Part 11 (1/2)
”The true thing, absolutely the true thing,” he said; and he was conscious, too, that her instincts were right and searching, for once or twice he saw her face chill a little when they met one or two men whose reputations as chevaliers des dames were p.r.o.nounced. These men had had one or two confusing minutes with Lali in their time.
”How splendidly you ride!” he said, as he came up swiftly to her, after having chatted for a moment with Edward Lambert. ”You sit like wax, and so entirely easy.”
”Thank you,” she said. ”I suppose I really like it too well to ride badly, and then I began young on horses not so good as Musket here--bareback, too!” she added, with a little soft irony.
He thought--she did not, however--that she was referring to that first letter he sent home to his people, when he consigned her, like any other awkward freight, to their care. He flushed to his eyes. It cut him deep, but her eyes only had a distant, dreamy look which conveyed nothing of the sting in her words. Like most men, he had a touch of vanity too, and he might have resented the words vaguely, had he not remembered his talk with his mother an hour before.
She had begged him to have patience, she had made him promise that he would not in any circ.u.mstance say an ungentle or bitter thing, that he would bide the effort of constant devotion, and his love of the child.
Especially must he try to reach her through love of the child.
By which it will be seen that Mrs. Armour had come to some wisdom by reason of her love for Frank's wife and child.
”My son,” she had said, ”through the child is the surest way, believe me; for only a mother can understand what that means, how much and how far it goes. You are a father, but until last night you never had the flush of that love in your veins. You stand yet only at the door of that life which has done more to guide, save, instruct, and deepen your wife's life than anything else, though your brother Richard--to whom you owe a debt that you can never repay--has done much in deed. Be wise, my dear, as I have learned a little to be since first your wife came. All might easily have gone wrong. It has all gone well; and we, my son, have tried to do our duty lovingly, consistently, to dear Lali and the child.”
She made him promise that he would wait, that he would not try to hurry his wife's affection for him by any spoken or insistent claim. ”For, Frank dear,” she said, ”you are only legally married, not morally, not as G.o.d can bless--not yet. But I pray that what will sanctify all may come soon, very soon, to the joy of us all. But again--and I cannot say it too prayerfully--do not force one little claim that your marriage gave you, but prove yourself to her, who has cause to distrust you so much. Will you forgive your mother, my dear, for speaking to you?”
He had told her then that what she had asked he had intended as his own course, yet what she had said would keep it in his mind always, for he was sure it was right. Mrs. Armour had then embraced him, and they parted. Dealing with Lali had taught them all much of the human heart that they had never known before, and the result thereof was wisdom.
They talked casually enough for the rest of the ride, and before they parted at the door Frank received his commission for Regent Street, and accepted it with delight, as a schoolboy might a gift. He was absurdly grateful for any favours from her, any sign of her companions.h.i.+p. They met at luncheon; then, because Lali had to keep an engagement in Eaton Square, they parted again, and Frank and Richard took a walk, after a long hour with the child, who still so hungered for his sword that Frank disobeyed orders, and dragged Richard off to Oxford Street to get one.
He was reduced to a beatific att.i.tude of submission, for he knew that he had few odds with him now, and that he must live by virtue of new virtues. He was no longer proud of himself in any way, and he knew that no one else was, or rather he felt so, and that was just the same.
He talked of the boy, he talked of his wife, he laid plans, he tore them down, he built them up again, he asked advice, he did not wait to hear it, but rambled on, excited, eager. Truth is, there had suddenly been lifted from his mind the dread and shadow of four years. Wherever he had gone, whatever he had been or done, that dread shadow had followed him, and now to know that instead of having to endure a h.e.l.l he had to win a heaven, and to feel as if his brain had been opened and a ma.s.s of vapours and naughty little mannikins of remorse had been let out, was a trifle intoxicating even to a man of his usual vigour and early acquaintance with exciting things.
”d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k!” he said enthusiastically, ”you've been royal. You always were better than any chap I ever knew. You're always doing for others.
Hang it, d.i.c.k, where does your fun come in? n.o.body seems ever to do anything for you.”
Richard gave his arm a squeeze. ”Never mind about me, boy. I've had all the fun I want, and all I'm likely to get, and so long as you're all willing to have me around, I'm satisfied. There's always a lot to do among the people in the village, one way and another, and I've a heap of reading on, and what more does a fellow want?”
”You didn't always feel that way, d.i.c.k?”
”No. You see, at different times in life you want different kinds of pleasures. I've had a good many kinds, and the present kind is about as satisfactory as any.”
”But, d.i.c.k, you ought to get married. You've got coin, you've got sense, you're a bit distinguished-looking, and I'll back your heart against a thousand bishops. You've never been in danger of making a fool of yourself as I have. Why didn't you--why don't you--get married?”
Richard patted his brother's shoulder.
”Married, boy? Married? I've got too much on my hands. I've got to bring you up yet. And when that's done I shall have to write a book called 'How to bring up a Parent.' Then I've got to help bring your boy up, as I've done these last three years and more. I've got to think of that boy for a long while yet, for I know him better than you do, and I shall need some of my coin to carry out my plans.”
”G.o.d bless you, d.i.c.k! Bring me up as you will, only bring her along too; and as for the boy, you're far more his father than I am. And mother says that it's you that's given me the wife I've got now--so what can I say?--what can I say?”
It was the middle of the Green Park, and Richard turned and clasped Frank by both shoulders.
”Say? Say that you'll stand by the thing you swore to one mad day in the West as well as any man that ever lived--'to have and to hold, to love and to cherish from this day forth till death us do part, Amen.'”
Richard's voice was low and full of a strange, searching something.
Frank, wondering at this great affection and fondness of his brother, looked him in the eyes warmly, solemnly, and replied: ”For richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health--so help me G.o.d, and her kindness and forgiveness!”
CHAPTER XII. ”THE CHASE OF THE YELLOW SWAN”
Frank and Lali did not meet until dinner was announced. The conversation at dinner was mainly upon the return to Greyhope, which was fixed for the following morning, and it was deftly kept gay and superficial by Marion and Richard and Captain Vidall, until General Armour became reminiscent, and held the interest of the table through a dozen little incidents of camp and barrack life until the ladies rose. There had been an engagement for late in the evening, but it had been given up because of Frank's home-coming, and there was to be a family gathering merely--for Captain Vidall was now as much one of the family as Frank or Richard, by virtue of his approaching marriage with Marion. The men left alone, General Armour questioned Frank freely about life in the Hudson's Bay country, and the conversation ran on idly till it was time to join the ladies.
When they reached the drawing-room, Marion was seated at the piano, playing a rhapsody of Raff's, and Mrs. Armour and Lali were seated side by side. Frank thrilled at seeing his wife's hand in his mother's.