happiness into the shambles.

He was older by years than an hour ago.  But he was not without the
faculty of humour; that was why he did not become 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, while 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 assurances of gold.  So that when Armour summoned this one
in, and told him what was required of him, and slipped a generous 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 education, he might have
influenced Frank Armour and prevented the notable mishap and scandal.
As it was, Armour took more brandy.

Then he went down to Eye-of-the-Moon's lodge.  A few hours afterwards the
missionary met him there.  The next morning Lali, the daughter of Eye-of-
the-Moon, and the chieftainess of a portion of her father's tribe, whose
grandfather had been a white man, was introduced to the Hudson's Bay
country as Mrs. Frank Armour.  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 resting day or night.  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 particulars 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 wished him to marry 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
share the affection 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 well be a companion in the circumstances.  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 costumes of the race to which she was going.  Her own
costume was picturesque, but it might appear unusual in London society.
Still, they could use their own judgment about that.

Then, when she was gone beyond recall, 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 fortunes, 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 gentle wit, and hinting with
careful kindness that a sudden blow was better for a man than a lifelong
thorn in his side.  Of Julia Sherwood he had nothing particularly bitter
to say.  He delicately suggested that she had acted according to her
nature, and that in the see-saw of life Frank had had a sore blow; but
this was to be borne.  The letter did not say too much; it did not
magnify the difficulty, it did not depreciate it.  It did not even
directly counsel; it was wholesomely, tenderly judicial.  Indirectly, it
dwelt upon the steadiness and manliness of Frank's character; directly,
lightly, and without rhetoric, it enlarged upon their own comradeship.
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 friendship and confidence--which might be the most unselfish thing
in the world--between two men.  With the letter before him Frank Armour
saw his act in a new light.

As we 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--involuntary 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
commendable; not even for passion, which may be pardoned, nor for
vanity, which has its virtues.  He had had his hour with circumstance;
circumstance would have its hour with him in due course.  Yet there was
no extraordinary revulsion.  He was still angry, cynical, and very sore.
He would see the play out with a consistent firmness.  He almost managed
a smile when a letter was handed to him some weeks later, bearing his
solicitor's assurance 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.




CHAPTER II

A DIFFICULT SITUATION

When Mrs. Frank Armour arrived at Montreal she still wore her Indian
costume of clean, well-broidered buckskin, moccasins, and leggings, all
surmounted by a blanket.  It was not a distinguished costume, but it
seemed suitable to its wearer.  Mr. Armour's agent was in a quandary.
He had received 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 companion, 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 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 first 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 contented 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 appeared 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 travelled fast, and his duties were
many, or he made them so--but the latter possibility 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 involuntary--in
the last two words.  She remembered 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 carefully.  What she
thought about the whole matter she kept to herself; even the solicitor 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 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 be 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 became more inquisitive, and made many attempts
at being friendly; but these received little encouragement.  It had
become known who the Indian girl was, and many wild tales went about as
to her marriage 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 successful 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
Middle Temple, and the other was Mrs. Townley, a widow, 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 when, from Francis Armour's
solicitor, with whom he was acquainted, he heard, just before they
started, who the Indian girl was, he was greatly shocked and sorry.  He
guessed at once the motive, the madness, of this marriage.  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 common friends and
that she knew the Armours, he spoke a little more freely to her regarding
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
remembered Mrs. Armour, and Frank's gay, fashionable sister, Marion, and
contemplated 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 more sorry for him and for his people than for
Lali, the wife.  She had the true instinct of womanhood, and she 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, not
withstanding her costume.  She was slim and well built, with modest bust
and shapely feet and ankles.  Her eyes were large, meditative, and
intelligent, her features distinguished.  She was a goodly product of her
race, being descended from a line of chiefs and chieftainesses--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, yet 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 breeding which seems to white people the
only breeding fit for earth or heaven.

Mrs. Townley did not need Lambert's suggestion that she should try to
approach the girl, make friends with her, and prepare her in some slight
degree for the strange career before her.

Mrs. Townley had an infinite amount of tact.  She knew it was best to
approach the attendant first.  This she did, and, to the surprise of
other lady-passengers, received no rebuff.  Her advance was not, however,
rapid.  Mackenzie had had her instructions.  When she found that Mrs.
Townley knew Francis Armour and his people, she thawed a little more,
and then, very hesitatingly, she introduced her to the Indian wife.
Mrs. Townley smiled her best--and there were many who knew how attractive
she could be at such a moment.  There was a slight pause, in which Lali
looked at her meditatively, earnestly, and then those beautiful wild
fingers glided out, and caught her hand, and held it; but she spoke no
word.  She only looked inquiringly, seriously, at her new-found friend,
and presently dropped the blanket away from her, and sat up firmly, as
though she felt she was not altogether an alien now, and had a right to
hold herself proudly among white people, as she did in her own country
and with her own tribe, who had greatly admired her.  Certainly Mrs.
Townley could find no fault with the woman as an Indian.  She had taste,
carried her clothes well, and was superbly fresh in appearance, though
her hair still bore very slight traces of the grease which even the most
aristocratic Indians use.

