The Translation of a Savage | Page 9

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