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:
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.