But Lali would not talk.  Mrs. Townley was anxious that the girl should
be dressed in European costume, and offered to lend and rearrange dresses
of her own, but she came in collision with Mr. Armour's instructions.
So she had to assume a merely kind and comforting attitude.  The wife had
not the slightest idea where she was going, and even when Mackenzie, at
Mrs. Townley's oft-repeated request, explained very briefly and
unpicturesquely, she only looked incredulous or unconcerned.  Yet the
ship, its curious passengers, the dining saloon, the music, the sea, and
all, had given her suggestions of what was to come.  They had expected
that at table she would be awkward and ignorant to a degree.  But she had
at times eaten at the trader's table at Fort Charles, and had learned how
to use a knife and fork.  She had also been a favourite with the trader's
wife, who had taught her very many civilised things.  Her English, though
far from abundant, was good.  Those, therefore, who were curious and rude
enough to stare at her were probably disappointed to find that she ate
like "any Christom man."

"How do you think the Armours will receive her?" said Lambert to Mrs.
Townley, of whose judgment on short acquaintance he had come to entertain
a high opinion.

Mrs. Townley had a pretty way of putting her head to one side and
speaking very piquantly.  She had had it as a girl; she had not lost it
as a woman, any more than she had lost a soft little spontaneous laugh
which was one of her unusual charms--for few women can laugh audibly with
effect.  She laughed very softly now, and, her sense of humour
supervening for the moment, she said:

"Really, you have asked me a conundrum.  I fancy I see Mrs. Armour's face
when she gets the news,--at the breakfast-table, of course, and gives a
little shriek, and says: 'General!  oh, General!'  But it is all very
shocking, you know," she added, in a lower voice.  "Still I think they
will receive her and do the best they can for her; because, you see,
there she is, married hard and fast.  She bears the Armour name, and is
likely to make them all very unhappy, indeed, if she determines to
retaliate upon them for any neglect."

"Yes.  But how to retaliate, Mrs. Townley?" Lambert had not a suggestive
mind.

"Well, for instance, suppose they sent her away into seclusion,--with
Frank's consent, another serious question,--and she should take the
notion to fly her retirement, and appear inopportunely at some social
function clothed as she is now!  I fancy her blanket would be a wet one
in such a case--if you will pardon the little joke."

Lambert sighed.  "Poor Frank--poor devil!" he said, almost beneath his
breath.

"And wherefore poor Frank?  Do you think he or the Armours of Greyhope
are the only ones at stake in this?  What about this poor girl?  Just
think why he married her, if our suspicions are right,--and then imagine
her feelings when she wakes to the truth over there, as some time she is
sure to do!"

Then Lambert began to see the matter in a different light, and his
sympathy for Francis Armour grew less as his pity for the girl increased.
In fact, the day before they got to Liverpool he swore at Armour more
than once, and was anxious concerning the reception of the heathen wife
by her white relatives.

Had he been present at a certain scene at Greyhope a day or two before,
he would have been still more anxious.  It was the custom, at breakfast,
for Mrs. Armour to open her husband's letters and read them while he was
engaged with his newspaper, and hand to him afterwards those that were
important.  This morning Marion noticed a letter from Frank amongst the
pile, and, without a word, pounced upon it.  She was curious--as any
woman would be--to see how he took Miss Sherwood's action.  Her father
was deep in his paper at the time.  Her mother was reading other letters.
Marion read the first few lines with a feeling of almost painful wonder,
the words were so curious, cynical, and cold.

Richard sat opposite her.  He also was engaged with his paper, but,
chancing to glance up, he saw that she was becoming very pale, and that
the letter trembled in her fingers.  Being a little short-sighted, he
was not near enough to see the handwriting.  He did not speak yet.  He
watched.  Presently, seeing her grow more excited, he touched her foot
under the table.  She looked up, and caught his eye.  She gasped
slightly.  She gave him a warning look, and turned away from her
mother.  Then she went on reading to the bitter end.

Presently a little cry escaped her against her will.  At that her mother
looked up, but she only saw her daughter's back, as she rose hurriedly
from the table, saying that she would return in a moment.  Mrs. Armour,
however, had been startled.  She knew that Marion had been reading a
letter, and, with a mother's instinct, her thoughts were instantly on
Frank.  She spoke quickly, almost sharply:

"Marion, come here."

