The Translation of a Savage | Page 9

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