Richard had risen.  He came round the table, and, as the girl obeyed her
mother, took the letter from her fingers and hastily glanced over it.
Mrs. Armour came forward 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 considerable store of vanity; she was not very philosophical.
Besides, she was not married; and what Captain Vidall, her devoted
admirer and possible husband, would think of this heathenish alliance was
not a cheer ful 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 up 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 arranged a hateful little
embarrassment for us--he is married."

"Married!" exclaimed 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 nigger!" cried General Armour
harshly, starting to his feet.

"An Indian?  a wild Indian?" Mrs. Armour whispered faintly, as she
dropped into a chair.

"And she'll be here in two or three days," fluttered Marion hysterically.

Meanwhile Richard had hastily picked up the Times.  "She is due here the
day after to-morrow," he said deliberately.  "Frank 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.

"Oh, I mean that--that we tried to hasten Julia's marriage--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 was beside his wife in an instant.
He took her hand.  "Don't fret about it, wife," he said; "it's an ugly
business, but we must put up with it.  The boy was out of his head.  We
are old, now, my dear, but there was a time when we should have resented
such a thing as much as Frank--though not in the same fashion, perhaps--
not in the same fashion."  The old man pressed his lips hard to keep down
his emotion.

"Oh, how could he--how could he!" said his mother: "we meant everything
for the best."

"It is always dangerous business meddling with lovers' affairs," rejoined
Richard.  "Lovers take themselves very seriously 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
wife into their home.  He intended that, so far as he was concerned,
there should be no doubt upon the question from the beginning.

"Never--she shall never come here!" said Marion, with flashing eyes;
"a common squaw, with greasy hair, and blankets, and big mouth, and black
teeth, who eats with her fingers and grunts!  If she does, if she is
brought to Greyhope, I will never show my face in the world again.  Frank
married the animal: why does he ship her home to us?  Why didn't he come
with her?  Why does he not take her 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 with 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
solicitor 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 indeed, 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 woman
were bad, or shameful, it would be a different thing; if--"

Marion interrupted: "She has ridden bareback across the continent like a
jockey,--like a common jockey, and she wears a blanket, and she doesn't
know a word of 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. Armour 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 honoured 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 that the woman has done any
wrong," he said.  "As for our name and position, they, thank God!  are
where a mad marriage cannot unseat 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 lifelong 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 daresay we shall
get some amusement 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 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 wound for many a day before it healed.

But his sister felt instantly how cruel she had been, as she saw him limp
away, and caught sight of the bowed shoulders and the prematurely grey
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 behind 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; that is best."

But her tears were dropping on his shoulder, 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 rebelliousness.  She 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 Frank's wife."

Marion shuddered a little, and her hands closed on Richard's shoulder,
but she said nothing.




CHAPTER III

OUT OF THE NORTH

It was a beautiful day--which was so much in favour of Mrs. Frank Armour
in relation to her husband's people.  General 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 expected to put into the family cupboard presently.  Each was trying
to spare the other.  It was very touching.  They naturally 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 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 declared 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 retaliation; 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 himself, "Sebastopol was easier than this;
for fighting I know, and being peppered I know, by Jews, Greeks,
infidels, and heretics; but to take a savage to my arms and do for her
what her godfathers and godmothers 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 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 footman, knew his business.  When informed of the coming of
Mrs. Francis Armour, the Indian chieftainess, his face was absolutely
expressionless; his "Yessir" was as mechanical as usual.  On the dock he
was marble--indifferent.  When the passengers began to land, he showed no
excitement.  He was decorously alert.  When the crucial moment came, he
was imperturbable.  Boulter was an excellent servant.  So said Edward
Lambert to himself after the event; so, likewise, said Mrs. Townley to
herself when the thing was over; so declared General Armour many a time
after, and once very emphatically, 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 become known among the passengers,
and most were very curious--some in a well-bred fashion, some
intrusively, vulgarly.  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
attendant, 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 ostentatiously
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 not an Indian
girl married to a man acting under the influence of brandy and malice.
General Armour and Mrs. Armour 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 unusual interest, but General Armour was
used to bearing himself with a grim kind of indifference in public, and
his wife was calm, and so somewhat disappointed those who probably
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, and these, with their simple tact, naturalness,
and freedom from any sort of embarrassment, acted as foils, and relieved
the situation.

General Armour advanced, hat in hand.  "You are my son's wife?" he said
courteously to this being in a blanket.

She looked up and shook her head slightly, for she did not quite
understand; but she recognised his likeness to her husband, and presently
she smiled up musingly.  Mackenzie repeated to her what General Armour
had said.  She nodded now, a flash of pleasure lighting up her face, and
she slid out her beautiful hand to him.  The general took it and pressed
it mechanically, his lips twitching slightly.  He pressed it far harder
than he meant, for his feelings were at tension.  She winced slightly,
and involuntarily thrust out her other hand, as if to relieve his
pressure.  As she did so the blanket fell away from her head and
shoulders.  Lambert, with excellent intuition, caught it, and threw it
across his arm.  Then, quickly, and without embarrassment, he and Mrs.
Townley greeted General Armour, who returned the greetings gravely, but
in a singular, confidential tone, which showed his gratitude.  Then he
raised his hat again to Lali, and said: "Come and let me introduce you
--to your husband's mother."

The falling back of that blanket had saved the situation; for when the
girl stood without it in her buckskin garments there was a dignity in her
bearing which carried off the bizarre event.  There was timidity in her
face, and yet a kind of pride too, though she was only a savage.  The
case, even at this critical moment, did not seem quite hopeless.  When
they came to Mrs. Armour, Lali shrank away timidly from the look in the
mother's eyes, and, shivering slightly, looked round for her blanket.
But Lambert had deftly passed it on to the footman.  Presently Mrs.
Armour took both the girl's hands in hers (perhaps she did it because the
eyes of the public were on her, but that is neither here nor there--she
did it), and kissed her on the cheek.  Then they moved away to a closed
carriage.

And that was the second act in Frank Armour's comedy of errors.




CHAPTER IV

IN THE NAME OF THE FAMILY

The journey from Liverpool to Greyhope was passed in comparative silence.
The Armours had a compartment to themselves, and they made the Indian
girl as comfortable as possible without self-consciousness, without any
artificial politeness.  So far, what they had done was a matter of duty,
not of will; but they had done their duty naturally all their lives, and
it was natural to them now.  They had no personal feelings towards the
girl one way or another, as yet.  It was trying to them that people
stared into the compartment at different stations.  It presently dawned
upon General Armour that it might also be trying to their charge.
Neither he nor his wife had taken into account the possibility of the
girl having feelings to be hurt.  But he had noticed Lali shrink visibly
and flush slightly when some one stared harder than usual, and this
troubled him.  It opened up a possibility.  He began indefinitely to see
that they were not the only factors in the equation.  He was probably a
little vexed that he had not seen it before; for he wished to be a just
man.  He was wont to quote with more or less austerity--chiefly the
result of his professional life--this:

     "For justice, all place a temple, and all season summer."

And, man of war as he was, he had another saying which was much in his
mouth; and he lived up to it with considerable sincerity:

          "Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
          To silence envious tongues."

He whispered to his wife.  It would have been hard to tell from her look
what she thought of the matter, but presently she changed seats with her
husband, that he might, by holding his newspaper at a certain angle,
shield the girl from intrusive gazers.

At every station the same scene was enacted.  And inquisitive people must
have been surprised to see how monotonously ordinary was the manner of
the three white people in the compartment.  Suddenly, at a station near
London, General Armour gave a start, and used a strong expression under
his breath.  Glancing at the "Marriage" column, he saw a notice to the
effect that on a certain day of a certain month, Francis Gilbert, the son
of General Joseph Armour, C.B., of Greyhope, 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 Frank Armour's solicitor, according to his instructions,
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, because he knew she would eventually come to know of it, and also
because she saw that something had moved him.  She silently reached out
her hand for the paper.  He handed it to her, pointing to the notice.

Mrs. Armour was unhappy, but her self-possession was admirable, and she
said nothing.  She turned her face to the window, 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 wipe 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 endurable.  Under the weight of
the thought she was likely to forget that the young alien wife might have
lost terribly in the event also.

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 Indian girl in native costume was uncommon enough, even
in cosmopolitan London, to draw much attention.  Besides, the placards of
the evening papers were blazoned with such announcements as this:

                         A RED INDIAN GIRL
                            MARRIED INTO
                      AN ENGLISH COUNTY FAMILY.

Some one had telegraphed particulars--distorted particulars--over from
Liverpool, 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 inwardly; but
their faces were inscrutable, and they quietly conducted their charge,
minus 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
conventionally bade good-bye to them and their Indian daughter-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.  Before she parted from Mr.
Lambert, however, she said, with a pretty touch of cynicism: "I think I
see Marion Armour listening to her sister-in-law issue invitations 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 surprised if my Lady Wigwam--
a rather apt 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 sentimental affairs of his own, in which he evidently hoped
she would take some interest.  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 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 has been sent to the right-about because he has ventured 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
evening.  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 Greyhope 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
beautiful trees and the long grass!"  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 reminiscence
crossed her face.  Then she said, as if to herself: "It is the same.
I shall not die.  I hear the birds' wings, 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, refusing a rug, when they left
St.  Albans, and it had been given to her.  She drew it about her now
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 hidden much of what
she really felt; but the drive through the limes had shown General Armour
and his wife that they 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 yet, or for many a day, feel any
sense of kinship with this aboriginal girl.  Presently the carriage drew
up to the doorway, which was instantly opened to them.  A broad belt of
light streamed out upon the stone steps.  Far back in the hall stood
Marion, one hand upon the balustrade of the staircase, the other tightly
held at her side, as if to nerve herself for the meeting.  The eyes of
the Indian girl pierced the 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 Armour's hand under her elbow to assist her, she 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 during the day almost faltered at the threshold of
their own home.  Any sign of surprise or amusement on the part of the
domestics would have given them some painful moments subsequently.  But
all was perfectly decorous.  Marion still stood motionless, almost dazed,
The group advanced into the hall, and there paused, as if waiting 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 our
father and mother."

She gave a hard little gasp and seemed to awake as from a dream.  She
quickly glided forwards ahead of him, kissed her mother and father almost
abruptly, then turned to the young wife with a scrutinising 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, How!"

It is probable that neither Marion nor any one present knew quite the
meaning of 'How', save Richard, and he could not suppress a smile, it
sounded so absurd and aboriginal.  But at this exclamation Marion 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 forthwith laid
hold of it with tremulous politeness.

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 understand, 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 anxiety, doubt, and a bitter kind of reserve, to cordiality,
sympathy, and a grave kind of humour.  Instantly the girl knew that
she had in eccentric Richard Armour a frank friend.  Unlike as he was
to his brother, there was still in their eyes the same friendliness and
humanity.  That is, it was the same look that Frank carried when he first
came to her father's lodge.

Richard held out his hand with a cordial little laugh and said: "Ah, ah,
very glad, very glad!  Just in time for supper.  Come along.  How is
Frank, eh?  how is Frank?  Just so; just so.  Pleasant journey, I
suppose?"  He shook her hand warmly three or four times, and, as he held
it, placed his left hand over it and patted it patriarchally, as was his
custom with all the children and all the old ladies that he knew.

"Richard," said his mother, in a studiously neutral voice, "you might see
about the wine."

Then Richard appeared to recover himself, and did as he was requested,
but not until his brother's wife had said to him in English, as they
courteously drew her towards the staircase: "Oh, my brother Richard,
How!"

But the first strain and suspense were now over for the family, and it
is probable that never had they felt such relief as when they sat down
behind closed doors in their own rooms for a short respite, while the
Indian girl was closeted alone with Mackenzie and a trusted maid, in what
she called her wigwam.




CHAPTER V

AN AWKWARD HALF-HOUR

It is just as well, perhaps, that the matter had become notorious.
Otherwise the Armours had lived in that unpleasant condition of being
constantly "discovered."  It was simply a case of aiming at absolute
secrecy, which had been frustrated by Frank himself, or bold and
unembarrassed acknowledgment and an attempt to carry things off with
a high hand.  The latter course was the only one possible.  It had
originally been Richard's idea, appropriated by General Armour, and
accepted by Mrs. Armour and Marion with what grace was possible.  The
publication 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.  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 moccasins, was scarcely a thing to be
congratulated upon; and yet sympathy and consolation 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, carrying soup and luxuries of many kinds, accompanying them
with the most wholesome 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
astonishing suddenness he could raise insurmountable barriers; and
people, not of his order, who occasionally presumed on his simplicity of
life and habits, found themselves 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 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 possessing his secret.

But all England knew of Frank's mesalliance.  And the question was, What
would people do?  They very properly did nothing at first.  They waited
to see how the Armours would act: they did not congratulate; they did not
console; that was left to those papers which chanced to resent General
Armour's politics, and those others 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 nothing to say.
Mrs. Armour inclined to her going to town for the season, to visit Mrs.
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 tender fictions!

Marion was, however, not in good humour; 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 humour 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--regarding Captain Vidall.  She 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 honourable and perfect-minded also.
There was no engagement between them, and he was not bound in any way,
and could, therefore, without slashing the hem of the code, retire
without any apology; but they had had that unspoken understanding 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 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
little difficulty.  A governess 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 "Christian clothing," as Mrs.
Armour put it.  Of the education they almost despaired--all save Richard;
time, instruction, vanity, and a dressmaker 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 it was still combed
flat.  Mrs. Armour had tried to influence her through Mackenzie, but to
no purpose.  She was placidly stubborn.

It had been unwisely told her by Mackenzie that they were Marion's
clothes.  They scarcely took in the fact that the girl had pride, that
she was the daughter of a chief, and a chieftainess herself, and that it
was far from happy to offer 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 little matters of form and good taste.  When his
mother told him what had occurred before 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 something 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 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
position 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 descendant of a family 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 expensive 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 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 put his arm round his mother's shoulder.
"Never mind how I get such sense as I have, mother; I have so much time
to think, it would be a wonder if I hadn't some.  But I think we had
better try to study her, and coax her along, and not fob her off as a
very inferior person, 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 thing;
and, take my word for it, mother, if we treat her as a chieftainess, or
princess, or whatever 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 eyebrows at them at first.
She was in little mood for conciliation.  She remembered all at once that
at supper the evening before her sister-in-law had said How! to the
butler, and had eaten the mayonnaise with a dessert spoon.  But
presently, because she saw 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
chieftainesses?  And when do you think she will be ready for a drawing-
room--Her Majesty 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 Victoria'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."

To which Mrs. Armour responded almost eagerly: "I wish it were only
possible, Richard.  And what you say is true, I suppose, that she is
of rank in her own country, whatever value that may have."

Richard saw his advantage.  "Well, mother," he said, "a chieftainess is a
chieftainess, 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!"  Marion'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 Mackenzie, 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 impressed Marion
more.  Had Lali been subservient simply, an entirely passive,
unintelligent creature, she would probably have tyrannised over her in
a soft, persistent fashion, and despised her generally.  But Mrs. Armour
and Marion saw that this stranger might become very troublesome indeed,
if her temper were to have play.  They were aware of capacities for
passion in those dark eyes, so musing yet so active in expression, which
moved swiftly from one object to another and then suddenly became
resolute.

Both mother and daughter came forward, and held out their hands, wishing
her a pleasant good-morning, and were followed by Richard, and
immediately by General Armour, who had entered soon after her.  She had
been keen enough to read (if a little vaguely) behind the scenes, and her
mind was wakening slowly to the peculiarity of the position she occupied.
The place awed her, and had broken her rest by perplexing her mind, and
she sat down to the breakfast-table with a strange hunted look in her
face.  But opposite to her was a window opening to the ground, and beyond
it were the limes and beeches and a wide perfect sward and far away a
little lake, on which swans and wild fowl fluttered.  Presently, as she
sat silent, eating little, her eyes lifted to the window.  They flashed
instantly, her face lighted up with a weird kind of charm, and suddenly
she got to her feet with Indian exclamations on her lips, and, as if
unconscious of them all, went swiftly to the window and out of it, waving
her hands up and down once or twice to the trees and the sunlight.

"What did she say?" said Mrs. Armour, rising with the others.

"She said," replied Mackenzie, as she hurried towards the window, "that
they were her beautiful woods, and there were wild birds flying and
swimming in the water, as in her own country."

By this time all were at the window, Richard arriving last, and the
Indian girl turned on them, her body all quivering with excitement,
laughed a low, bird-like laugh, and then, clapping her hands above her
head, she swung round and ran like a deer towards the lake, shaking her
head back as an animal does when fleeing from his pursuers.  She would
scarcely have been recognised as the same placid, speechless woman in a
blanket who sat with folded hands day after day on the Aphrodite.

The watchers turned and looked at each other in wonder.  Truly, their
task of civilising a savage would not lack in interest.  The old general
was better pleased, however, at this display of activity and excitement
than at yesterday's taciturnity.  He loved spirit, even if it had to be
subdued, and he thought on the instant that he might possibly come to
look upon the fair savage as an actual and not a nominal daughter-in-law.
He had a keen appreciation of courage, and he thought he saw in her face,
as she turned upon them, a look of defiance or daring, and nothing could
have got at his nature quicker.  If the case had not been so near to his
own hearthstone he would have chuckled.  As it was, he said good-
humouredly that Mackenzie and Marion should go and bring her back.
But Mackenzie was already at that duty.  Mrs. Armour had had the presence
of mind to send for Colvin; but presently, when the general spoke, she
thought it better that Marion should go, and counselled returning to
breakfast and not making the matter of too much importance.  This they
did, Richard very reluctantly; while Marion, rather pleased than not at
the spirit shown by the strange girl, ran away over the grass towards the
lake, where Lali had now stopped.  There was a little bridge at one point
where the lake narrowed, and Lali, evidently seeing it all at once, went
towards it, and ran up on it, standing poised above the water about the
middle of it.  For an instant an unpleasant possibility came into
Marion's mind: suppose the excited girl intended suicide!  She shivered
as she thought of it, and yet--!  She put that horribly cruel and selfish
thought away from her with an indignant word at herself.  She had passed
Mackenzie, and came first to the lake.  Here she slackened, and waved her
hand playfully to the girl, so as not to frighten her; and then with a
forced laugh came up panting on the bridge, and was presently by Lali's
side.  Lali eyed her a little furtively, but, seeing that Marion was much
inclined to be pleasant, she nodded to her, said some Indian words
hastily, and spread out her hands towards the water.  As she did so,
Marion noticed again the beauty of those hands and the graceful character
of the gesture, so much so that 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.  She put
her hand kindly on that long slim hand stretched out beside her, and,
because she knew not what else to speak, and because the tongue is very
perverse at times,--saying the opposite of what is expected,--she herself
blundered out, "How!  How!  Lali."

Perhaps Lali was as much surprised at the remark as Marion herself, and
certainly 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 regarding Captain Vidall, it is probable that then and there a
peculiar, a genial, comradeship 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 pleasant acknowledgment of that
How!  had remarkably white and regular teeth.  Indeed, Marion Armour
began 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 somebody else's
sister-in-law.

At this point Mackenzie came breathlessly 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:
"Mackenzie, 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 necessary to say anything more, Mackenzie."

Mackenzie 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."

As she spoke, two or three deer came trotting out of the beeches down
to the lake side.  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 presently,
as if this new link with, and reminder of, her past, had moved her as one
little expects a savage heart to be moved, two tears gathered in her
eyes, then slid down her cheek unheeded, and dried there in the sunlight,
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 passionless was her grief it seemed the
more pathetic, and Marion dropped on her knees beside her, put her arm
round her shoulder, and said: "Poor girl!  Poor girl!"

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 motive.  What the end of this
attempt to engraft 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 conjecture.  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 possible, even to those who
are not of the elect.

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 simple," the task had resolved itself into making 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 hovering on the bridge.
Whatever Marion's faults were, she had a fine dislike of anything 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 appealed 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 rebel; and a very effective rebel she made;
for she had a pretty gift at the retort courteous, 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 teach her English
words, and help her to form long sentences, and was, on the whole, quite
patient.  But Lali's real instructors were Mrs. Armour 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 servants, the formal
routine, the handsome furnishings, Marion'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 native woods and
prairies; this was the park, the deer, the lake, the hares, and birds.
While she sat saying over after Mrs. Armour words and phrases in English,
or was being shown how she must put on and wear the clothes which a
dressmaker from Regent Street had been brought to make, her eyes would
wander dreamily to the trees and the lake and the grass.  They soon
discovered that she would pay no attention 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 country and Frank.
This cost him something, but it had its reward.  There was no more
listlessness.  Previously 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's eyes brighten and
her look earnestly fixed on him when he chanced to mention 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 see 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 supplied them with uncommon willingness.  He
humoured 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 waking 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 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 became 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
pleasant 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 before.  She saw the difference between
her carriage and theirs, her manner of wearing her clothes and theirs,
her complexion and theirs.  She exaggerated the difference.  She brooded
on it.  Now she sat downcast and timid, and hunted in face, as on the
first evening she came; now she appeared restless and excited.

If Mrs. Armour was not exactly sympathetic with her, she was quiet and
forbearing, 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 the beeches, making friends with the birds and deer and
swans.  But 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.
She 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
appearance.  Her hair was growing finer, and was made up in the modest
prevailing fashion; her skin, no longer 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 smaller; her waist was
shaped to fashion, and she was very straight and lissom.  So many things
she did jarred on her relatives, 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 situations, with answers so calm and pleasant that
people did not know what to think.

"Yes," she said, in reply to Lady Balwood, "her sister-in-law might be in
town later in the year, perhaps before the season was over: she could not
tell.  She was tired after her long voyage, and she preferred 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--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 expression.
"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 business, 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 Balwood 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, some one stood not far behind
Marion, who seemed much interested in her and 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 ingenuous!"

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 afternoon, 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-burnings.  A few
minutes ago 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 recognised in the tone, and
afterwards in his face, that he was still absorbingly interested in her.
There was a little burst of thanksgiving in her heart, and then she
prepared a very notable commination service 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 country, had only been back a week, and had only
heard of Frank Armour's mesalliance 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 under control.  She looked at him in slight surprise, and casually
remarked that they had not chanced to meet lately in the run of small-
and-earlies.  She appeared 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 unexpected 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.  Fastidious as he was in all things, he
was fastidiously 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 possessed of a vivid imagination, he could scarcely conjure up
this Indian bride at Greyhope.

But face to face with Marion Armour he saw what troubled his mind,
and he determined 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 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 refused 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 reasonable--that, naturally, they must
have been surprised at his marrying a native; but he himself had seen
some such marriages turn out very well--in Japan, India, 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 General Armour and Mrs. Armour,
and wondered if she was going back before the end of the season.

Quick as Marion was, this was said so quietly that she did not quite see
the drift of it.  She had intended staying in London to the end of the
season, not because she enjoyed it, but because she was determined 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 without 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 Vidall at any time.

Then, without any apparent relevancy, he asked her if Mrs. Frank Armour
still wore her Indian costume.  In any one 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 permanently devoted to her, were it
not for the accident of his being ordered back to England summarily.

This was a piece of news which cut two ways.  In the first place it
lessened the extraordinary character of Frank's marriage, 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
impress her with the fact that the matter occurred when he was almost a
boy; and it was when her earnest inquisition had drawn from him, bit by
bit, the circumstances 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 speaking ancient history.  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 colour 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 Greyhope."

The tone drew her eyes hastily to his, and, seeing, she dropped them
again.  Vidall had a strong 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.  She felt the influence of it.  She said a
little faintly, her fingers toying with a hydrangea: "I am afraid I do
not understand.  There is no reason why you should not go to Greyhope
without my permission."

"I cannot go without it," he persisted.  "I am waiting 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 check flush with hers,
he drew her look again to his.  "Marion!  Marion!" he said.  That was
all.

"Oh, hush, some one is coming!" was her quick, throbbing reply.  When
they parted a half-hour later, he said to her: "Will you give me my
commission to go to Greyhope?"

"Oh no, I cannot," she said very gravely; "but come to Greyhope-when I go
back."

"And when will that be?" he said, smiling, yet a little ruefully too.

"Please ask Mrs. Townley," she replied; "she is coming also."

Marion, knew what that commission to go to Greyhope meant.  But she
determined that he should see Lali first, before anything irrevocable
was done.  She still looked upon Frank's marriage as a scandal.  Well,
Captain Vidall should face it in all its crudeness.  So, in a week or
less, Marion and Mrs. Townley were in Greyhope.

Two months had gone since Lali arrived in England, and yet no letter had
come to her, or to any of them, from Frank.  Frank's solicitor in London
had written him fully of her arrival, and he had had a reply, with
further instructions regarding money to be placed to General Armour's
credit for the benefit of his wife.  Lali, as she became Europeanised,
also awoke to the forms and ceremonies of her new life.  She had
overheard Frank's father and mother wondering, and fretting as they
wondered, why they had not received any word from him.  General Armour
had even called him a scoundrel, which sent Frank's mother into tears.
Then Lali had questioned Mackenzie and Colvin, for she had increasing
shrewdness, and she began to feel her actual position.  She resented
General Armour's imputation, but in her heart she began to pine and
wonder.  At times, too, she was fitful, and was not to be drawn out.  But
she went on improving in personal appearance and manner and in learning
the English language.  Mrs. Townley's appearance marked a change in her.
When they met she suddenly stood still and trembled.  When Mrs. Townley
came to her and took her hand and kissed her, she shivered, and then
caught her about the shoulders lightly, but was silent.  After a little
she said: "Come--come to my wigwam, and talk with me."

She said it with a strange little smile, for now she recognised that the
word wigwam was not to be used in her new life.  But Mrs. Townley
whispered: "Ask Marion 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 a pow-wow--is that right--is pow-wow 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.  Nowhere did she show
to better advantage.  She had taken to riding now with General Armour on
the country roads.  On this day Captain Vidall was expected, he having
written to ask that he might come.  What trouble Lali had with one of the
servants that morning was never thoroughly explained, but certain it is,
she came to have a crude notion of why Frank Armour married her.  The
servant was dismissed duly, but that was after the contre-temps.

It was late afternoon.  Everybody had been busy, because one or two other
guests were expected besides Captain Vidall.  Lali had kept to herself,
sending word through Richard that she would not "be English," 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.  She looked before her as if studying
something.

Her eyes immediately flashed.  She rose quickly to her feet, went to her
wardrobe, and took out her Indian costume and blanket, with which she
could never be induced to part.  Almost feverishly 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 perfectly, for she stretched out 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.
Immediately she caught the fashionable slippers from her feet and threw
them among the discarded garments.  She looked at herself again.  Still
she 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
moccasined foot, tapped the floor with it, nodded towards it, and said a
word or two in her own language.  She heard some one 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, out
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 any one 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 stable, 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.  Boulter also saw her as she passed
the house, and, running in, told Mrs. Armour and the general.  They both
ran to the window and saw dashing down the avenue--a picture out of
Fenimore Cooper; a saddleless horse with a rider whose fingers 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 that horse!
It will bolt!  It will kill her!" cried the general.

Then he rushed for a horse to follow her.  Mrs. Armour's hands clasped
painfully.  For an instant 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 horse-woman.  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 miscalculated.  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 bearing down upon them with a terrible
swiftness.

As Marion recognised Lali she turned pale and cried out, rising in her
seat.  Instinctively 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, "doesn't she 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 Armour rode well, he was
far behind.

Suddenly 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 provide another danger.  Not far from where
the trap was drawn, and between it and the runaway, was a lane, which
ended at a farmyard in a cul-de-sac.  The horse swerved into it, not
slacking its pace, and in the fraction of a minute came to the farmyard.

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 savagely 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 she came to, she was in the carriage within the gates of Greyhope,
and Marion was bending over her.  She suddenly 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.

"How!" she said to him--"How!" and fainted again.





ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Being young, she exaggerated the importance of the event
His duties were many, or he made them so
Men must have their bad hours alone
Most important lessons of life--never to quarrel with a woman
Sympathy and consolation might be much misplaced
These little pieces of art make life possible
Think of our position
Who never knew self-consciousness
You never can make a scandal less by trying to hide it